#that neck pull and stretch of his neck and angle of his jaw while looking directly into camera with a little smirk

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Guilty as Sin

pairing; jake seresin x mitchell fem!reader

summary; Maverick finds out about your relationship with Jake in a... peculiar way.

word count; 6.9k

warnings; SMUT, masturbation (fem), parent walking on his daughter touching herself (sort of), established secret relationship, forbidden love kinda, AGE GAP (reader is early-twenties, jake is mid-thirties), slight angst, overprotective!maverick

a/n; this isn't directly inspired by guilty as sin by taylor swift but i did think about this song while writing this hahaha, also why do i think about all my smut concepts while on the treadmill?? horny jail!

masterlist

The night feels endless, a slow, silken stretch of time where the world quiets down just for you. The faint glow of moonlight slips through the blinds, casting long, thin shadows across your skin, cool and teasing against the heat blooming inside. Your breath trembles, caught somewhere between hesitation and yearning.

Your lips part slightly, barely making a sound, but the whispered name slips out — Jake — soft and reverent, almost like a prayer that only the dark can hear. It hangs in the air, fragile and raw, weaving itself around your restless thoughts like a thread of flame.

In your mind, Jake comes into focus, more vivid than any reality could hold. You see the strong angles of his face, the way his jaw tightens when he’s concentrating, and the way his eyes—green, sharp, and full of something fierce and tender—lock onto yours like he’s the only one in the room. Those eyes don’t just look at you; they see you. The whole you, raw and unguarded and beautiful in a way that makes your heart stutter.

His hair is a little tousled, the color of deep chestnut with hints of sun-warmed bronze, thick and just wild enough to catch your fingers when you reach up in quiet moments. You remember the way it falls just so, messy but perfect, like it was made to be ruffled and touched.

And then there’s his smile. Oh, that smile—slow to come, but when it does, it’s a quiet thing that melts the edges of your defenses. It’s the kind of smile that holds promises, that speaks without words, that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters. It curls at the corners of his mouth just before he pulls you close, and you swear it reaches all the way into your bones.

Your eyes drop lower in your mind’s eye, tracing the strong lines of his neck and broad shoulders, muscles taut and defined beneath the fabric of his shirt. His arms are powerful, wrapped around you with a careful strength, as if he’s both shielding you from the world and cherishing the weight of you against him. You imagine the callouses on his fingers, worn but gentle, pressing lightly against your skin like he’s afraid you might shatter.

Your breath hitches as you recall the way those hands move when it’s just the two of you—never hurried, never careless. They explore slowly, reverently, mapping your curves with a softness that makes your skin sing. He’s always aware, always tender, like you’re a rare and fragile thing he’s been given to protect.

Your gaze travels lower still, to the firm planes of his chest and the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The muscles of his torso ripple under your touch in your memory, solid and warm, a steady rhythm you want to lose yourself in. You know every inch of him is strength and resilience, yet when he’s with you, there’s a gentleness that undercuts it all—a softness you don’t let anyone else see.

Your heart beats faster, a rapid drum that echoes through your body as the tension coils inside you, gathering like a storm about to break. Your fingers tremble in the quiet dark, tracing invisible patterns on the sheets as the heat pools low and slow beneath your skin.

The sound of your own breath fills the silence, quick and uneven. Another soft, broken whisper slips free—Jake...—barely audible, but charged with everything you feel and haven’t yet found the words to say. It’s a secret confession, a prayer, a hope.

In this private world you’ve created, it’s only you and Jake—the feel of his hands on your skin, the weight of his body curled close, the tender brush of his lips along your neck, the way his gaze melts into something worshipful and fierce all at once. You imagine the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re unaware, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

Your body responds without thought, pulled along by the tide of sensation and memory. The warmth blossoms, spreading like wildfire, a gentle, relentless fire that curls and twists beneath your ribs. Every remembered touch, every whispered word, every stolen moment wraps around you, building a tension that’s both ache and comfort.

That tension tightens, winding higher and higher, coiling like a spring ready to release. Your breath catches in your throat, quick and shallow now, each inhale drawing you deeper into the moment. Your whispered name falls again, this time trembling, fragile, and soaked with want — Jake… Jake…

The slow pulse of your heartbeat matches the rhythm of the ache inside you, a dance of anticipation and need that gathers strength with every breath. Your skin tingles where you imagine his hands resting — firm but gentle, grounding you even as desire surges. You feel the weight of him in your mind, the way he holds you steady and safe, never rushing, always knowing just how much you can bear.

The crescendo builds, a rising tide of warmth and longing that floods through you, sending shivers across your skin and making your breath hitch in sudden, ragged gasps. You press your palms against the cool sheets beneath you, grounding yourself as the wave pulls tight, coiling through every fiber of your being.

And then, at last, the release — slow, sweet, and trembling — washes over you like a soft, cleansing tide. It’s a shiver that unfurls deep inside, a quiet surrender to the delicate fire that burns just beneath your skin. Your body trembles, heart pounding fiercely as the tension ebbs, leaving a glowing warmth in its wake.

You lie back into the quiet dark, pulse still racing, skin still alive with the aftermath of your secret ache. Your whispered name hangs in the air one last time, a soft, sacred echo — Jake — before the silence folds gently back around you.

-

From the other side of the door, Maverick stood frozen.

He hadn’t meant to sneak up. He’d come home later than expected — a few engine issues on the P-51 had kept him at the hangar longer than planned — and figured he’d knock on your door to let you know he was back, maybe see if you’d eaten. You were always gentle in the way you moved through the house, soft-spoken, careful. So much like your mother in that way. He still wasn’t used to how grown you were, but the quiet made it easy to forget.

What stopped him wasn’t the sound of movement, but the sound of your voice. A breath. Barely a whisper.

“Jake...”

Maverick blinked.

At first, he thought he’d imagined it. He frowned, shifted his weight on the hardwood floor, the house creaking faintly under his boots. But then—

“Jake...”

This time softer. And followed by a sigh. A whimper.

Something warm dropped into the pit of his stomach.

His hand, still halfway raised to knock, slowly lowered.

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve cleared his throat and pretended he hadn’t heard. But instead, he stayed there, frozen in a moment too intimate for a father to witness, heart thudding slow and disbelieving in his chest.

He wasn’t an idiot.

He’d been alive long enough, had more than his fair share of late nights, short stays, and whispered names in the dark. He knew the sound of someone slipping into a fantasy, the way longing laced a voice when they thought no one could hear. That low, aching sigh that came not from the lungs, but from somewhere deeper.

Still, he couldn’t believe it. Not you.

Not his daughter. His baby.

There was a small sound from the other side of the door — the shift of sheets, the soft exhale of breath caught on something unspoken. Another quiet whisper of Jake’s name, this time edged with something fragile and wanting.

Maverick’s mouth went dry.

He took a step back, careful not to make the floorboards groan. His pulse thudded in his ears, and he stared at the door like it had betrayed him. Like somehow this was the fault of the wood, or the walls, or the silence between them.

Jake Seresin.

Hangman.

Of all people.

He had trusted that man — respected his skill in the sky, admired his nerve when it counted. But this? This was different.

He turned before he could hear anything more, jaw tight, moving quietly down the hall with the weight of what he’d just learned pressing heavy on his shoulders.

You were grown. He knew that. You weren’t the little girl with skinned knees and sunburnt cheeks anymore. He’d watched you walk across that college graduation stage not six months ago. Still, there was a difference between knowing your child is an adult and hearing it.

And hearing it like that?

He scrubbed a hand down his face as he reached the end of the hall and stepped into his room, the door clicking softly shut behind him. He stood there in the dark for a moment, silent, trying not to think of Jake Seresin’s name on your lips.

He was too old for this kind of shock. Too experienced to let his imagination get the better of him. But no amount of deployments or dogfights or years spent defying death could have prepared him for that sound — the aching, breathless murmur of his daughter in the dark, lost in the thought of a man Maverick had trusted with planes, not hearts.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, back bowed under the weight of what he now knew.

And tried, with every bit of discipline left in him, to forget the sound of you whimpering Jake Seresin’s name.

Maverick tried to forget what he heard.

He told himself it was nothing. A half-asleep mumble. A coincidence. He’d misheard. You’d whispered something else entirely. A dream. A movie. A memory. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even Jake you’d meant — maybe it was someone else named Jake. There were plenty of Jakes in the world, right?

He knew better. But he wanted to believe it.

Because the alternative — that his daughter, his sweet, wide-eyed, straight-out-of-college daughter — was… involved with Jake Seresin — that was almost too much for his brain to compute.

It wasn’t just that Jake was older — though that alone set something hot and sour boiling low in Maverick’s gut — it was the fact of who he was. Jake was one of his best aviators. Cocky, sharp, charming when he wanted to be — and exactly the kind of man Maverick had spent years warning you about.

Jake knew better.

And you—you were so soft. So careful. You didn’t party. You didn’t push boundaries. You’d worked your ass off to graduate early, straight-A student, the kind of kid who sent thank-you notes without being asked. You still called him Dad without sarcasm in your voice. You were good.

And this?

This couldn’t be real.

So Maverick watched.

At first, it was just out of habit. One eye on Jake during drills, briefings, missions. Nothing out of the ordinary. Jake was focused, professional. Too professional. His posture too straight, his answers too precise. It struck Maverick as… off.

Then he started watching more closely.

Jake didn’t linger after debriefs the way he used to. Not unless someone was talking about the Hard Deck. Not unless someone mentioned your name.

And at the bar?

That’s where the cracks started to show.

You’d taken a job with Penny after graduation — just something to fill the gap while you figured things out. He hadn’t worried at first. The Daggers were always around, sure, but you knew them like friends. Jake, he thought, would keep his distance. He was older. Smarter. More disciplined than this.

Except he wasn’t.

Maverick started to notice the glances. Long, lingering things, barely noticeable if you weren’t paying attention — but he was.

He saw how Jake’s eyes always found you across the room. How they softened — just slightly — when you smiled. He watched the way Jake stood at the bar just a little longer than necessary, making conversation with Penny or Bob or whoever was closest, when Maverick knew damn well the only reason he was still standing there was you.

He noticed the little things — Jake’s hand brushing yours as you passed a drink, the way your eyes flicked toward him when you laughed at someone else's joke, the way your fingers would linger near the bar just long enough for him to touch them if he dared.

And sometimes, he did.

Subtle. Careful. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

Maverick clenched his jaw so tight one night he thought it might crack. He stood in the corner of the Hard Deck, one hand wrapped around a glass of something he wasn’t drinking, and watched Jake lean across the bar, smiling in that way that was just for you — quieter, gentler, full of something warm and private.

And you — you looked up at him like he’d hung the goddamn moon.

Maverick felt sick.

He told himself he was being paranoid. Overprotective. Seeing things that weren’t there. Maybe it was just a flirtation. Maybe you didn’t know what you were doing. Maybe Jake was teasing, charming, careless with boundaries but not crossing them. Maybe you’d laugh about it later, embarrassed, and tell him it was nothing.

But the problem was… Maverick knew Jake. He’d trained him. Flown with him. Trusted him.

And Jake didn’t do things halfway.

So what the hell was this?

He could barely look at you the next day. You greeted him with your usual smile, still in your tank top and jean shorts, your hair tied up, holding a mug of coffee in both hands like it was sacred. So normal. So innocent. It twisted something sharp in his chest.

Because you were his kid.

And Jake Seresin was looking at you like a man who’d already crossed a line — like he meant to stay there.

Maverick said nothing.

Not yet.

But the silence inside him wasn’t calm. It was the silence before a storm — measured, waiting, full of fury he didn’t know how to unleash without blowing apart the fragile balance of the world he’d tried to build around you.

Because now, every time you laughed a little too hard at something Jake said, every time Jake hovered just a second too long near your side, every time your eyes found each other across the bar — Maverick saw it.

The secret.

And it made his blood boil.

-

The door clicked shut behind you, and something shifted in the air.

Here — in his space, in the hush of his dimly lit bedroom — you weren’t Maverick’s daughter. You weren’t the girl behind the bar at the Hard Deck or the one smiling too sweetly across the room. Here, with your shoes kicked off and your shoulders bare beneath his old Navy tee, you were his.

Jake leaned against the dresser, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes tracking you as you padded across the carpet toward his bed. His gaze didn’t just wander — it devoured. Like he could never quite get enough of looking at you, like he was cataloging every piece of skin the shirt didn’t cover. His shirt.

“You look good in that,” he said, voice low and warm like bourbon.

You smiled, cheeks flushing instantly, just the way he liked.

“I’m pretty sure you say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

Jake pushed off the dresser and crossed the room slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. There was something in the way he moved — deliberate, grounded — like nothing in the world could rush him. Not when he had you.

He reached you in two strides and stopped just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his chest. His fingers brushed your jaw, then tilted your chin up so you were looking straight into his eyes. That soft green — always intense, always watching — flicked down to your mouth and back again.

“You know,” he murmured, thumb brushing just beneath your lip, “I could spend the rest of my life learning every single way to make you blush.”

You couldn’t help the way your breath caught. He heard it — felt it — and smiled.

Not the cocky, Hangman grin he gave the world. No. This one was slower. More dangerous. And completely yours.

Jake’s hands were large, rough at the palms but steady — always steady — as they slid around your waist and pulled you close. You melted into him without hesitation, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt, not because you wanted to undress him yet, but because you could. Because he let you.

“You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?” he said softly, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s what those little sighs were last night.”

You flushed hotter.

“Jake—”

“Oh, baby. Don’t pretend you weren’t.” His mouth skimmed along your jaw. “I know the sounds you make when you’re close. I know how you breathe. How you tremble. I know what my name sounds like when it falls out of that pretty mouth.”

A soft whimper escaped before you could swallow it, and that only made him smirk.

“There it is.”

His voice was thick now, threaded with heat, but still careful. Always careful with you. Jake’s hands found the backs of your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing, setting you gently down onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath you, and before you could blink, he was kneeling between your legs, mouth hovering just above your bare knee.

“This bed,” he said, voice low, “is my favorite place on Earth. Because it’s the only place where you let go completely. Where you let me take care of you.”

And he did take care of you — in every way a man could.

He worshipped you here, in the quiet. He learned your body like he flew his plane: with precision, with patience, with a touch that always knew exactly when to push and when to pull back. Jake never rushed. Never overwhelmed. Even when he was in control — and he always was — he made it feel like surrendering was the safest thing you could do.

His hand smoothed slowly up your thigh, his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles into your skin. He kissed just above your knee, then higher, then higher, every inch leaving your skin tingling, your heart pounding loud and helpless in your chest.

You looked down at him — this man, older, confident, his body carved with strength and steady discipline — and the look in his eyes nearly undid you. There was hunger there, yes, but deeper still: reverence. A kind of awe. As if he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You know what drives me crazy?” he murmured, voice like silk against your leg. “That I have to act like I don’t want you every second of the day. That I can’t touch you when I want. Can’t look at you the way I need to.”

Your breath hitched again. He noticed.

Jake leaned forward and pressed a kiss just below your navel, his hands spreading wide against your hips, grounding you. Then he pulled back just far enough to meet your gaze.

“But here?” he whispered. “Here, I get to do whatever I want to you.”

Your pulse thundered. Your lips parted.

“And you get to fall apart for me.”

You whimpered — a soft, involuntary sound that sent a flash of fire through his eyes. He loved that. You knew he did. He chased those sounds like a man starved. Collected them like keepsakes. And still, he always gave more than he took.

Because he wasn’t just dominant. He was devoted.

He took his time, building you up with murmurs and touches and kisses so soft they felt like sin. He watched you — always watched you — like your pleasure was the only thing in the world that mattered. Every sigh, every twitch, every time you whispered his name, he soaked it in like it was something holy.

And when you finally came undone beneath him, trembling and breathless, he held you like he’d never let go — his mouth near your ear, whispering praises, kissing your damp skin, brushing hair from your face as if you might break from the weight of what you’d just shared.

Only here, in this room, did you get to see him like this. Not just your lover. Not just the man who made your knees weak.

But the one who made you feel safe.

The one who looked at you and saw forever.

Steam curled around you like silk, rising in slow tendrils as hot water poured down over your shoulders. The sound of it echoed softly off the bathroom tiles, a steady rhythm that almost masked the creak of the shower door opening behind you.

Almost.

You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

Jake stepped inside like he belonged there—because he did—and closed the glass behind him with a quiet click. The steam softened everything, blurred the edges of the world until it was just him and you, bare skin and slow breaths, heartbeats lost in the sound of rushing water.

His hands found your waist first—broad and sure, his touch warm even beneath the spray. He pulled you gently back against his chest, the heat of his body radiating through your spine, his lips brushing just behind your ear.

“Missed you in bed,” he murmured, voice low and already thick with intent.

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as his arms slid around you, palms flat against your slick skin. He wasn’t in a hurry. He never was with you. He liked to savor.

His mouth moved slowly down the side of your neck, lazy kisses scattered like raindrops along your shoulder. One of his hands slid upward to cradle your breast, the other—

Lower.

Lower still.

You gasped softly, hips shifting just enough to let him in, the back of your head still cradled in the crook of his neck. You could feel his smile against your skin—smug and reverent all at once—as his fingers began their slow, deliberate work.

“You’re so responsive,” he whispered, his voice thick with pride. “You always give me everything. My sweet, sweet girl.”

Your hands reached back to grip his thighs, fingers digging into his skin as his rhythm deepened. The water thundered around you, streaming through your hair, dripping down the curve of your spine, and pooling where his hand moved against you with purpose.

He knew exactly what you needed. Always did.

The way your breath hitched.

The little stutter in your hips.

The soft, broken sound you made when you were right on the edge—his favorite sound in the world.

He pressed you gently against the tiled wall, one hand braced beside your head while the other stayed exactly where you needed him, coaxing you toward that slow-burning undoing.

“Let go for me,” he breathed, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “C’mon, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And you did.

You came apart like a whispered secret in the steam, mouth falling open, your whimper swallowed by the roar of the shower and the low, satisfied growl Jake let out behind you. His arms tightened around you instantly, steadying, grounding, kissing your shoulder as you trembled through the aftershocks in his hold.

“Good girl,” he murmured, so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You let your weight rest against him, cheek pressed to the cool tile, chest rising and falling as your heart slowly returned to its rhythm. Jake held you there, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other stroking slow, calming lines down your hip.

Minutes passed like that—no rush, no words, just the sound of water and the steady drum of his breath against your skin.

Your breath had just begun to steady, muscles still trembling with the afterglow, when Jake leaned in again — his nose brushing behind your ear, lips barely grazing your skin.

“I’m not done with you,” he murmured, voice rough, almost reverent.

A shiver rippled through you that had nothing to do with the water.

His hands were back on your hips, fingers firm and claiming, and you knew that tone — the low, possessive one he used when restraint slipped and the need to feel all of you took over. Not rushed. Not rough. Just… consuming.

You let your cheek rest against the cool tile as he guided your hips back toward him, your breath catching when you felt the way he pressed against you—hard, thick, achingly patient.

Jake let out a soft groan as he sank into you, one hand sliding to your belly to hold you still, the other curling around your throat in a way that made you feel completely owned, completely safe. Your eyes fluttered shut as he moved slowly at first — a quiet, deliberate rhythm that made it impossible to think of anything but him.

“God, baby…” he whispered against your shoulder. “You feel like heaven.”

The steam curled around your bodies, water still rushing above, but the world narrowed to the sound of his voice, the roll of his hips, the way his chest pressed to your back like he never wanted space between you again. Each movement was purposeful, each thrust reverent — like he wasn’t just touching you, but claiming you all over again.

You whimpered, soft and breathless, your fingers scrambling for something to hold onto — the wall, the steam-fogged glass, him — but he had you. Always did.

“You like this,” he breathed, voice wrecked and sweet. “Letting me take care of you like this. Letting me have all of you.”

You nodded, helpless and aching, your answer caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan as he shifted the angle just slightly and sent sparks flooding through you again. He knew your body too well. Read it like a flight map.

The water beat down on you both, a curtain of heat and white noise, but Jake’s voice still found you—threaded through every ragged breath, every soft growl pressed into your shoulder as he drove you both closer to that edge again.

“Come with me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse now, breaking just a little. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let go.”

And you did.

Falling for him again, harder every time.

Jake held you through it — arms locked tight around you, murmuring praise against your skin, slowing only when your trembling stilled and your breaths became soft and shallow.

He stayed pressed to you for a long moment, forehead resting against the back of your neck, like he couldn’t bear to let go just yet. His lips brushed your shoulder. Once. Twice. Then again, softer than a breath.

Only then did he move, carefully turning you to face him, cupping your cheeks in those large, calloused hands.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You laughed quietly, breathless and warm, wrapping your arms around his waist as the water ran down his back.

He kissed you.

Not to start something new — not yet — but just to say I love you, without saying anything at all.

-

The sunlight was golden and heavy, slanting through the windows as the weekend crowd filled the Hard Deck with familiar noise — music low, pool balls cracking, laughter bubbling like a tide rising around him. Maverick stood near the bar, nursing a beer he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes.

He wasn’t watching the game. Wasn’t listening to the chatter. His eyes were on you.

You were behind the bar, laughing softly at something Payback said, hair tied up, face flushed from the warmth and the crowd. You looked happy. Too happy.

There was a little twinkle in your eye that he hadn’t seen before — something new. Something he didn’t trust.

It had been gnawing at him all day. A sharp edge beneath his ribs. Every time Jake glanced your way. Every time you smiled and your gaze flicked back to him. Every time Jake lingered at the bar longer than he should’ve, leaned in closer than necessary to talk to you — just low enough to make your cheeks pink and your eyes drop to the counter.

Maverick clenched his jaw and looked away.

He didn’t want to make a scene. Wouldn’t. You were an adult. He kept telling himself that. Over and over like a prayer.

But then you shifted on your stool. Just a little. Just enough.

And you winced.

It was subtle — barely there — but to him, it might as well have been a confession in neon lights. The way your lips parted. The faint hitch in your breath. The flicker of discomfort as you adjusted, stretching like something ached.

He knew that look. Knew it because he was a man. Because he remembered.

The blood drained from his face. Then came roaring back in a violent rush.

He slammed the bottle on the bar hard enough that Penny startled. Everyone nearby looked over, conversation faltering like a record scratching out.

And before anyone could react, he was moving.

Straight toward you.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he snapped, loud and cold and cutting.

Your face turned up in confusion, smile fading in an instant. “What?”

Maverick’s voice rose. “You think I don’t see it? You think I’m stupid?”

“Dad—”

“I saw the way you winced. The way you can barely sit still. You didn’t even try to hide it!”

You froze. The color drained from your face, but your mouth opened like you were going to deny it.

He didn’t give you the chance.

“You’re sleeping with him,” he hissed, stabbing a finger toward Jake without even looking. “With one of my pilots.”

The bar had gone completely still.

Jake stood up from where he’d been leaning near Rooster, eyes wide, already moving before the words even finished falling from Maverick’s mouth.

“Sir—”

“Don’t,” Maverick growled, turning on him now. “You—you stay the hell out of this.”

“Dad, stop!” you cried, stepping in between them, voice shaking. “Please, you’re making this worse—”

“You think I’m just gonna stand here and watch this?” Maverick barked. “You think I’m gonna smile and nod while my daughter fucks one of my students? One of my men?!”

Jake was there in a blink — moving between you and Maverick with instinct and purpose, jaw tight, hands open but ready.

“That’s enough,” Jake said, voice steady, even as his body was tense. “Not here. Not like this.”

“You son of a bitch—what did you do to her?”

Jake took the shove without flinching, absorbing it like a wave.

Rooster stood, fast. “Mav—hey—enough!”

“She’s not a child,” Jake said again, quietly.

“She’s my daughter!”

“She’s my girlfriend!”

The silence that followed was instant and deafening.

You were behind Jake now, hand on his back like you needed the contact to breathe. Your eyes were glassy, your shoulders trembling.

“She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me,” Jake said again, softer this time. “And I would never, ever, hurt her.”

Maverick looked like he’d been punched.

He stared at you for a long time, like he didn’t recognize you. Like he didn’t know when the world had changed without him noticing.

“I trusted you,” he whispered, looking at Jake now. “I brought you in. I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me?”

Jake’s voice broke a little. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with her. But I did.”

And all you could do was hold on tighter.

“That’s enough, Pete.”

Penny’s voice cracked through the silence like a whip — not raised, but sharp enough to stop everyone cold. She stepped forward from behind the bar, her expression unreadable but her tone leaving no room for argument.

“You want to lose your mind over this, fine. Do it somewhere else. Not in the middle of my bar.”

Maverick looked at her, chest heaving, jaw locked tight. She didn’t back down. No one else moved.

After a long beat, he tore his eyes away from Jake, from you, and stormed toward the exit without another word.

You didn’t need to be told to follow.

Jake’s hand found yours — quick, certain, grounding — and together, you slipped out behind him, leaving the heavy silence of the Hard Deck in your wake.

The ride home was a blur.

No one spoke.

You sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Maverick’s truck while Jake followed behind on his car, the silence so loud it buzzed in your ears. Your father didn’t glance at you once. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel the whole way.

Now, back in the house, Maverick paced the living room like a caged animal — still in his boots, jacket still on, hands dragging through his hair every few minutes like he didn’t know what to do with the storm inside him.

You and Jake sat on opposite ends of the couch, both upright, stiff, silent.

Like teenagers who’d been caught sneaking back in past curfew. Except this wasn’t about curfew. This was about everything.

Maverick stopped in front of you, arms crossed, mouth drawn tight.

“I want an explanation,” he said finally. “Now.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You hadn’t stopped crying since the bar.

So Jake spoke.

“It started a few months ago,” he said, voice steady but quiet. “We didn’t plan it. It just… happened. And we kept it quiet because we knew how it would look.”

“How it would look?” Maverick repeated, almost laughing. “She’s barely out of college. You’re in your mid-thirties, Seresin. You’re one of my pilots. You don’t see how this might be a problem?”

You flinched like he’d slapped you, and Jake noticed.

“She’s not a kid,” Jake said calmly. “She’s smart. She’s strong. She’s her own person, and I would never have touched her if I didn’t know she was sure.”

“You think she knows what she wants?” Maverick barked, turning toward Jake now. “You think she has any idea what kind of life you’re leading? You really believe you two want the same things?”

“I do,” Jake said.

“Bullshit.”

You finally found your voice.

“Dad, stop. You don’t get to decide what I want.”

“Maybe not,” he said, bitter. “But I get to be furious when my daughter starts sleeping with someone who’s ten years older, someone who works under me, someone I trusted.”

“You trusted him,” you snapped, standing now, tears streaking down your cheeks. “And he didn’t do anything to break that trust, except love me.”

Maverick looked like he’d been hit.

Jake stood slowly too, but didn’t move closer. His voice was quiet, steady — like it always was when things mattered most.

“I know what this looks like. I know it’s complicated. But I’m not some guy stringing her along for a thrill. I’m in this, Mav. I’m in it for real.”

Maverick said nothing.

Jake kept going.

“I’ve been in love before. I’ve seen it crash and burn. But I’ve never felt anything like I feel for her. I see a future with her. I want the long haul. And if you need time to come to terms with that — fine. Take all the time you need.”

Jake’s voice cracked, just barely.

“But I’m not going anywhere.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Maverick didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And you stood there in the middle of it, heart pounding, caught between the man who raised you and the man who held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

The silence after Jake's words stretched long and heavy.

Maverick stood rooted in place, staring at the floor like it might offer answers he couldn't find anywhere else. His fists were clenched at his sides. His jaw tight. The words sat on his tongue, but none of them made it out.

You swallowed hard, stepped forward, and reached for your father's sleeve — gently, like approaching a wounded animal.

“Dad,” you said softly. “Please. Just… listen to me.”

He didn’t look at you.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know it’s not what you pictured. But I’m asking you to see me. Not the version of me that still needed bedtime stories or help with homework. Me. As I am now.”

Still nothing. Still silence.

Your voice trembled, but you kept going.

“I love him.”

You looked toward Jake for a moment — and then back to your father. “I’m in love with him. And I don’t care how complicated that is. Nothing you say will change it.”

That made Maverick flinch. Just slightly. Like your words hit a place he wasn’t ready to expose.

“I love you, too,” you added, more quietly. “So much. But if you keep treating me like a child… if you keep trying to control who I love and what I do with my life… all you’ll do is push me away.”

His gaze finally lifted — slowly — locking with yours.

“And it won’t break us apart,” you said, voice firm now. “Jake and me. If you keep trying to come between us… it won’t work. It’ll just hurt.”

For a long time, no one spoke.

Jake stayed silent beside you, tension thrumming through his frame, but he didn’t interrupt. He knew this part wasn’t his to fight.

Maverick dragged a hand over his face and took a step back, breathing like he’d just run a mile. He turned away for a moment, pacing the edge of the room, like he needed space to peel back every layer of emotion without exploding again.

“You think I’m mad because I want to control your life?” he muttered finally. “You think I’m trying to stop you from being happy?”

You didn’t respond. You just waited.

He turned back to face you.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “Because I know what this life can do to people. I’ve seen how fast it all falls apart. And I never wanted you anywhere near it.”

You blinked. “Dad—”

“I don’t like it,” he cut in, voice low and rough. “I don’t approve of this. Not the age gap, not the secrecy, none of it. And frankly, I still don’t know what the hell Jake sees in a twenty-something who doesn’t know what she wants five years from now.”

You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand — not angry now. Just exhausted.

“But.”

He exhaled. Looked at Jake. Then at you.

“If this is what you want—truly want—then… I’m not gonna stand in your way.”

Jake didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“I won’t like it,” Maverick said again. “I won’t pretend to like it. But I won’t try to rip you apart either. Because that’s not love. And I’d rather be the father you come home to… than the one you have to leave behind just to live your life.”

The weight of it hit all at once — those words, those quiet concessions. Your eyes welled up, your throat tight.

You moved forward, slow, tentative, and wrapped your arms around your father. For a second, he stood frozen — stiff and uncertain — but then his arms came around you too.

Tight. Fierce. Like he was saying goodbye to something he couldn’t protect anymore.

When you pulled back, his voice was lower than before.

“You better mean it,” he said to Jake. “Because if you break her heart…”

Jake nodded, solemn. “I do mean it. Every word.”

Maverick gave one small, reluctant nod.

And for the first time since the Hard Deck — maybe the first time ever — he saw the two of you standing side by side not as a mistake to be corrected, but as a reality he couldn’t deny.

-

The days after that night were anything but easy. The air between you, Jake, and Maverick was thick with tension, silence, and careful distance. But life didn’t pause, and neither did you.

You threw yourself into your work as a licensed therapist in private practice — a demanding, emotionally draining job, but one that fit you perfectly. Listening to other people’s messes gave you space to think through your own. And helping someone else gain clarity, find a way forward? That always made the rest of it feel worth it.

Jake was steady as ever — balancing long hours at the base with the weight of the recent storm. He didn’t shy away from the awkward conversations with Maverick or the occasional cold shoulder. Instead, he faced them head-on, proving in every way that he was serious about you and your future.

Maverick, meanwhile, was a study in reluctant acceptance.

He didn’t like the situation, and he made no effort to hide it. The age difference, the secrecy, the way Jake had quietly become part of your life — all of it grated on him. But he also recognized the strength of your bond.

Slowly, over late-night talks and shared meals, the tension softened.

He stopped looking at Jake like a rival and started seeing the man who refused to walk away.

You and Jake settled into a rhythm — a life marked by quiet mornings, late-night talks, and the occasional laugh when Maverick’s gruff comments couldn’t be ignored.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t easy.

But it was yours.

[travelingtwentysomething]

Bro he knew what he was doing. He's seen some fanart featuring his neck moles. I just intuit it. That pull of the sweater, the stretch of his neck, and angle of his jaw while looking directly into camera with a little smirk. I know he knows we thirst for the neck moles.

Joe Keery um and yeah.

[screampied]

☆ cw. fem! reader, husband nanami, dad bod, mating press, protected -> unprotected, size kink, bręeding, praise, mdni.

it’s something hot about how husband! nanami just isn’t aware of how big he really is.

he’s insanely thick - easily stretching you with only just a few vast inches inviting its way in between your slippery entrance. the rubbery tip of the condom nearly snags against your gripping insides as he moves, hovering his soft weight above you. heavy, rushed pants of breath drag out from each lung as he looks down at you lovingly. just a mere glimpse of you, and he’s already ready to propose to you all over again.

“f.. fuck, sweetheart. hold on t’ me.” he’d grunt with two beefy arms held against either side of you.

curled twines of blond hair paint a nice bushy portion of his chest like a canvas. it starts near his neck before trailing further down toward his plump abdomen. nanami’s tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder, silently gasping at each veiny inch that disappears inside. “k- kento,” you moan, one of your legs hooking around his wide snapping waist. he’s hesitant before his hands pull your legs way up to your chest. “mmp- don’t stop, baby.”

“hah- promise,” he groans through clenched teeth, his jaw locking by the second. the stretch he creates was so good that it’s got nanami falling right into your chest. his body was practically akin to a pillow, and he’s squishing himself on top of you before your cunt squeezes around him. fuck- fuck- fuck- that same word chants in his empty brain, nearly slipping out a hoarse whimper at how slick you coated the entirety of his cock. “c’mon, sweetheart. open for me like ‘y always do. gooood, biiiig stretch for kento.”

but as he’s gradually bucking his unsteady hips into you while gently placing a hand on top of your tummy, the two of you are met with a loud abrupt ‘snaaap!’ sound, and nanami pauses.

literally - the condom pitifully snaps apart, ignoring gravity as the now ruined rubber tightens around his shaft. nanami’s panting in your neck as his entire body quivers over you before he mumbles out a raspy, “o.. oh.. shit.”

it’s rare for him to swear, but at that particular moment, you throbbed, impatiently chewing on the skin that lived on your bottom lip.

your bare heel rubs soothing circles around his tense back muscles as you suddenly meet his lustful gaze.

his eyes - they’re shining almost. the more you peer into his fawn, almond eyes, the more you got lost in his gentle, ardent stare.

“i- it’s okay,” you’d breathlessly mumble, feeling his dick retreat its way out of your sopping pussy. it’s a loud, sobbing ‘pshs’ sound that slops from your vocal pussy before you shakily whimper, “go raw, ken.”

“hah- dirty girl,” he’d groan, pressing three wet open-mouthed kisses against your temple. in immediate response, your body shudders underneath him as you hear as you feel him starting to shuffle.

with a single veiny hand, nanami snatches the snugly-fit condom off of his length before tossing it in the nearby trash bin. “ ‘m not sure if i’d last long…my lo- oh fuuuck.”

nanami’s dead silent.

shallow, shaky breath falls from his rose-colored lips as the v-shaped head of his blushing cock lightly taps against your slobbery cunt.

you’re so soaked, abundantly pouring from all sides as your legs remain prettily spread and folded. nanami himself couldn’t help but stare, openly gawking as he’s slowly creating a nasty full thrust.

just one-

a single thrust that’s making you both fall against each other at once. he’s laid right over your body, being careful not to crush you as he grunts at the occasional clenches of your cunt.

the best way to describe nanami was like a teddy bear, so soft ‘n round from all angles. with him having you in mating press, you’re feeling all of his weight plummet down onto you, each pound of his cock becoming deeper within every swallowing inch. it’s got you speechless, moaning continuously as a few strands of his chest hair collide against your skin.

“mmpf- s.. so big, ‘ken,” you’d moan, twisting your toes in anticipation at the raw friction.

he’s so big - even bigger without the rubber it seemed, and you gasped once you felt his soft foreskin slide its way inside. truth be told though, you’d never get used to his size no matter how many times he’s stuffed you full. your gummy convulsing walls merrily greeted nanami’s shaft as your arms wrapped around his rounded belly. “ugh- there, right fuckin’ thereee.”

“god- woman, you’re just.. huuh- askin’ for another baby,” nanami grumbles, blond brows creasing together as he tenderly rubs a wide palm in a circle around your tummy.

his dick’s thoroughly massaging through you perfectly, and he’s sucking his teeth at the natural feeling. your slickness coats him so good, and he’s still got you in the lewdest mating press with your knees shoved against your chest. “ ‘s that what you want, princess?” and as he speaks, his voice lowers, feeling your tummy anxiously tuck inward. “you’d look so pretty again all plump.”

with a look of meek, you cup his face, gently stroking a thumb over the crack of his parted, pouty lips. “mhm-” you’d nod, holding in a gasp once he presents your pussy with one vigorous thrust.

it’s sharp- and you whimper at how his cockhead slammed itself deep against your clit. as your thighs frantically shook, nanami holds them up before playfully tilting his head at your response.

“mhm?” he repeats your little mumble, a hiss nearly slipping through his clenched teeth as he pulls out before sloppily pulling back in.

the slimy squelches that followed were just the definition of wet. each dramatic-sounding squelch that yelped out between your legs had nanami on the verge of shooting blanks right then and there. not just there and there but inside you, too.

as dewdrops of sweat dribble from all sides of his head, nanami presses a sticky wet kiss against the crevice of your mouth. “use those pretty words, i wanna.. wanna hear my sloppy wife talk to me nice.”

“k— kentooo, please,” you’d whimper, writhing underneath his soft body. he’s pressed up against you, practically suffocating your body with his huggable warmth. each barreling inch he spent inside you had you drooling from the inside of your mouth. nanami hums, sneaking a kiss on your damp lips before feeling you claw a hand down his chiseled back. “hah- cum inside. f- fuck me.”

exactly at your sweet pleading words, you felt his dick throb inside of you. it’s more of a sporadic twitch, and it makes you let off a cute ‘ooooh!’

nanami slumps his head in between your sore jiggling breasts, sliding a tongue down the crack of your chest before groaning. “f.. fuck, when you ask me like that, can’t r- resist, honey,” and his voice dripped with such sensuous desire. nanami’s shaft greedily kisses its way against your pearled clit before his entire body erupts into vicious shakes.

he knew he wouldn’t last long at all - especially raw because once he’s starting to swell from the very tip, he’s gutturally groaning right between your tits. gluey golden strands of hair tickled against you as he’s cumming hard, whimpering into your chest.

nanami’s entire body quakes violently, and his thrusts switch from rhythmic to pathetically sloppy within seconds..

even still, you’re folded in such a pretty way, taking each slobbery drop that fills into your cunt deeply, and you moaned once his dripping tongue glides a path down toward your sensitive nipples. “mmph-” he’d grunt, muffling himself as he’s still dumping such a thick load.

nanami guides a hand down between your legs, smearing the back of his wedding ring against your flooding pussy. with a loud pop! your nipple wetly plops out between his lips and he holds still.

“take it, sweetheart. ‘s all for you,” nanami lowly whispers against your clammy chest, his heavy eyelids flapping shut. your warmth - it’s so balmy inside, and he’s already shuddering once his leaky tip sprinkles the final remnants of cum deep into your womb. it leaves a beautiful dry taste in his mouth, and nanami uses a thumb to spread a flap of your folds apart. “she’s s- so pretty.”

“f- fuck..” you’d suck in a airy moan, panting at the pitching faint spurts of wetness that echoes through your ears. gooey, thin torrents of cum run down the opening of your cunt as he pulls out, and you gasp once nanami suddenly flips you over.

now - you’re laid on your chest with your hips raised, ass arched up, and your neck most certainly raised.

“hah- forgive…me,” nanami throatily murmurs, using the back of his wedding ring once more to slither down your cream-coated pussy. his tone, it’s far lower this time—raspy with a bit of a smoky airiness to it.

oh- you were just an entire mess. he’s already licking his lips as he takes in the beauty of his wife’s backside, immediately feeling his sensitive dick twitch at the coarse, arching sight.

the way his cum just messily cascades down between your syrupy slit, splattering onto the silk white sheets in the process - he wanted more..

nanami hungrily rolls out his tongue before licking your pussy from top to bottom—shamelessly relishing in his bittersweet taste that soaks against his sizzling buds. the viscous mess glitters a sheeny filthy coat onto his pursed lips before he huffs, sitting back up.

with a soft little tap, you whine, feeling the familiar upturned curve of nanami’s hardened tip smack against your cum-slobbering entrance again and again..

“arch a bit more for me. atta girl, mhm- let’s.. hah- aim for triplets this time, my love..”

[fairy-angel222]

𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐨 ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

The latter opening his phone to a video of Gojo fucking you, one of his close friends and roommate, from behind. The camera capturing your tear filled eyes as you cried. “S-Satoruu— nnh, please.. please don’t show Suguru.” He couldn’t see you like this, especially when it was for his best friend. The one whose charms you promised him you wouldn’t fall for.

Gojo ignored you completely, and you let out a broken whimper when you took that as your answer. The camera now panning down to the recoil of your ass as Gojo hammered into you, using his hand to spread your cheeks before zooming in on the way your pussy stretched to take his thick cock.

“That’sss it. Look at that filthy fuckin’ cunt. So wet n noisy f’me. Pussy’s creamin’ all over my cock, shitt.” He groaned, palm landing meanly onto your ass as his pace sped. “Suguru’s gonna love this. He’s a lil pervert f’you baby.”

You mewled loudly, head fuzzy as you babbled out words of embarrassment. Attempting to hide your face in his sheets.

Geto was furious, his jaw clenching along with his fist as he watched Gojo taint his precious girl. That was supposed to be his job. Watching as Gojo’s hand twisted roughly in your hair to pull you up to his chest. Your eyes rolling back with the arch of your back as you let dumbed down cries consume your shaking frame.

Geto hated it. But he couldn’t stop watching. Beginning to stroke roughly at his cock to the sight of Gojo molding you around his cock. A loud groan vibrating in his chest when you started begging the white haired man to cum in you.

Gojo angled the phone to show your whiny face while forcing you to keep contact with your reflection. Teary eyes and drool filled lips staring back at you with a choked cry. A smirk on his face when he tilted it down to the lewd bouncing of your tits. "Bet Sugu’s gonna jerk off to this when he sees it baby.”

“Wonder if he likes hearing you beg for me to breed your cunt full. You think he likes it baby?” He faux cooed, lips ghosting over your ear with heavy breaths. The man putting himself in the frame to chuckle darkly before grinning. A shiver raking down your spine at the feeling of his teeth on your skin.

You could only whine with a hiccup as you blinked up at the camera. Your head spinning as you tried to looked away with a moan. You didn’t want Suguru to see you like this.

Gojo grip on your hair tightened, tugging harshly as you whimpered. “I’m fucking talking to you ya know, you were doing so well baby. Just had to screw it up, didn’t you?” Gojo scoffed, shoving your head into the bed below with his hand behind your neck. The mean snapping of his hips rocking you back and forth each time his cock kissed your cervix.

Gojo sighed, the camera now picking up his tensed abs as they glistened with sweat. His pelvis meeting your flesh faster than Geto could keep up with. “Your little slut needs a lesson or two on obedience Suguru.” He smiled lazily, “Guess someone’s gotta teach her huh.”

The video ended. And Geto was quick to press replay.

He groaned, still fisting his cock to the image of your face contorting into one of pure pleasure as you looked at the camera through your lashes.

Cursing himself as he reached into your bedside drawer to grab his favorite out of your panties. Pretty pink one with part lace and a bow in the middle. Using it to imagine that it was you bouncing on his cock, your tight cunt gripping him snug as you made a sticky mess on his thighs.

His pace quickened, breathing getting heavy as he panted. Ragged breaths falling past parted lips until he felt his cock twitch. Spilling thick spurts onto his clothed lap like the pervert Gojo said he was.

[rottingpink]

hii 💕I know wildest dreams is a multi but would u be willing to do a pt. 2? like mayb a continuation in the car and then a lil fluff :3 it was soo good <3

wildest dreams ii | multi

cw. cheating (on your part), car sex, fingering, pussy play, degradation, fingering, squirting, crying, OVERSTIMULATION, messy sex, breeding, raw sex

synopsis. the biggest loser at your college takes you, the sweet, taken cheerleader to the backseat of his car while your boyfriend's on the football field.

pt. i here!

main masterlist

he groans lowly and grabs for your waist, tugging you into him and kissing you messily. he doesn't let you catch your breath for a second, merely scooping you up with his hands under your thighs while he carries you, lips on yours, to his car out in the lot behind the football field.

your hands tangle up in his hair while your tongue rolls over his. for someone as strange and unsettling as him, he tastes oddly pleasant, like mint and smoke, and his lips, though chapped, mold on yours so perfectly that it feels like he's made for you. he squeezes your thighs and nips your lower lip, murmuring into your mouth, "you're not walking into that stadium again unless it's with my cum dripping out of you."

you moan into his thought, warm and fuzzy at the idea of him breeding you in the back of his car and making you walk back to the pitch when he's done with his cum stuffed in you and dripping out every step you take.

your arms lace tighter around his shoulders as you go back to kissing him, tilting your head to get the perfect angle of your tongue against his, and your mewls get louder when you do. "mmh, mmh..." you hum softly

his mouth moves against yours urgently, almost as if he's starving. his tongue slides against yours as he walks with you in his arms, slotting into your mouth in messy, wet strokes that make heatwaves travel through your body and pool at your core.

"fuck... tastes like candy..." you can feel how hard he's breathing and he squeezes you tightly like you might run away and never talk to him again after this.

you pull back just enough to breathe and he chases after you, lips dragging down to your jaw, your neck, his mouth warm and frantic. "don't stop," he mumbles against your skin, breath hot, voice wrecked. "give it back t'me. come on, pretty… kiss me again." 

you oblige and shove your mouth back into his just as he reaches his sleek car, and he fists his pocket to find his keys, unlocking it without pulling away from you, and lays you down in the backseat under him with no effort. it smells like cedar and his natural, everyday scent. he doesn't let up off you for a second, already spreading your thighs apart so he can slot his body between your legs.

you're so small underneath him, pliant and needy and reaching up to tug at his clothes and his hair to ground yourself while he strips you fully, not wanting an inch of you covered. he could afford to do so, as his tinted windows and huge body hid you from any passerby that may wander near his car, though he doubts anyone would be anywhere but the game right now. anyone normal, of course. not little brats like you who wanna get pounded in the backseat of some social reject's car. 

he's quick to strip you of every article of clothing on you except for your cute knee high socks and the lacy stretch of your panties, which are now so soaked that they've become sticky and translucent and stick to the plump lips of your pussy. "look at the nasty lil' mess you made." he tuts, voice mocking as his thumb runs over the outline of your cunt through your panties, which makes you jolt and instinctively reach to claw at his hand.

"w-wait! 'm sensitive," you whine, extremely tender from cumming so much already, but he doesn't seem to care at all. he pushes you back into place, grabbing your wrists firmly and pinning them above you with one of his huge hands. "no shying away after you begged me to fuck you like a little whore. you're gettin' what you asked for." he says sternly, still rubbing you through your panties. 

you squirm beneath him, bucking up into his hand before wiggling away due to overstimulation. you don't know if you want more or less. your panties grind against his fingers, and he pushes his fingers up against your panties so your juices squelch and make a huge mess in your underwear.

he drags his thumb up slowly and presses just right against the swollen, soaked outline of your clit through the thin fabric, and you moan, high and whiny. he finally, finally pushes your panties aside, exposing your glistening cunt to the cool air of the car, and his eyes go hazy at the sight of the mess between your thighs. "fuck, you're so pretty down here," he mutters, fingers dipping into your folds, spreading you open with ease. he tosses your panties somewhere in the heap of your clothes at the floor of his car.

his fingers slip through your soaked, swollen folds easily, and he relishes in the little gasp you make as he notches his fingers knuckles deep inside you, twisting and curling his fingers immediately to stretch you out. his eyes are locked on the slick that strings from your pussy to the base of his fingers, and he groans in delight. you're this soaked for him. only him. he swirls his thumb around the tight ring of your asshole in the meantime, not pushing in yet, but to spread your slick around to your other hole too. "mmh, please, 'm sore," you whine, knowing how much you want it anyway.

"shh... you don't want me to stop. look at your pussy, she's gushing. didn't even need to prep you," he mocks, pumping his fingers into you fast and rough, your toes are curling against the leather backseat and your head lolls back, mouth falling open as loud moans leave you. you can't even respond anymore to tell him not to tease you, because your soaked cunt pulses every time he says something mean.

he pushes his fingers down inside you, the pads of his fingers resting still on that sweet spot deep inside you, while he fumbles with his belt and begins to tug down his pants and boxers. but too much pressure on such a sensitive spot inside you, which already experienced so much stimulation is far too much for you. you thrash underneath him, feeling a very odd coiling feeling in your tummy, and also the need to pee...

"w-wait, ngh! take your fingers out, p-please, i think... i think 'm gonna..!"

he ignores you, slipping in a third finger and using all three to push down hard on that spot, and before you can stop yourself, you're gushing around his fingers intensely with a scream so loud he has to let go of your wrists to cover your mouth.

he freezes once you squirt around his fingers which remain buried deeply inside your fluttering walls, and as you gush all over his hand in several hard, uncontrollable pulses, his eyes go wide, pupils blown out, and he leans back slightly to watch. "...oh, fuck."

his voice is quiet at first, like he genuinely can't believe what he just saw.

he looks down at you, eyes flicking from your soaked pussy and thighs to your brightly flushed face, then back to the fucking ruined state of your pussy. "you just..." he breathes, curling his fingers inside you experimentally, which makes you jerk under him and gush a little more around him. he's fascinated. a girl like you can't be real, can you? "...squirted on my fingers."

he doesn't even try to hide how turned on he is. despite cumming earlier from frotting with you back outside behind the bleachers, he's rock hard again, cock bulging at the front of his cum soaked pants. he lifts his soaked hand up and parts his fingers to look at the gooey strings between him, and then pushes two fingers into his mouth, licking at your juices. you squeak, embarrassed beyond belief and red in the face, but still too far gone to tell him how dirty he's making you feel right now.

moaning at your taste, he pulls his boxers down to rest at his knees with his jeans, and his fat cock springs up, swollen and flushed a bright red at the huge, flared tip, with several strings of pearlescent liquid clinging to the fabric of his discarded boxers and more leaking down the shaft. you're both soaked. he lets go of you just long enough to line himself up at your soaked entrance, nudging the tip through your folds and collecting your slick.  his other hand comes up to grab your throat, so he's holding you still, grounding you in place. 

he makes sure to stare into your eyes intently as he slowly sheathes himself inside you. he sinks in slow at first, just the thick, heavy head of his cock pressing into your fluttering hole, and you gasp, arms wrapping around his neck, eyes rolling back, feet digging into the seat.

you whimper, nails scrabbling at his shoulders the second he frees your hands to hold onto your throat and hips. he leans down to kiss you again while you adjust to his size, fat tip swelling at your womb while he rests inside you and swirls his tongue around yours. he starts to move, slow at first, hips rolling, grinding, both of you panting into each other's mouths, your thighs shaking with every bounce. he pulls back just a little to murmur against your lips, "oh fuck, fuck, fuck, you're tight. shit, this pussy's fuckin' choking me."

you cry out under him, overwhelmed by the stretch and the sensation of his thick cock splitting you open inch by inch. it burns, but it's good. your body clenches around him helplessly. "too much... mmmh.... s'too big," you babble, but your hips don't stop moving under him, fucking yourself onto his cock even as tears prick the corners of your eyes.

"yeah?" he groans, fucking you so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. "but you said please, baby. remember? begged me to fuck you. so take it." he bottoms in and out in rough thrusts that make your whole body jolt, ensuring each thrust has him fully inside you. you're so soaked that he slides in perfectly every time, your walls clinging to him deliciously while his cock also slips inside you with filthy, loud schlick's. he's sliding in like nothing, your walls clenching and sucking him in tighter with every thrust while your slick soaks his shaft. 

the car rocks as he thrusts into you, his cock splitting you open with each thrust deep inside you. your pussy stretches slightly to accommodate to is girth, and he feels his mind numbing at the way your pussy slurps him in with each thrust. he groans loud, head tipping back and his hand squeezing firmer around your throat to make your eyes flutter. not for long, though. he likes to look into your pretty eyes while he ruins you.

"open 'em," he demands, squeezing a little on the sides of your throat to jolt you back to the present. he slams into you with a particularly rough thrust, your tits bouncing and head lolling stupidly at the feeling of being fucked dumb on the school loser's huge fucking dick. "there you go. such a good girl f'me, aren't you?"

"uh... uh... uhhuhhh...." you breathe out stupidly, drool slipping past your parted lips. you're GONE. fully gone. your fingers dig into his broad shoulders and then trail down his body, exploring his broad frame and muscles. before you look back into his eyes. he chuckles, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your swollen lips, the gentleness contrasting the way he's pounding into you and holding your throat. "look at you." he hums. "forgot you're a disloyal little whore, didn't you?"

he snaps his hips up into yours, a small bulge forming in your tummy where he lodges his cock so deep inside you. "or maybe," he sneers, "you just don't care about anything but having your cunt stuffed to the brim."

you cry out, dragging him down so you can bury your face in his neck, and he kisses your jaw, fucking you while laying on top of you. "cum for me again," he demands, lips brushing your temple while his hips roll into yours. your legs tremble and curl around his waist, each thrust making your pussy flutter around him. you try to clamp down on him, but his girth makes it so difficult. 

he's splitting you open with every drag of his cock against your raw, plushy walls. sobbing into his skin, he mumbles filth into your ear while his hands travel down to your waist and he drags your body up effortlessly so his cock is tilted up inside you, the perfect angle for him to hit that same spongy spot inside you over and over, making your mouth drop open in a silent scream. you clamp around him hard, fingernails digging into the firm muscle of his back. the pressure inside you winds tight, tight, tighter...

" 'm cumming!"

you explode around him, pussy convulsing around his cock. your whole body seizes, a strangled moan ripping out of you while you cream around him uncontrollably. 

"fuck, fuck, look at you," he moans, watching your pussy pulse around him, fluttering on his cock like you were made for it. "holy shit, baby."

he pulls out just enough to see your slick gush after him before slamming back in, making you sob. he shoves your thighs up higher, practically folding you in half now, forcing you open wide so he can fuck even deeper. the wet, obscene sound of your cunt sucking him in grows louder with every thrust, echoing in the small space of the car, and he grits out, "you feel that? feel how deep i am? gonna fill you up, fuck, 'm gonna breed you."

your head spins and you nod frantically, moaning out broken, babbled yes's, even as tears slip from the corners of your eyes. 

"fuck, fuck, fuck."

he buries himself to the hilt and cums hotly inside with a deep groan, heavy, fat balls twitching as he empties them deep inside you, so much at once that you can feel your womb filling up to the hilt. he keeps you locked against him so all of it floods inside you. "ngh... 's such a fuckin' perfect pussy," he groans aloud, mouth falling open as he keeps filling you and filling you and filling you until your belly distends just slightly from the volume of his cum.

you're gasping, clinging to him, body limp beneath him while you both ride it out together. he pants into your mouth, breathing hard, kissing you through the aftershocks. his voice is low, barely audible, wrecked. "mine. fuckin' mine. look what you do to me."

he stays inside you, twitching every now and then as your fluttering walls milk him, your slick and his cum seeping out around the base of his cock.

_

you make your way back to the football field with wobbly legs and your cheeks flushed. you tried your best to fix yourself up before going back, raking your fingers through your hair, redoing your mascara and touching up your lip gloss, praying it hides how swollen and red he made your lips.

you put your hair down so any marks on your skin aren't visible, not that your dumbass boyfriend looks at you close enough to be able to tell. the loner's cum is still hot and thick inside you, leaking a little down your inner thighs with every step, wetting the inside of your cheer skirt while the rest pools into fat globs in your panties.

the crowd is screaming loudly and your cheer girls are bouncing and huddled up with the football team. the whole field is lit up in bright stadium lights, and no one is looking around for you right now. you use it as an opportunity to slide in through the back fence and under the bleachers to act like you'd been here the whole time, and you go to where the other cheerleaders are. unfortunately, you weren't as subtle as you thought.

ava, one of the girls in your year that you usually hang out with at lunch squeals and grabs your arm. causing the other girls to quickly turn their attention to you too. "where were you?" she screeches. "coach was looking for you!"

you blink coyly, rubbing the back of your neck to give the impression of being embarrassed. "i just really had to pee," you lie "mid routine, but then i couldn't find the right bathroom, an' i got mixed up and all of them had super long lines, and i'm so sorry, i was literally crying the whole time-" you sniffle. 

the girls coo over you. you're just too sweet and cute to be mad at. so sweet, that no one would ever think you just got fucked in the back of the school loser's car.

then, your boyfriend barrels into you, carrying the unpleasant scent of sweat from the exertion he produced while on the field. he yells your name and picks you up with both arms around your waist, causing a fresh scoop of cum to trickle out of you. you squeak, hoping it's not noticeable, and he spins you in a circle. "there you are!" he shouts, loud and giddy, "my girl! babe, we fucking crushed it!"

he kisses you hard, and you giggle awkwardly, letting him brag about his win like he didn't just get cheated on for the past hour and a half. "i was watching," you lie with a perfect little tilt of your head. "I saw everything! you did so good!."

and that's when he walks up. he stands out of the crowd on his own, mouth red, eyes low, and hair a little mussed. there are faint lipgloss marks on his neck and jaw that he didn't wipe off.

he's walked in like nothing's happened, stopping at the edge of the crowd with his gaze locked on you very blatantly. you stare back while in your boyfriend's arms, and he follows your gaze and scowls quickly, arms tightening around you. "the fuck is that guy looking at?" he snaps, his voice obnoxiously loud. "why is he staring at you like that?"

you blink innocently, letting your eyes go all wide and confused. "who?"

"him," your boyfriend hisses, nodding over your shoulder. "that fucking creep. what the hell is his problem?"

you shrug, still looking at him, not your boyfriend. "um... i dunno... maybe he's high?"

your boyfriend scoffs, and tugs you in closer like he's marking territory. "yeah, well, he can fuck off. that fucking freak's probably just scoping out girls he can perv out on. probably watches porn in his room all day."

he doesn't look away from you, even as your boyfriend runs his mouth. you wonder if he can still smell your perfume on his hoodie. you hug your boyfriend back and lean into him, coaxing him to just leave it. he obliges and carries you back to the crowd to celebrate, and you look over your shoulder one last time to see him finally turn and walk away.

[zaynezone]

earned it

synopsis: who knew surgeons ties were so interesting? warnings: explicit sexual content, some light bdsm (hands tied), v light edging, oral sex (fem! receiving), penetrative sex pairing: Zayne x fem! reader wc: 2.8k

It’s the third poke that does it.

Lying in Zayne’s lap while he reads is peaceful at first, almost meditative. His presence is grounding, warm where it presses against you, and the steady rise and fall of his chest makes a rhythm you could fall asleep to. His fingers card slowly through your hair, occasionally scratching at your scalp in a way that makes your eyelids flutter. You hum contentedly, cheek pressed to his thigh, and soak in the rare quiet.

But god, you’re bored.

You could reach for your phone. Or one of the books stacked nearby. But moving means breaking contact, which means losing the lazy drag of his touch, the way his gaze dips down every few minutes to check on you.

So you resort to the smallest rebellion.

Your finger reaches out, poking the side of his ribs.

He doesn’t even flinch, just moves his book slightly, eyes tilting down with a questioning look.

“Are you alright?”

“Mhm.” You close your eyes as he smooths your hair back, his fingers cool and careful on your temple. The sensation sends a ripple of calm down your spine.

Zayne smiles faintly, shakes his head once, and goes back to reading.

For a while, you bask in the quiet. The way the light slants through the window, golden and soft, catching the angles of his face. He looks unfairly good in this lighting, sculpted and unreadable, with that tiny furrow in his brow that only deepens when he’s focused.

And it only makes your restlessness grow.

You poke him again.

This time, he blinks down at you, faintly amused. You meet his eyes with the most innocent expression you can manage and reach up to intertwine your fingers with his. His hand is cooler than yours, larger, and he gives you a light squeeze that sends something warm blooming in your chest.

Twenty minutes pass like this. Twenty long minutes where you try to be content with just the feel of his hand. But your mind keeps drifting, to the curve of his throat, to the line of his jaw, to the way his shirt stretches slightly across his chest when he shifts.

So you poke him a third time.

Zayne exhales like he’s trying not to laugh, but instead of swatting your hand away, he sets his book aside. You watch the exact moment his demeanor shifts, from indulgent to intent, as he hooks an arm around you and pulls you up into his lap, settling you against him with frustrating ease.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “If your hands keep being mischievous, I could show you how surgeons tie knots.”

Your breath catches, a spark of heat blooming just under your skin. You pull back to meet his gaze, green and steady, and just a little too pleased with himself.

“Well,” you murmur, voice teasing, “that would be interesting.”

He doesn’t say a word as he reaches up and slowly begins to undo his tie, the fabric slipping loose from his collar with a faint whisper. You can’t tear your eyes away from his fingers, deft, patient, and practiced, as he winds the tie gently around your wrists. The knot is secure, but not tight, the silky material smooth against your skin.

“How’s that?” he asks, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist. You test it, just enough tension to remind you you’re bound. The vulnerability makes your stomach flutter.

“It’s nice,” you admit softly.

His smirk is brief, almost fond, and with a few efficient twists, he undoes the knot. You blink at him, frowning. “You could’ve left it-”

Your words dissolve as his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not a soft kiss. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, all heat and intent, and you feel yourself melt into it instantly, arms wrapping around his neck as his hands slide along your waist. His body is solid beneath you, chest rising with each breath, and the low sound he makes when you moan into the kiss only stokes the fire.

He pulls you closer, mouth parting yours, tongue sliding against yours in a filthy, deliberate rhythm that makes your knees weak despite being in his lap. His hands roam now, slipping beneath your shirt, fingers trailing along your back like he’s tracing a path only he knows.

You gasp when his cold hands reach your skin, and he mumbles an apology against your throat, lips brushing sensitive places that make you shiver.

You sit up enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Zayne doesn’t pause, not for a heartbeat, before his lips press to your collarbones, and his hands unhook your bra in a single, fluid motion. You let the fabric fall, your breath catching as the air hits your skin, and then again as Zayne kisses the space just above your heart, slow and reverent.

You lean in for another kiss, but he catches your wrists first, guiding them behind your back. By the time you blink, the tie is looped again, this time more firmly.

“Seriously?” you say, half amused.

“I did warn you.” He shrugs, a rare flicker of smugness, and you barely have time to react before his mouth is on yours again, tongue sweeping against yours as his fingers tighten around your hips.

He lays you back carefully, the couch sinking beneath your weight. You feel the pressure of his hands against your sides, the dip of his body hovering over yours, and the sharp clarity in his gaze as he checks in silently. You nod, heart racing.

“If anything starts to hurt-”

“I’ll tell you,” you whisper.

Zayne nods once. Then begins his slow descent, kisses trailing from your throat to your chest, each one slower than the last. You squirm without meaning to, arching toward him, but he pins your hips with a lazy hand.

“Zayne,” you whisper. “Please.”

He stops instantly, shooting you a stern look.

“I could stop altogether…” As if to prove his point, he sits up, not touching you at all. You instantly feel the loss of his weight on you, even more unbearable than his teasing.

“No no nevermind! Take your time babe.” You smile sweetly, trying to keep your body still. If he pities you, he doesn’t show it.

He takes his time, maddeningly so, until you feel like your skin is glowing under the weight of his touch. When he finally hooks his fingers under your waistband, sliding both shorts and underwear down in a smooth motion, you barely register the loss of clothing, too caught up in the heat building between you.

His hands roam your thighs, thumbs pressing circles into your skin. You can’t help the way your breath stutters, your lip caught between your teeth until Zayne gently frees it with his thumb.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.”

You nod, dizzy with it all, with the way he’s looking at you, with the ache spreading through your limbs, with the careful, devastating pressure of his hands.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers. “Just relax for me.”

When he finally reaches the centre of your thighs, your eyes flutter shut in a delicious scene of anticipation.

Zayne was always a giver. He truly enjoyed watching you writhe in pleasure beneath him. But to have you tied up, completely at his mercy, added another layer to it that had you both desperate. But of course, he was in a much better position.

He teases you with his tongue first, a single, slow swipe that makes your breath catch. His hold on your thighs tightens just enough to anchor you, as if he knows exactly how quickly your patience is unraveling.

He doesn’t rush. He maps you out like he’s memorizing something precious, leaving a trail of warm, lingering kisses that make your whole body strain toward him. You can feel the smirk against your skin when your hips twitch in silent pleading. He hums, low and pleased, at your reaction, one hand sliding up to splay across your stomach, steadying you.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement and something deeper, reverence, maybe. “I haven’t even started yet.”

You whimper, arching your back despite the way your hands are still bound behind you, the tie keeping your movements limited and your senses heightened. Every brush of his mouth, every flicker of his tongue feels magnified, like he’s pulling you apart with focus alone.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t lift his head. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to think, let alone speak, when his mouth keeps finding all the places that make your thighs tremble and your chest heave.

“Please don’t stop,” you manage, barely more than a breath.

That earns you a soft groan, and then he deepens his rhythm, giving in just enough to make your vision blur. His name leaves your mouth again, half-formed, barely coherent, and it only seems to spur him on.

He presses you open with confident hands, his grip firm but never rough. You can feel his control in everything he does, in the way he times each movement, in how he holds back just enough to keep you on the edge.

“Doing so well,” he says against your skin, the praise warm and devastating. “Let me hear you.”

And you do. You can't help it, your voice tumbles out of you as the tension builds impossibly high, your bound hands curling uselessly behind you as if that might ground you. He doesn’t stop. Not when your breath stutters, not when your body starts to tremble with the ache of release just out of reach.

Only when he’s certain you’re right there, strung taut, desperate, and undone, does he pull back, eyes gleaming as he looks up at you.

“You want to cum, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

“Then say it.” His voice is calm. Too calm. Like he’s not at all affected, even though you can see the flush on his cheeks and the way his hands are trembling ever so slightly with restraint. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

“…I want to. I want to cum. Please, Zayne-”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth is back on you in an instant, hungrier now, more relentless. And you break with a cry, thighs trembling around his shoulders, back arching as the heat finally crests and crashes over you. He doesn’t stop until your body is limp beneath him, until your cries turn into soft, broken gasps.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a look of satisfaction on his face that makes your stomach flip all over again. He brushes his thumb along your cheek, tender, quiet.

“Still bored?” he asks.

You shake your head, too breathless to answer properly.

“Good.” He leans in, kissing you like he’s claiming the last of your strength. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Zayne moves up over you, his chest brushing yours, lips ghosting over your temple in a gesture so gentle it makes your heart ache. His body is warm and steady, surrounding you without overwhelming, and when he presses his forehead to yours, you feel that quiet storm in him again. Wanting, needing, but always measured. Always in control.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse against your lips. “We’re not done”

You nod, dazed, as he reaches down to untie your wrists, his fingers careful. The fabric loosens and your arms fall slack to the cushions, tingling from being held for so long. He presses a kiss to each wrist before gently lowering them around his neck, like he’s giving you yourself back piece by piece.

And then he kisses you again. Slower now. Deeper. Your legs part instinctively as his weight settles between them, and the way he groans into your mouth at the contact sends sparks through your limbs. The heat between you is relentless, not just from your skin but from the thousand unspoken things layered in the way he touches you like you matter more than anything else in the world.

His hips rock against yours, slow, deliberate, the friction of his still-clothed body against your bare skin driving you wild in the most maddening, delicious way. He swallows every sound you make, one hand braced beside your head while the other finds your thigh and squeezes, not to restrain, but to remind.

You tug at his shirt. “Off,” you breathe against his jaw.

He obliges. Slowly. Unhurried. Like he wants you to feel every second of the space narrowing between you. You sit up just long enough to help him slide it off, your hands splaying over his bare chest the moment you can. He shivers under your touch, not from cold, but from the same fraying tension running through your own nerves like a live wire.

When he leans back in, his skin against yours, you both suck in a breath. The contrast of warmth and pressure makes you keen softly, and Zayne rests his forehead against your shoulder, as if grounding himself.

“I’m right here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, before his hand slips between you again, just to touch. Just to feel the way you react to him. Your hips move with him, breath hitching as your fingers tighten against his shoulders.

Everything else fades. The room. The couch. The light filtering in through the curtains. All of it disappears as he presses closer, lips brushing your ear.

“Are you ready for me?” he asks, quiet and serious, like this is the most important question in the world.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Zayne, please-”

He kisses you again like a promise, slow and full, lips brushing yours. It lingers, this kiss, weighted with everything he doesn’t say, everything he pours into the way he holds you. His mouth moves with reverence, like he’s still in awe you’re letting him have this.

And when he finally moves, it’s with devastating care. The first motion of his hips is unhurried, dragging against you with aching precision, a breath-stealing glide that makes your back arch and your fingers clutch at his shoulders. The way he sinks into you feels endless, like he’s trying to press every inch of himself into your skin, into your bones.

He exhales raggedly, the sound cracked and low. “You feel-” He doesn’t finish. Just groans softly and buries his face in your neck as he begins to move again, deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that leave you gasping.

The rhythm he sets is steady, dragging pleasure through you with each thrust. There’s nothing rushed about it, just the unbearable luxury of being taken apart piece by piece. You clutch at him, arms around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist, holding him close like you never want him to stop.

He murmurs against your throat, lips brushing your skin between each word. “So tight. So good. I could stay here forever.”

Each movement makes heat coil tighter in your core. He keeps one hand at your hip, grounding you, the other trailing up your side, fingers spread wide across your ribcage before drifting to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he can see you. And he watches, eyes locked on yours as your breath stutters, as your body starts to quake with the buildup.

“You’re close,” he whispers, his voice rough. “I can feel it.”

And you are. Every drag of his hips pushes you closer, makes your body tense and shiver under his. Your nails scratch lightly down his back, and the low sound it draws from him is nearly feral.

When you fall apart, it hits hard, a broken cry catching in your throat as you clench around him, body trembling beneath his. He holds you through it, eyes still on yours, and then he lets himself go.

He groans your name as he follows, the rhythm faltering as his release takes him. His body presses deep against yours in the final thrust, shuddering, mouth open against your collarbone as he breathes through the aftershocks.

You stay tangled like that for a while, skin to skin, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing.

He doesn’t rush to move. Doesn’t say anything clever or smug. He just cradles your face in his hand and kisses you, slow and deep, as if to remind you he’s here.

And now, you aren’t bored at all.

[horny-marbles]

I haven’t been active lately but I saw that sally face post and girl I would go absolutely BERSERK over some written work from you!!! ( I have a tattoo of him on my arm 😛 )

And I hope you’re doing well❤️

LET'S FUCKING GO BABYYYYY im doing so well now that i got this off my chest 🙏🏻 ill be shitting out some of these in the near future because i have so many ideas AND NO WRITER'S BLOCK CAN HOLD A BITCH BACK

Your Hands (Sal Fisher x F!Reader)

CW: lovey dovey sex with a lot of care beforehand (tf do you call that cause its not foreplay), handjob, a bit of edging, riding, creampie

a/n: this isn't completely canon, we're pretending there's no cult or death or trial in this one

summary: you love pampering your boyfriend 🩵

wordcount 4.5k

The room is quieted to a warm, comforting light from the bedside lamp and fairylights stretched haphazardly across the walls like webs - some christmas tree decorations you thought were too pretty to only take out once a year. The sheets are halfway pulled back, and Sal’s laid out flat on his back, face turned your way, prosthetic set aside neatly on the nightstand beside him.

He looks relaxed in that him kind of way: shoulders loose but still a little guarded, jaw set like he’s trying not to let himself enjoy the attention too fully. But he’s not moving away either. He’s letting you work, limp and unavoidably loved.

You’re sat next to him on your knees, bent over the bed with the tiny jar of ointment he used to keep tucked away when you first moved in together. Your fingers are slow and methodical as you press into the scarred flesh of his left cheek, free hand gingerly unsticking stray blue hairs from the oily sheen of the cream. The skin there is pink and and taut over twisted muscle and missing bone, but he never flinches away. Not from you.

You see the way his eye flutters shut at the first pass of your knuckles.

“…You okay?” you murmur, your voice just above a whisper, thumb dragging just under his empty eye socket.

Sal hums, the sound low and lazy. “Mhm. Feels nice.”

Then, after a beat:

“Still weird sometimes. Not bad weird, just– y’know.” He gestures vaguely with one hand, bare arm shifting with the motion. You do know. You've spent countless nights in this same position, palms light and tentative over skin that used to jump, willing old habits away.

“I get it,” you say gently. You lean down, pressing your lips to the uneven angle of his jaw where you were yet to lather the ointment, before smoothing your knuckles over your kiss. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He doesn’t. Just breathes a little deeper through his nose and lets his spine curve into the mattress like that's where he belongs - and he does.

Once you’ve finished smoothing the salve over the angry pink ridges of his scars, you swap it out for a light moisturizer - something scentless and barely there that he used to tease you about until he felt how soft it made his skin feel. You rub a little between your palms before tracing it over his forehead and the edge of his jaw, down his neck. He goes pliant under your hands, like melting wax.

It’s not even about skin care at this point. It’s just an excuse to touch him.

You pause for a moment, just watching him. He’s beautiful in this light: sleepy and half-undone, hair messy from how he’d pulled it out of its piggies earlier, the strands soft and curling where they rest against the pillow. You brush them aside before leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He makes a quiet noise, not quite a word.

You smile. “C’mere. Sit up for a second.”

Sal cracks open his eye, then grunts softly when he shifts, slow and heavy like gravity’s tripled. He hauls himself up to sit at the edge of the bed while you reach over to grab the cream you keep for massages, thicker than lotion, with a faint smell of vanilla and something herbal - supposed to work as a muscle relaxant, but Sal insists it's your hands doing the work. You warm it between your palms and step behind him where he sits shirtless in the lampglow, spine still curved like he’s resisting the urge to just collapse face-down.

But then your hands slide onto his shoulders, and he melts. Audibly.

He lets out this deep, involuntary sigh from his chest, head tipping forward a little like he’s already half asleep. His body slackens under your touch as you begin to work the cream into his shoulders and the nape of his neck, thumbs kneading into the knots buried deep under skin and bone, tight like he always carries something that won't leave his body without help.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse with how relaxed he is. “Feels fuckin' incredible.”

“Yeah?,” you hum, smiling a little. “I like taking care of you.”

You press into a tight spot at the base of his neck, and he groans again, quiet and strained, the kind of sound that makes your stomach flip just a little.

“I know.” His voice cracks when you move down between his shoulder blades. He sounds embarrassed - not ashamed, just not used to saying it out loud.

“You're getting better at letting me,” you murmur into the back of his neck, just barely grazing your lips over his skin.

He shivers. Just once.

You move further down his back, palms smoothing wide and slow, working your way to his lower spine before traveling back up again, dragging your nails lightly this time. His breath snags in his throat before puffing out in a shudder.

There’s no rush in any of it. It’s languid and quiet and intimate, the kind of care that doesn't require payment. The kind of care that repays you with a softness in his eye that undoes you.

Eventually your hands trace along his biceps, his forearms, the narrow slopes of his wrists, lingering there, massaging gently into his palms, his knuckles. He watches you do it, fingers twitching with stimulation. Quiet. Eyes a little hazy.

He shifts his leg slightly and you catch the movement. The faint bulge in his sweats is there but soft, lazy, like the rest of him. Not urgent, just… responsive. A little foggy. Warmed up by touch and trust and the way your thumbs are circling the heel of his palm right now.

“…You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice low.

You glance up. “Hmm?”

Sal just shakes his head slightly, hair falling into his face, and gives you a tired, barely-there smile. “Nothing. Just… you're unreal.”

He doesn’t pull away when you kiss the inside of his wrist.

Doesn’t stop you when your fingers start to trail back up his arms again, slow and soft and attentive. Doesn’t say a word when you press your chest to his back and wrap your arms around him loosely from behind, letting your chin rest on his shoulder as your hands splay gently over his ribs.

"You want me to stop?" you whisper behind his ear, low and breathy and just a hint teasing, nails ghosting over the ridges of his ribs.

He twitches and huffs. "Fuck no."

So you don't. He stays in that loose, half-draped sprawl on the edge of the bed for a while, boneless while you rake your fingers in one more pass down his sides, up do his chest and down to the clenching plane of his stomach, stopping just above his navel, where a thin trail of hair blends into puff. Strands of hair stick to his cheek, eyes unfocused and heavy-lidded like he could pass out sitting up. But when you press a kiss to the slope of his neck and trail your hand down his arm, guiding him back into the sheets and crawling slowly in sync with his body, he goes without argument.

You’re straddling his lap. Sort of.

More like kneeling over him, legs tucked on either side of his hips as he leans back against the headboard, shirtless, flushed, and very much not hiding the way he’s slowly hardening in his sweats. The lamp light kisses every inch of his bare chest, from the soft dip of his collarbones to the tight line of his abdomen, all the way down to the waistband that’s just barely hanging on.

He watches you through his bangs, hair mussed and falling into his face. The scarred half of his face is raw and glossy from the ointment, but his gaze lingers.

You're not really trying to be seductive, but the way your tank top clings when you shift your weight forward -climbing up his thighs to kneel just above his stomach - doesn’t leave anything to the imagination. It’s a worn-in scrap of fabric, washed soft, stretched paper-thin at the chest with low, sagging armholes that show the sides of your tits every time you lean in. And you do lean in; palms pressed to either side of his neck, hovering over him now as your thumbs start to work into the base of his throat.

His Adam’s apple shifts under your fingers as he swallows.

“Eyes up here, Fish,” you murmur with a crooked smile, even though your tits are half-out and you’re clearly not planning to hide them.

“Can’t help it,” he says, voice soft and a little hoarse. “They’re right there.”

You snort under your breath. “Honesty is the best policy, huh?”

He shrugs with a lopsided, exhausted looking grin. “Figured you’d rather hear the truth than pretend I’m not about to pop a boner during a shoulder rub.”

“About to?” You glance down. Nope, definitely already popped.

Sal flushes slightly, pink spreading from the bridge of his nose to his temples, but he doesn’t backtrack. If anything, his head leans back against the wall with a small, breathy laugh, the kind you only get from him when he’s just relaxed enough to admit he’s fucked in the best way.

His sweats are doing a terrible job hiding how hard he’s gotten, and your position sure as hell isn’t making it better. But you don’t move. You let your fingers smooth gently up his neck, rubbing slow, comforting circles into the sides of his throat and under his ears, letting your thumbs barely graze his collarbones.

“You know you can stop me,” you murmur, and you mean it.

Sal just looks up at you, half-lidded and smiling again, this time with a little more teeth. “You better fucking not.”

You laugh low, and lean down further to kiss the corner of his mouth, quick and sweet, before dragging your palms over his chest.

Your fingers slow at his sternum, pressing down gently, spreading more cream into his chest. You don’t say anything right away. Just let that little admission hang in the air between you, sweet and open and filthy in its own way. You know he means it; this isn’t seduction, it’s vulnerability with a hard-on.

Sal inhales sharply as your hands trail up again, slower now, crawling wide over his chest before curling back toward his throat. You’re careful here - fingers light, thumbs sweeping gently along the sides of his neck, not squeezing, just exploring. His pulse is jumping under your touch. You feel it throb when you graze just below his jaw, tilting his face toward you a little, eyes drinking his mouth.

He’s flushed deeper now. His eye is hazy. He looks up at you like he might actually die if you stopped.

“You’re not even touching my dick,” he mutters, “and I feel like I’m gonna blow a fuse.”

“You like it that much?”

His breath hitches.

“Are you joking?” He laughs, but it’s breathless. “You could be reading me a fucking bill right now and I’d still be hard with you sitting on me like this.”

You smile lazily, letting your fingers brush up the column of his throat, gentle, delicate.

“Oh yeah?” you murmur. “You want me to read you your water bill, baby?”

He groans loud, head falling back against the pillows. “Don’t do that.”

“What? You said you’d still be hard.”

“That was not an invitation.”

You’re both grinning now. Your hands don’t stop moving - rubbing, kneading, massaging every inch of his chest and stomach, soft and attentive, every touch sending little shockwaves of pleasure straight to where he’s already aching. You’re not trying to tease him, not really. The tension between you is already thick enough to chew through, and if he looked any more blissed-out and desperate under your hands, you’d start worrying about his blood pressure.

So, when you slip your hands back from his chest to your own body, tug that excuse of fabric up and over your head and toss it aside without fanfare, your boyfriend's eyes still go wide like you’ve just thrown a live grenade into his lap.

He swallows hard. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares.

You don’t call him out. You like the way he stares - eyes hungry but somehow still making you feel like you're being admired rather than preyed on. Jaw slack, breath catching like he forgot what oxygen was for a second. You just smile slow and sweet, and lean forward to press your palms back to his shoulders, skin to skin, chest to chest.

The warmth of your tits brushing against him draws a sound out of him he probably didn’t mean to make - a sharp inhale through gritted teeth, followed by a groan that stays caught somewhere in his throat.

“...Holy shit,” he mutters.

You pretend to hum innocently. “What?”

“You– just– you know what.”

But he doesn’t stop you when you slide your hands down again, over his stomach, trailing slow, slick paths with the leftover massage cream. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers slide under the waistband of his pants.

He just lifts his hips wordlessly so you can tug them down.

You push his sweats and boxers off in one slow motion, and his cock bounces free, flushed red and aching, laying against his stomach, tip sparkling like glitter in the cozy light.

You stare at it for a second. You can’t help it, you always stare. Flushed pink and pretty. Smooth. He’s not obnoxiously big - maybe a little above average - but the shape of it always makes your stomach clench with the memory of how it fills you with the slight curve upward, the thickness at the middle. The way the vein curves along the underside. The way it twitches like your eyes hold weight against it.

You glance up at him, and he’s got one arm thrown over his face now, blushing hard, chest rising and falling.

“...Don’t look at it like that,” he says, voice strangled.

“Like what?” you laugh, already shifting your weight to sit properly between his legs now, hands still lathered and slippery as you reach out and finally wrap your fingers around him.

He shudders. Jaw clenched, hips stiffening. His cock throbs immediately, in sync with his heartbeat.

“Like you’re about to narrate a crime scene,” he huffs.

You smile. “No crime here. Just admiring the evidence.”

Then you start stroking. Slowly.

Your palm slides up from the base to the head, twisting just a little on the way up. The lube of the cream makes it glide so smooth he lets out a full-body groan before he can stop himself. His hips buck slightly again, not on purpose. Just a natural response to how good it feels, to being touched like this by you.

“You okay?” you ask, voice syrupy.

“Fffuck,” he breathes, arm still covering his face. “That’s not a real question. You know how okay I am.”

You giggle, and your other hand comes in to cradle his balls lightly, thumbing gently at the soft skin there while your main grip works a slow rhythm up and down his shaft. He’s leaking already, a bead of precum pearling at the tip, and you spread it with your thumb, twisting lazily at the crown.

His legs twitch.

“You’re so sensitive today,” you murmur, biting your lip.

“Because you’re- fuck- because you’re doing this, with your tits out and your fucking hands- Jesus.”

You start stroking a little firmer, a little tighter, still slow, still relaxed, but more purposeful now. He’s throbbing hard, and your slick palm glides up and down with wet, lewd sounds that are only barely covered by the pipes moaning from nextdoor.

His head tips back against the wall with a dull thud. His voice comes out shaky.

“Gonna cum- seriously, I’m close already, I don’t-”

“Nope,” you cut in gently. “Not yet.”

You ease up just slightly, teasing a little swirl around the head with your fingertips, dragging your nails gently along the underside, then working your fist slow and deep again from base to tip, watching his cock pulse in your grip.

“You’re edging me?” he pants, cracking his eye open, mouth parted in a needy slit.

“No,” you say sweetly, stroking again. “I just know you can hold out a little longer.”

“...God,” he groans, hips twitching again. “That feels so good.”

You lean in close, tits pressed to his thighs now, your hand still working him in slow, even pumps. His cock is flushed, stiff, leaking freely now. You press a kiss to his hipbone, not looking up.

“I want to enjoy you,” you murmur. “You look so pretty like this."

Sal whimpers.

You stroke him long and slow, your other hand massaging lightly between his legs, and every once in a while you glance up to catch him peeking under the crook of his arm, eyes glassy and dark with need. He throbs harder, more urgent, like a heartbeat in your fist, but he doesn't beg or ask for more. He never does, and he never needs to.

You finally pry your hand off his length and pull your panties off your hips while his chest deflates with relief. You climb him, full body bare and skin warm from the lamp-lit room, calves bracketing his hips as you ease into a squat, your palms resting on his chest for balance, and fuck, the look on his face?

Wrecked. Reverent. Like he’s witnessing the second coming in real time and barely surviving it.

His good eye is already unfocused, droopy-lidded, tracking the slow roll of your hips as you press your slick heat down onto his cock. Not taking him in yet, just letting your folds glide along the length of him. Coating him. Teasing him. The whole head of his cock disappears beneath your pussy for a second, only to pop out again slick and twitching, shiny with how wet you are.

“Fffffuck,” he hisses, head lolling. “That- that is so- fuck, baby, you know how that looks?”

You do. That’s why you’re doing it.

Because you know what it does to him when you squat over him like this: tits hanging soft and heavy, thighs tight, hips dragging in long, smooth rolls, and using his cock to rub yourself off like it’s your favorite toy. His mouth is open now, chest stuttering with every breath, eyes barely hanging on to your form.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, voice cracking.

You reach down, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock to keep him in place, and grind your cunt down against the underside again, slow and hot, your clit catching on the swollen ridge of his head every time.

“I can’t- I’m gonna- fuck- please, just- ”

You lift your hips slightly, cutting him off, line him up, and sink down.

No showboating, no dramatics. Just the slick, perfect glide of your pussy stretching around him, slow and smooth and hot, until he’s buried inside you all the way to the hilt.

Sal chokes. His back arches. His hands fly to your hips like instinct, like he’s trying not to black out.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps, voice gone completely hoarse. “You’re- you’re-”

You rock your hips forward and down, and his sentence dies in his throat.

You lean back just slightly, keeping your thighs spread, keeping that squat tight and low, and start riding him in slow, delicious bounces, controlled and deliberate. The way your pussy squeezes around him every time you lift, then drags down again has his mouth dropping open in this slack-jawed awe. Like he’s not even in his body anymore. Like you don't do this every few days.

You’re not trying to perform. It’s just good. So good you feel it in your teeth.

His voice is barely working. Little whines, wet groans, shaky breaths.

He looks up at you with wide, glassy-eyed look you love - and it’s desperate, but not begging. Just overwhelmed. Overcome. He’s not doing anything but taking it, just barely managing to keep his hips from jerking up.

You let one hand slip up from his chest to his throat. Not tight. Just holding him there. Thumb brushing his pulse, fingers wrapped around the soft skin under his jaw. You feel his heartbeat slam against your palm.

His eye rolls back.

“Oh my god,” he croaks. “You feel- fuck me, fuck-”

Every muscle in your legs is starting to sting, but it’s worth it. Because every single time you sink back down on him, you can see his whole body twitch. You can hear the wet slap of your ass against his hips, the obscene squelch where your bodies meet.

“I’m gonna cum,” he whispers, almost shocked.

“Not yet,” you pant. “Just let it feel good.”

You lean in more. Your tits brush his chest again, sweat slicking the space between you. His hands slip up your back, trembling just slightly. His mouth keeps falling open like he wants to say something but his brain is skipping like a record every time your pussy strangles him.

You’re watching him. He’s watching you. It’s all heat and eye contact and the feeling of his cock punching just shy of your cervix everytime you drop.

He’s wrecked. You fucking love seeing him this slutted out and unguarded. There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. His bangs are stuck to his forehead. His chest is heaving, every muscle tight, thighs shaking and bucking up just barely like he can't help it.

You press down hard and stay there, whining quiet and sticky behind your teeth, clenching tight around him, and his hips jerk so hard it knocks a sound out of him - something cracked and gorgeous, like he’s trying not to scream.

“I’m- oh my god,” he gasps.

You squeeze your hand just a little firmer around his neck, and raise your hips again once the burn eased in your thighs.

You can't slow down. You’re so deep on him you swear you can feel him in your throat, and every single time you plop your weight down, the stretch hits perfect, like he was made to fill you and your cunt was molded in the shape of his cock, made to take it.

Sal is barely breathing underneath you. His hands are gripping whatever they can find; your thighs, the sheets, the meat of your ass, your waist. He’s long past trying to be quiet about it. He’s making sounds, open and wet, like he’s too full of you to hold anything in.

And when you catch the shine of spit at the corner of his mouth - just this tiny glint on his flushed, panting face - you reach down without thinking. Swipe your thumb across it, and then lick the pad clean. Right in front of him.

He blinks up at you, stunned and smitten, jaw slack like he’s actually about to ascend through the ceiling. Like he cannot believe you just did that, but also please do it again.

“…That was- fuck, that was hot,” he mumbles, voice ruined.

You smirk, but it slips fast. The pressure's getting overwhelming. Your hips are slowing just enough now for depth, not pace - each drop has you bottoming out so perfectly it makes your toes curl. You’re soaked. He’s twitching inside you, every vein dragging against your walls, his cock so hard you can feel it pulsing behind your clit like some god-made rose toy.

Then you feel his hand slide between you, a little awkward but determined.

His thumb finds your clit without fumbling, palm gripping the inside of your thigh so he doesn't tremble away. Just presses down, firm and slow, rubbing in twitchy circles like he knows you’re right there on the edge and he needs you to cum like he needs air.

Your breath snags.

“Sal- fuck-”

“Need to feel it,” he pants, eye locked on your face. “Need to feel you cum on me, I can’t- fuck- I can’t take it anymore.”

You whimper.

You keep bouncing, barely now, more like rolling and grinding, letting him stay deep while his thumb works just right, pressure steady, no teasing, no delay. You’re so close it’s already burning.

“Come on,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Let me feel it. Please.”

That does it.

Your whole body locks for a second, like every muscle’s bracing against the quake of it, and then it washes through you in hot, fast waves, pussy clenching tight and wet and shuddering around him. You cry out loud and sudden. Legs trembling, back arching so deep you almost fold backwards.

Sal gasps like he’s just been electrocuted. His cock jumps inside you so hard it almost punches another orgasm out of you on the spot.

“Oh my god,” he moans. “That- that, baby, it- Fuck yes-”

He’s babbling now, voice shaky and low and almost breaking. “Please- please can I cum? Inside you? Please- fuck- I’ll lose it if you say no-”

You grab his face, pressinj your forehead to his. Your hips still moving, grinding through your own aftershocks, knocking his body back and forth under you with the urgency of it, squeezing around him like your body’s begging for it too.

“Yes,” you choke. “Yes, fuck, please-”

And Sal breaks.

He makes this low, guttural sound that cuts short in his throat, fingers digging into your hips, and then he’s thrusting up into you, sudden and deep, once, twice, again. You feel him spill inside you, hot and messy and so much, like he’s been holding it back for hours. He chokes high on a moan, wraps his arms around you, clutches you to his chest as he empties himself inside you in thick pulses.

You don’t stop moving.

You ride him through every second of it, tight and slow and sweet, until he’s sagging underneath you, twitching, body limp but still inside, still gasping softly against your collarbone.

Your thighs shake. Your whole lower half is dripping.

He finally exhales, ragged and wrecked.

“…I think I just saw God,” he mutters into your skin.

You laugh, breathless and still sticking to him like velcro.

“No,” you whisper back, voice hoarse. “That was just me.”

[dreamivyisla]

🀥 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 🀥

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Elias “Stack” Moore

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➤ you were just getting started in the pstar world, new to the scene but catching attention fast. when you hit up Stack for a collab, you weren’t sure if he’d answer. he did—quickly. your chemistry was obvious from the first shoot. the video blew up, and so did your career. now, people can’t stop watching the way he touches you like you’re the only one in the world.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ uh.. my first time doing headcannons, i think i wrote too much for headcannons— if so then, i apologize! def took inspo from august alsina. anyways, enjoy!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ pstar!Stack, pstar!reader, face-sitting, spit kink, modern au, mirror play, lingerie kink, mutual masturbation, black reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), possessiveness. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓! 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃!

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 loves mutual masturbation on camera just as much as fucking. before your scenes even start, he likes to sit across from you, stroking himself while you do the same. he watches every movement, mouth parted just slightly, breathing slow like he’s absorbing every detail. it’s not rushed or performative—it’s real, raw. he likes seeing you take your time, fingers circling your clit, back arching under the soft lights. he talks to you the whole time, voice low and full of heat, telling you how good you look with your legs spread, how he’s already aching to be inside you. by the time either of you actually touch, the tension is so thick it almost feels like foreplay could’ve been the whole scene.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 has a serious thing for lingerie—especially when it contrasts against your skin. he told you once he’s obsessed with how certain colors look against you. deep red, sheer black, even pale blues—he likes the tension of silk and lace stretched over your thighs, hugging the curve of your waist. before shooting, he’ll ask what you’re wearing under the robe and make you show him slowly. sometimes he won’t even start filming until he’s had a full moment to admire you, hands resting on your hips, lips brushing your neck. he doesn’t rip the lingerie off either. he fucks you in it—slow strokes at first, thumb tracing the strap on your shoulder while his other hand tugs the panties to the side.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 is into face-sitting—and not just for the visual. when you filmed your third collab together, he asked if you’d ever sat on a man’s face on camera before. when you told him no, he smiled and said it was overdue. he laid back, hands gripping your thick thighs the second you climbed up. he loves how heavy you feel, how your body molds over his mouth. he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, his tongue deep and greedy like he’s trying to swallow every sound you make. what made the footage go viral was how clear it was that he loved it—eyes half-lidded, hips shifting beneath you, like getting smothered by you was a reward.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 gets possessive during collabs—but in a quiet, focused way. you noticed it during shoots when other people are involved. his strokes get deeper, more deliberate. he holds your jaw so the camera can see your face when you moan his name. he’ll pull your leg higher or change angles just so the viewers can watch how good he’s making you feel. off-camera, he jokes that your chemistry’s just for the brand, but the way he kisses you between cuts, fingers tracing your stretch marks like he’s memorizing them, says otherwise. he wants the camera to know it’s him who draws those reactions out of you. not the lights. not the script. just him.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 has a spit kink—but it’s subtle, intimate. he doesn’t announce it or make it messy for the sake of shock. it’s in the way he’ll spit slow and precise on your clit before eating you out, watching it drip while his thumbs spread you open. sometimes, when he’s deep in your throat and your eyes are watering, he’ll pull out and press a slow spit against your tongue, murmuring how good you’re doing. it’s not degrading—it’s loaded with control and closeness. he likes how filthy it feels without taking away the softness of it. it’s not about humiliation. it’s about connection.

𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑!𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐊 loves mirror play—and he always positions you just right. the first time you filmed in a hotel with wall-length mirrors, he turned you toward them before even unzipping his pants. he stood behind you, big hands on your waist, both of you watching the way your brown skin looked stretched around him as he slid in. he whispered in your ear the whole time, guiding your eyes to the way your ass bounced, how your breasts moved when he grabbed a fistful of your hair. he likes scenes where the viewer can see what you see—how flushed your skin gets, how proud he looks every time he makes you moan. it’s about showing you off and showing you to yourself.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈·✦

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

[st7rnioioss]

𓂅 ♥︎ INEXPERIENCED!READER COCKWARMING BSF!CHRIS FOR THE FIRST TIME

⋆ ˚ .ೃ ࿔ * pairing... inexperienced!reader x bsf!chris

𓂃 ֹ ᮫ in which... inexperienced!reader cockwarms bsf!chris for the first time, but she gets impatient.

warnings... smut, cockwarming, pet names, swearing, no actual sex, fingering (? (chris is dj'ing))

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ your arms are looped tightly around the nape of chris’s neck, your face nuzzled into his chest while you bite harshly down on your lip to conceal any whines that threaten to slip.

chris’s cock is nestled deep inside of you, your soppy walls fluttering around him with every second that passes, mewling into his chest as you try your best to stay still and calm your racing mind. “c-chris, i— i can’t do it.. mmpphh, can’t concentrate,” you whine, attempting to swirl your hips, but his fingers has a firm grip on you.

he was so, so close to you, feeling every ridge and vein of his dick buried and sheathed so deeply inside of you, you were sure you could feel him in your stomach if you really tried. the thrill of it all made your mind go numb, eager and desperate for him to do something about it.

“come on, baby.. we just barely started, y’can do it.. i know you can.” he cooed, lifting a hand from your hip to brush a couple strands of hair out of your face, watching your expression twisted up in pleasure—you were going completely dumb on his cock, and he hadn’t even started fucking you yet. it was pathetically adorable.

chris could feel the way you were squeezing and clenching around him, your arousal soaking him—every squirm of your hip made his tip kiss at your cervix, another whimper falling from your lips. “n-no, please.. just move, please!”.

he tutted, continuing to rake his fingers through your hair, now allowing you to shift as much as you desired—but he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted, you’d have to wait a little.

“shhh, just a little bit more, baby.. y’look so pretty on top of me like this,” he gently pressed a couple light kisses down your throat, before he sucked a light-red mark into your skin.

your head was a complete mess, the only thing that was running through your mind being the delicious stretch of his cock, the way he filled you to the absolute brim, leaving no room, sucking deep marks, that’d for sure turn purple later, into your skin.

eventually he pulled back, listening to your pleads and mewls for him to start moving or literally do anything—you were pulsing around him, your sweet cunt starting to throb around his broad dick. “lift your hips for me, sweetie,” he poked your skin, watching as you obeyed within a second, not giving it a second though.

from the angle chris could see just how well he was fitted inside of you, your tight, gushing walls stretched out around him. “such a pretty pussy.. it’s a shame you’re complaining, cause she’s tellin’ me otherwise,” he smiled smugly, before he rutted his hips forward, filling you to the hilt like before. he was being a tease, and he knew it—but it was worth it to see your pretty face scrunch up in pure bliss.

a sharp gasp left your lips when the head of his cock once again prodded at your sweet spot, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, leaving crescent shapes. “o-oh god, chris.. please, just move.. wanna feel you,” a pout is stuck on your lips as you moaned and writhed for him, opening your eyes to gaze at him.

he chuckled lightly, shaking his head while one of his hands dipped between your spread legs. “nuh uh.. not yet, bunny. your sweet pussy looks like you’re enjoying it far more than you think,” you whined and complained, but he soon cut you off when the lad of his thumb found contact with your swollen clit, firmly pressing his digit onto your bundle of nerves.

“that feel good, baby?” he proudly smirked, rubbing slow, deliberate circles on your sensitive bud, his other hand resting on the back of your neck to tilt your head back a little, giving him more access to your neck and jaw.

you nod dumbly in response, any touch being enough, moan after moan being pulled from the back of your throat—the pure bliss of it all made your body give in to his completely, whining his name like a mantra. “don’t stop, please.. need it so bad chris,” you moaned between stumbled words, your face flushing in pure arousal, your body starting to grow warm.

“hmm.. think you’ve been patient enough, angel. wanna be a good girl and start moving for me?” his words were mumbled into your skin, speeding up the circles he was rubbing onto your clit.

of course, he was gonna make you work for it—he just loved seeing you beg and plead for his help, loving how easily he could bring out the naive and innocent side of you. eventually you’d grow tired anyway, begging him to take over.

more inexperienced!reader x bsf!chris here!

˚𝜗𝜚 notes... lolll i hope this doesn't suuuckk sorry i say that every time but like ummmm

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❛❛ © ST7RNIOIOSS est. 2023 ❜❜

[ecstxsyy]

NO WAY. | D. GRAYSON ❦

Dick wants to stretch you out.

18+ mdni!

dick grayson x fem!reader

warnings: seduction, p in v, unprotected sex, face fucking.

requests for v-day event are closed!

cupid’s candy hearts masterlist

───── ⋆ ⋅ ꨄ︎ ⋅⋆ ─────

IT WAS no secret that Dick Grayson was extremely flexible, he is a world-class acrobat after all. Dick’s flexibility and insane sex drive made your sex absolutely wild. Dick bent himself into odd positions to hit angles deep inside that no one else could ever hit, he’d completely ruined you for anyone else.

You did feel bad though. You felt bad that Dick was always the one bent up, but you never realized that he might want to do some of those things to you. It sounded silly, but Dick loved the idea of manhandling you into any crazy position he wanted to. Of course, Dick was too much of a gentleman to actually do it seeing as it was never something the two of you discussed.

That was until today of course, it was Valentine’s Day, and over the past few weeks, you had secretly worked with a trainer to help you work on your flexibility. To Dick, you wanted to make it look like you hadn’t gotten help at all, you just wanted him pressed behind you while you stretched.

Dick’s large hands ran over your hips as you pushed back into him to deepen the stretch as he instructed, the sight in front of him was marveling. You were face down ass up on a yoga mat, your arms stretched out in front of you as you rocked your hips a bit to push the stretch further.

To test the waters, you pushed your hips a bit further until you felt his halfie poke your ass. A smirk found its way to your lips, your stomach fluttering at the way Dick inhales sharply, trying his hardest to stay focused on what he was trying to teach you.

Once you realized your efforts to rile him up were futile, you decided to take it up a notch. With the next stretch, Dick had you stand and begin reaching down toward your toes. As you bent over, you made sure to press your ass into Dick’s crotch, making it look as innocent as possible. As soon as your back touched Dick, his hands moved to your ass to grab a handful of it.

“Baby,” Dick said in a warning tone, he wanted to make sure you got a proper stretch and didn't injure yourself. This made you want him even more, your hips pushing into his one last time.

Before you knew it, you were pinned to the ground, Dick looking down at you with his dark locks hanging in his eyes.

“Y’know if you wanted me right now, you could have just said so,” Dick chuckled, rubbing his erection against your aching heat. You whimpered and bucked your hips into him, trying to get as much friction as possible. This made Dick lift a hand to press your bottom half back to the floor,

“Whoa, not so fast. You need to learn some patience,” Dick teased.

“You and I both know there is no way that will ever happen,” you snorted, Dick simply rolled his eyes and kissed the underside of your jaw. His kisses were always feather-like, so soft and gentle.

What Dick loved more than kissing you, was littering your body full of hickeys. He loved the way it told everyone you were his, that you belonged to him and no one else. He never got jealous, just possessive. Dick sucked on the skin of your neck, red patches blooming beneath your skin that would soon be a deep shape of magenta and purple. You used to complain about them, saying that the two of you weren't high schoolers and it made you look bad, but Dick didn't care. He thought they looked sexy.

Your impatience began to set in and you tugged at the hem of Dick’s shirt, urging him to take it off. Dick obliged quickly, stripping the fabric from his torso before pulling yours off in suit. As soon as your chest was exposed, Dick began sucking hickeys onto your cleavage, he wanted to mark every part of you.

“Dick, please just fuck me,” you whined, usually you loved all the foreplay Dick would give you, but today you were too needy for that. Dick chuckled, sliding your leggings off. He was surprised to see you weren't wearing panties underneath, the sight nearly made him lightheaded.

“Such a pretty pussy,” Dick said in awe, rubbing your clit gently with his thumb. Honestly, Dick loved every part of you. To him, every bit of you was more beautiful than the Sistine Chapel.

Dick suddenly remembered your impatience and decided to not make you wait anymore, he slid his athletic shorts halfway down his thighs just enough to get his cock out and slapped it against your clit.

You wiggled your hips, trying to get even the slightest bit of stimulation from his heavy erection rubbing against your wet clit. Dick teased you for a bit longer before fully sheathing himself inside of you, the fullness he made you feel made your eyes roll back into your skull.

Dick was big, no matter how much you took him, you’d never get used to his size. His cock filled you up nicely, his tip leaving a slight bulge in your belly near your belly button. Dick’s jaw went slack at the sight, his hand finding its way to the small bump the press down. His actions pushed your g-spot into his tip, a flash of white shooting across your vision from pleasure. You were already a moaning mess and he hadn't even truly started yet.

His thrusts started slow and shallow, working his way into you. The more he thrusted, the more your pussy held him comfortably. You fit him like a glove, he swore you were made for him. His thrusts soon evened out, they were slow but firm. The way his hips slammed into you drove you crazy, the way his heavy ball slapped against your ass, begging for attention. You bent yourself to reach down a bit, scooping them up to massage them.

Dick’s breath caught in his throat, his hips stuttering before returning to their consistent pace.

“Well, I see someone got a little extra help,” Dick moaned out, reaching down to use his thumb to rub your clit softly.

“Maybe a little,” you giggled, choking back a moan to respond to him.

The more your hands worked his balls, the faster his pace became. You knew he was close, but Dick refused to cum before you did. He would depraved himself forever if it meant you always got to cum first, he loved making you feel good.

His pace was unrelenting, the sound of skin slapping together and moaning being the only noises coming from your in-home yoga studio. Thankfully, the two of you live alone otherwise you’d be doing some awkward walk of shames for a while.

Dick’s tip bullied into your cervix, the feeling of all of it becoming overstimulating very fast. You didn't think it could get any better until Dick grabbed both of your legs by the backs of your knees, pressing them both by each side of your head. This new angle sent you spiraling immediately, your orgasm hitting you like a train. You cried out loudly, chanting his name like it was the only word you knew.

Dick fucked you through your orgasm, letting you come down before slipping his cock out of you.

“Open wide,” said Dick smugly.

Your mouth fell open immediately, following his orders like they were hard-wired into your brain. Your orgasm making you his sweet obedient girl, ready to take any command he gives you. You sucked his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it.

You could feel every vein and muscle in his cock, he was painfully hard and you could tell how badly he wanted to cum. Your hand instinctively went to his balls, playing with them while you bobbed your head up and down. But, this wasn't enough for Dick. He grabbed the back of your head to hold you in place, thrusting his throbbing cock down your throat. You relaxed into his hold, hs length triggering your gag reflex every now and then.

With a few more thrusts, Dick was shooting his load down your throat in thick spurts. His cum was warm in your mouth and you wasted zero time swallowing it, sticking your tongue out to show Dick that you took all of it. He smiled and caressed your cheek,

“Such a good girl for me.”

───── ⋆ ⋅ ꨄ︎ ⋅⋆ ─────

[lanadelspray02]

HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 23

paige x azzi

hey guys, sorry this took a while but its finally done, its sort of all over the place and not my best work but i still hope its enjoyable. i need some ideas of things you want to see in the upcoming chapters so pls let me know!

also can we please talk about paige and azzi being cuties and holding hands!!!!

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 5374

--------------------

The house was still wrapped in sleep when Paige blinked awake. Pale blue morning light seeped through the cracks in the curtains, soft and slow, catching on the edges of the quilt tangled over their legs. For a moment, she didn’t move, she just lay still with her hand resting over the gentle curve of Azzi’s hip and Ruby curled against her other side, warm and faintly snoring, Sparklehorn smushed between them like an unofficial stuffed ambassador of peace.

Azzi’s hair was a wild halo against the pillow, strands curling against Paige’s neck and jaw where she’d shifted sometime in the early hours. Ruby had one arm flung across Paige’s stomach, the other gripping Sparklehorn’s ear in a sleep-heavy hold that looked like it might hurt in any other context.

It should’ve been uncomfortable. Paige couldn���t feel her right foot. Her shoulder was bent at an angle that would definitely punish her later. And her throat felt dry in the way it always did after sleeping with her mouth slightly open.

But none of that mattered.

Because this? This felt like the kind of morning people didn’t believe in until they lived it.

She stayed there as long as she could, soaking in the quiet. The rhythm of Ruby’s breath. The press of Azzi’s leg against hers. The weight of being trusted, held, needed. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t shout or demand or twist her chest in painful ways. It was just… hers. The life they were building. The one she’d step in front of anyone to protect.

Eventually, her bladder overruled sentiment, and she slid out as carefully as possible, replacing her body with a pillow and whispering an apology to Sparklehorn, who took a nosedive in the process. Ruby stirred a little but didn’t wake, just tucked herself deeper into Azzi’s side with a soft hum of contentment.

Padding into the kitchen on socked feet, Paige flicked the coffee maker on, then leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of her neck and stretching out the tight spot in her spine. Outside, the sky was still a muted gray, the kind that promised a slow start and maybe rain by mid-afternoon. She grabbed bread from the pantry, pulled eggs from the fridge, and decided on French toast—Ruby’s second favorite after pancakes and way easier to make without waking up the whole house.

She was halfway through whisking the eggs and cinnamon when she heard soft footsteps, then the unmistakable sleepy shuffle of a toddler in oversized pajama pants.

Ruby appeared in the doorway, her curls sticking up in every direction and her face still squished with pillow marks. Sparklehorn dragged behind her like a tired sentinel, one ear already twisted from the night’s affection. She didn’t say anything at first, just blinked at Paige, then walked over and leaned against her legs like gravity pulled her there.

“Hi, baby,” Paige said softly, reaching down to smooth a curl back from Ruby’s forehead. “Sleep good?”

Ruby nodded and mumbled, “Mmmhmm.” She paused, looked up, then added, “My tummy hungry.”

Paige grinned. “Perfect timing. Want to help me cook?”

Ruby perked up immediately. “I crack the eggs?”

“You already missed that part, kiddo. But you can dip the bread.”

As Paige lifted her onto the counter, Azzi appeared in the hallway, yawning and wrapped in one of Paige’s old UConn hoodies—oversized and threadbare from years of wear, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She blinked at the two of them and smiled, a slow, sleepy thing that made Paige’s heart do that annoying flip it always did.

“Morning,” Azzi murmured, voice scratchy.

Paige leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

Azzi gave her a grateful look and padded to the mug waiting beside the machine. Ruby dipped her first slice of bread into the mixture with intense concentration, tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth. “I do it good?”

“Perfect,” Paige said. “That bread has never looked so ready to be French-toasted.”

Azzi leaned on the counter, watching the two of them. Paige working the skillet. Ruby babbling about syrup. The warm, golden scent of cinnamon beginning to fill the kitchen. And something in her chest just… settled.

This was what peace looked like.

Not quiet, not stillness, just this kind of ease. The way Paige moved around Ruby like she’d done it forever. The way Ruby trusted her without hesitation. The way it never felt like Paige was stepping in or intruding, just showing up exactly where Azzi needed her to.

Breakfast was a mess in the best way. Ruby got cinnamon on her nose. Paige nearly dropped a piece of toast trying to flip it one-handed. Azzi ended up sitting on the kitchen floor for a minute while Ruby “fed” her a piece that was mostly crust and pride.

Later, while Ruby drew at the table and Paige cleaned up, Azzi stepped behind her, arms sliding around her waist. Paige leaned back into her without needing to ask.

“She loves you,” Azzi said softly.

Paige’s hands stilled on the dish towel. She turned her head slightly. “I love her too.”

Azzi kissed the back of her shoulder through the hoodie fabric, then rested her forehead there for a moment.

At the table, Ruby held up her newest masterpiece—this one a sprawling picture of Sparklehorn in a meadow filled with rainbow flowers. There were stick figures too, though. Three of them. One tall, one with curls, and one holding both their hands. Paige’s throat caught, just for a second.

Azzi saw it. Felt the change in her posture.

But Ruby didn’t say anything. Didn’t label them or ask anything out loud.

She just smiled like she knew they’d understand.

--------------------

Ruby hummed softly in the backseat, her little legs kicking in rhythm as she clutched Sparklehorn and her glittery backpack, one strap slipping off her shoulder. Her curls were pulled into a lopsided ponytail courtesy of Paige, who had muttered threats at every hair elastic but still smiled the entire time. She’d insisted Ruby looked “fierce and adorable,” even when one curl refused to cooperate and curled straight across her forehead like a question mark.

It was still early, the sun just rising higher over the town’s sleepy streets. Paige drove with her hand resting lightly on Azzi’s thigh. Azzi hadn’t said much all morning. She moved like someone whose mind was spinning too fast for her body to catch up. And Paige could feel it—the way her hand kept clenching into her sleeve, the way her gaze drifted every time Ruby giggled in the back.

When they pulled into the small gravel lot outside the daycare, Ruby immediately started bouncing. “We here!”

Azzi smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Paige parked, cut the engine, and turned to unbuckle Ruby’s seatbelt while Azzi grabbed her lunchbox and hoodie from the back.

A familiar voice met them before they even reached the front gate.

“Morning, ladies,” Miss Charlotte called gently. She was dressed in her usual soft tones, her long braids pulled back with a sparkly clip. Ruby lit up and ran straight to her, throwing her arms around the teacher’s legs with the kind of affection only a nearly-three-year-old could offer without hesitation.

“Hi Miss Char-lot!” Ruby chirped. “I gots stickers!”

“I can see that,” Miss Charlotte laughed, tugging the one off Ruby’s forehead gently. “You’re glowing, girl.”

Azzi crouched to fix the hem of Ruby’s shirt and kissed her cheek. “Be good, baby. I’ll pick you up right after lunch, okay?”

“Okay,” Ruby said, already grabbing Miss Charlotte’s hand. She turned to wave. “Bye Mummy Paigey! Bye Mama!”

Paige smiled, lifted her hand. “Bye, Roo. Love you.”

And just like that, Ruby was gone, the glitter on her backpack flashing in the morning light as she disappeared inside.

Azzi didn’t move. She stood staring at the door for a long second, something unreadable in her eyes.

“Can we not go to practice yet?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Paige just nodded. “Of course.”

They ended up at a quiet overlook tucked on the edge of town, one Paige had driven past a hundred times but never stopped at. Trees framed the slope down into a quiet field, and from here, the rest of the world felt far away. Paige cut the engine, but neither of them moved to get out.

Azzi sat with her arms folded across her chest, the fabric of Paige’s hoodie bunched in her fists.

“I haven’t spoken to him since I was pregnant,” she said finally. Her voice was flat, but her eyes were bright. “I told him. I gave him the chance. And he looked me in the face and said, ‘That’s not mine.’ Like I made her up. Like she was a punishment.”

Paige didn’t interrupt, just let the words fall and settle.

“I didn’t chase him,” Azzi said. “I didn’t beg. I was young and pregnant and scared, but I still walked away. I told myself I could do it alone, and I did. Every milestone, every hard night, every tiny win—I did it. Without him.”

Her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking toward Paige. “And now he wants in. Now that she’s beautiful and smart and full of light. He wants to say he had something to do with that. But he didn’t. He wasn’t there.”

“You were,” Paige said quietly. “You always were.”

Azzi’s breath hitched. “I don’t want him near her. I don’t want to be fair. I don’t care what the system says or what’s legally ‘reasonable.’ I want him gone. I want him to vanish again and stay gone.”

“Then we make that happen,” Paige said without hesitation. “Whatever it takes. I’ll help you.”

Azzi turned fully toward her now. Her eyes were wide, but there was a fragility underneath, something scared to hope too loudly. “Why would you do that for me?”

Paige blinked. “Azzi…”

“No, I mean it,” Azzi said. “Why are you always just there? Why do you never hesitate? You love Ruby like you’ve known her forever. You love me like I don’t come with a past. Like I didn’t mess everything up first.”

Paige reached out and brushed her knuckles gently down Azzi’s cheek. “Because none of that scares me. Not your past. Not being there now. You’re it for me. Ruby’s it. I’d walk through fire to keep you both safe. That’s not something I’m figuring out. That’s something I already know.”

Azzi’s lip trembled, but she nodded.

She looked down at their joined hands, then back up. “You asked me something at your dad’s house. Do you remember?”

Paige’s breath caught. “Yeah.”

“You asked if I’d ever want to have a baby with you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“I’ve been thinking about it. About that night. And… I wish it had been you.”

Paige’s heart cracked open. “Azzi…”

“I wish Ruby had been ours. That I’d gotten to do all of it with you. I know we’re young. I know we’re in school and we’re still figuring it all out. But I don’t want to wait for some far-off version of this life we keep saying we’ll get to.”

She exhaled shakily. “I want to wake up next to you every day. I want to fall asleep with you and not have to check if it’s your night to stay over or if I’ll see you after class. I want you in my space, in Ruby’s space. I want to build something we don’t have to keep splitting in pieces.”

Paige was already crying, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Azzi’s.

“I want that too,” she whispered. “I want all of it. And we’ll get there. We will. Whatever pace we need, whatever steps it takes, I’m in. I’ll be there the whole way.”

Azzi let out a breath like she’d been holding it since Christmas. She pulled Paige into a kiss—long, slow, and full of all the things she hadn’t let herself say until now.

When they finally pulled apart, Azzi’s voice was steadier. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Paige echoed, soft and fierce all at once. “And we’re gonna build this. I swear to you.”

Azzi nodded, resting her head on Paige’s shoulder. “Then let’s start.”

Paige squeezed her hand tighter. “We already did.”

--------------------

The office was quiet, tucked above a used bookstore downtown, with a faint smell of paper and dust lingering in the air. Paige sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, a manila folder clutched between her fingers, her foot tapping a slow, uneven rhythm against the hardwood floor. The waiting room wasn’t crowded—just two chairs, a half-dead plant, and a stack of neatly fanned brochures about family law and custody rights.

She wasn’t dressed for something like this. Still in sweats from morning practice, hair damp from the post-training shower, hoodie slightly wrinkled where Ruby had clung to her earlier that day. But she didn’t care. She hadn’t come here to look put-together. She’d come to protect the two people she loved more than anything in the world.

“Paige Bueckers?”

She stood quickly. A woman in her forties greeted her with a polite smile, glasses perched halfway down her nose, clipboard in hand. “I’m Claire. Come on back.”

Paige followed her into a small office lined with bookshelves and soft lighting. It didn’t feel cold like she expected. It felt lived-in, like the kind of place someone sat in during the hardest moments of their life and left, maybe, with a little more hope than they came in with.

“So,” Claire said, settling into her seat behind the desk, “you mentioned in your intake form that this is about a child you’re helping care for?”

“Yeah.” Paige hesitated, then pulled the manila folder open. “Her name’s Ruby. She’s almost three. I’m not her biological parent—her mum is my girlfriend, Azzi. Ruby’s father hasn’t been involved. At all. Not since Azzi was pregnant.”

Claire nodded as she jotted something down. “And now?”

“He showed up,” Paige said, voice tightening. “Unannounced. Loud. At Ruby’s daycare. He scared her. She screamed. She told him she didn’t have a dad. He said he’d fight if we tried to keep him away.”

Claire looked up at that. “Has he made any formal legal motions?”

“Not yet.” Paige leaned forward slightly. “But I don’t want to wait until he does. I want to help Azzi make sure he doesn’t get the chance. He was never there. Not once. And now he wants rights just because Ruby’s happy and thriving without him?”

Claire was quiet for a beat. Then she nodded. “Alright. Let’s start with what we can do.”

She laid out the basics gently: Because Darshay was never listed on the birth certificate, he currently had no legal parental rights. But if he were to file for paternity or custody, that could change—especially if he pushed for a DNA test. However, his history of absence, the threatening voicemail, and witness accounts of his behavior at daycare could all support a restraining order or a court-monitored hearing, especially if Azzi petitioned for full, sole custody and formally named him a threat to Ruby’s emotional safety.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Claire warned. “But I’ve seen plenty of judges side with mothers in situations like this. Particularly when the biological father didn’t want to be involved until suddenly it was convenient.”

Paige nodded slowly. “Azzi’s scared that the system might fail her.”

Claire looked at her over the rim of her glasses. “She’s not wrong to be afraid. But she’s not alone. And if you’re serious about helping her, we can start building a file now—texts, voicemails, timelines. Anything you’ve got.”

Paige pulled out her phone and opened the saved audio file. “I have the voicemail.”

Claire listened to it on speaker, her expression hardening as Darshay’s voice echoed through the room: “Don’t think I won’t do what I have to if you try to keep playing house without me.”

“That,” she said as it ended, “is coercion. Possibly even a threat. I’d log it officially and keep a backup. If we can get a statement from the daycare teacher too, that’ll help.”

Paige sat back, her heart thudding in her chest. But it wasn’t fear—not exactly. It was purpose. She wasn’t guessing anymore. She was doing something.

“Should Azzi be here for this?” she asked.

Claire hesitated. “Eventually, yes. But starting the prep work now? That’s smart. When she’s ready to come in, we’ll already have the foundation.”

Paige exhaled slowly. “Okay. Good.”

As she stood to leave, Claire paused and gave her a small smile.

“You’re not her biological mother,” she said, “but it’s clear you’re her parent. That matters more than you think.”

Paige blinked hard, nodded, and left the office clutching the folder tighter than before.

She didn’t tell Azzi that night.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about being the hero. It was about making sure Azzi never had to stand in a courtroom alone. About making sure Ruby never had to look over her shoulder.

It was about building the life they’d talked about.

One step at a time.

--------------------

Dinner was already underway when Paige came back from tossing Ruby’s hoodie into the wash. The kitchen smelled like heaven, Katie at the stove humming softly, Tim setting out mismatched plates with casual ease. Ruby was singing to Sparklehorn at the table, swinging her legs and poking at a carrot she clearly had no intention of eating.

Azzi leaned against the counter beside her mum, wearing one of Paige’s hoodies and stirring something on the stovetop like it was muscle memory. She looked up when Paige entered and smiled—not wide, not bright, just soft. Like home.

“Sit down,” Katie said without looking back. “You’re family now, you get a plate whether you want it or not.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Paige said with a grin, sliding into the seat next to Ruby.

Ruby beamed. “I saved you a spoon, Mummy Paigey.”

“Best girl,” Paige said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

They ate around the little kitchen table, the conversation easy, filled with small laughter and the kind of familiarity that only grows in houses lived in by love. Tim talked about a new bird feeder he was experimenting with. Ruby interrupted three times to tell them all about a lizard she saw at daycare that was “this big” (it wasn’t), and Katie rolled her eyes in fond exasperation when Azzi stole a second helping before anyone else.

After dinner, Tim carried Ruby upstairs for bath time while Katie put the kettle on and told the girls to take the night off cleanup duty. Azzi pulled Paige by the hand toward the back porch without a word, and Paige followed willingly, the back door creaking gently closed behind them.

The night air was crisp, the blanket from earlier still draped over the porch bench. Paige sat first, stretching her legs out. Azzi slid in beside her, curling up until their bodies were flush and warm, and the weight of the day felt softer just being close.

“God,” Azzi murmured, exhaling. “I missed this all day.”

“Missed me?” Paige teased, sipping from the mug Katie had handed her before they left the kitchen.

Azzi didn’t play along this time. “Yeah,” she said seriously. “You.”

Paige blinked, the heat creeping up the back of her neck. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “And I keep wishing I didn’t have to say that like it’s a temporary thing. I want this to be every night.”

She sat up just enough to look at Paige, her expression soft and raw. “I want to live with you. I know we’re still in college, I know we’ve got team housing and practice and a million things that make it complicated but I hate you leaving. I hate wondering if it’s your night to come over or not. I hate packing a bag like it’s not our home.”

Paige didn’t speak right away. She just reached up and tucked a strand of Azzi’s hair behind her ear.

“You’re it for me,” Azzi said. “I want you brushing your teeth in the same sink. I want Ruby asking which one of us is making waffles. I want laundry in one basket and a couch we bought together and a hallway where our pictures live. Not mine. Not yours. Ours.”

Paige’s heart felt too big for her chest.

“I want that too,” she said quietly. “So much. And we’ll get it. Maybe not right this second. But it’s not a dream anymore. It’s a plan.”

Azzi leaned in, the corner of her mouth curving faintly. “Good. Because I’ve already imagined where the shoes go.”

Paige grinned. “And how many of them are yours?”

Azzi tilted her head. “At least 80%. I have sneakers for specific moods.”

Paige laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners—and then, without really thinking about it, she leaned in and kissed her.

It started slow. Familiar. A press of lips in the dark, warm and sure. But Azzi’s hand slid into her hair, and Paige shifted closer, and suddenly they were kissing like they couldn’t quite remember where one of them ended and the other began.

Azzi pulled her deeper, lips parting, hands warm under the hem of Paige’s hoodie. Paige groaned softly into her mouth and let herself fall into it—into the way Azzi kissed like she needed Paige to feel everything she couldn’t say all at once.

When they finally broke apart, breathing shallow and foreheads pressed together, Paige whispered, “So what would the chore list look like in this hypothetical house?”

Azzi’s voice was breathless but amused. “You vacuum. I fold.”

“What about Ruby?”

“She bosses us both around,” Azzi said. “Obviously.”

Paige laughed again, eyes shining, and Azzi kissed her one more time—just a short, sealing press of lips.

“I love you,” Azzi murmured against her mouth.

“I love you,” Paige echoed, hands curled in the fabric at Azzi’s waist. “And one day, we’re gonna have everything we just said out loud.”

Azzi looked at her for a long moment.

And then she whispered, “I guess we already do. We just haven’t moved it all into one place yet.”

They stayed outside until the tea in their mugs went cold and the blanket slipped to the porch floor, too wrapped in each other to care.

--------------------

The house had settled into its quiet night rhythm by the time Azzi and Paige stepped back inside. The lights were soft, the dishwasher humming gently in the background, and the scent of dish soap lingered faintly in the warm air. Upstairs, they could hear the distant sound of water pipes as Tim finished cleaning up after Ruby’s bath.

Katie was still awake, sitting at the small dining table with her reading glasses slipping down her nose, a half-solved crossword puzzle spread in front of her and a mug of chamomile tea cradled in both hands. She glanced up as the girls came in, her gaze lingering on Azzi a little longer than usual.

“Hey, sweethearts,” she said gently. “You two alright?”

Azzi paused in the middle of tugging off her shoes. She looked down at the laces, at her own hands, then up at her mother. “Can we talk for a second?”

Katie straightened immediately, setting the mug aside and pushing her glasses up with one finger. “Of course.”

They sat at the table, Paige hovering near the kitchen entrance like she wasn’t sure if she should sit too. Katie clocked that, but said nothing. Yet.

Azzi fiddled with the drawstring on Paige’s hoodie—her fingers looping the knot, undoing it, knotting it again. She didn’t meet her mum’s eyes when she finally spoke.

“I don’t want him around her,” she said, voice thin but sure. “I don’t want him near Ruby. I don’t want to play nice or compromise or do the right thing just for the sake of being fair. I want him gone.”

Katie didn’t respond right away. She just reached across the table and gently took her daughter’s hand.

“You’re not a bad person for wanting that,” she said softly.

“I keep waiting for someone to say I’m overreacting,” Azzi admitted. “Or selfish. Or cruel.”

“Well,” Katie said, squeezing her fingers, “then you’re not listening to the right people.”

Azzi let out a breath that sounded like it had been caught in her chest for days.

“You gave him a chance,” Katie continued. “When you were scared and alone and still learning how to stand on your own. And he walked away. So no, he doesn’t get to come back just because Ruby turned out perfect. He didn’t do the work.”

“I just don’t know where to start,” Azzi said, finally meeting her eyes. “Legally. Emotionally. I know what I want, but I don’t know how to make it happen.”

Katie was quiet for a second, then turned her gaze toward Paige, who still hadn’t spoken. She was standing near the doorframe, arms crossed, biting her lower lip like it might keep her from talking.

And Katie noticed.

She tilted her head slightly. “Paige?”

Paige straightened. “Yeah?”

“You look like you know something you haven’t said yet.”

Azzi looked up at her then, frowning faintly. “What is it?”

Paige hesitated. Just for a second. Then she stepped forward and placed a manila folder on the table, one that hadn’t been there before.

“I talked to someone,” she said. “A lawyer. I didn’t want to go behind your back, Azzi. But I couldn’t sit still after what happened at daycare. I needed to know what options we had.”

Katie leaned back slowly, brows lifting, but her expression stayed gentle.

Azzi stared. “You… you saw a lawyer?”

Paige nodded. “Just to ask. To get a sense of what we’d need if he files anything. I brought the voicemail. I explained everything you told me. The lawyer thinks we can get ahead of it. Maybe even file for a no-contact order or pursue sole custody if he tries anything.”

Azzi’s face was a mix of surprise and something heavier—something deeper.

“You did all of that?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“I wasn’t trying to control anything,” Paige said quickly. “I just—he scared her. He scared you. And I couldn’t let that sit. I had to do something.”

Katie leaned forward, her hand still on Azzi’s. “That’s what love looks like, baby.”

Azzi blinked, eyes shimmering now.

“I didn’t ask her to,” she said.

“No,” Katie said softly. “But she saw you drowning and didn’t wait for permission to throw the rope.”

Azzi stood suddenly, stepping toward Paige with slow, stunned steps. “You really did all that?”

Paige didn’t answer with words. She just opened her arms.

And Azzi folded into them like it was the only thing she could do. Her breath caught in her throat as Paige held her, arms tight, grounding her.

“No one’s ever fought for me like that,” Azzi whispered, voice muffled against Paige’s shoulder.

Paige buried her face in Azzi’s hair, holding her like it mattered. “You shouldn’t have had to wait this long.”

Katie watched them for a long, quiet moment. Then she stood, gathered her empty mug, and kissed Azzi’s cheek as she passed.

“You’ve got people now,” she said gently. “So lean on us.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, the tap turning on and off in the distance. Her presence lingered, warm and quiet, like a hug that stretched beyond arms.

Azzi pulled back enough to look at Paige, hands still clutching the fabric of her hoodie.

“You don’t have to carry this all by yourself,” Paige said. “But if you need to—I’m strong enough to help.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I know.”

She leaned in and kissed her—slow, quiet, steady.

And for the first time all day, it felt like the ground beneath them had stopped shifting.

--------------------

The house was quiet, wrapped in the kind of soft stillness that came only after a full day—baths run, dishes washed, stories read, and tiny limbs finally at rest.

Ruby was already tucked under the covers, her lavender pajamas dotted with stars, Sparklehorn nestled beside her like a bodyguard in glitter and stuffing. Her eyes fluttered as she fought sleep, curls mussed from bath time and the last of her bedtime giggles still lingering in the room like static.

Azzi sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingertips gently across Ruby’s cheek. “Want Mummy Paigey to say goodnight too?”

Ruby nodded without opening her eyes, murmuring, “Mummy Paigey kiss on the forehead.”

Paige stepped over, heart already melted. “Can’t say no to that.”

She leaned down, brushing her lips over the exact spot Ruby tapped. “Night, Roo. Sweet dreams.”

“Dream us on a boat,” Ruby whispered, already slipping. “With juice and cupcakes and no bedtime.”

Paige smiled. “You got it.”

They lingered long enough to make sure she was fully asleep, the kind of deep, peaceful sleep that only came when the day had been filled with safety and love. Then they eased the door closed, leaving just a sliver of light peeking in for Sparklehorn’s sake.

Azzi reached for Paige’s hand as they padded down the hallway, her fingers cold but sure. “She’s obsessed with you.”

“She has good taste,” Paige said, squeezing gently.

Back in Azzi’s room, Paige dropped onto the bed dramatically, arms spread wide like she was collapsing into a mattress of dreams. “Your daughter is stealing all my emotional energy. And I’m not even mad.”

Azzi crawled in next to her, straddling her hips, one knee pressing into the blankets as she grinned down. “Oh no. Mummy Paigey’s tired? Whatever will we do?”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Azzi leaned closer, smirking. “Who says I can’t?”

And then she poked Paige in the side—just once.

Paige gasped, jolting. “You wouldn’t.”

Azzi did it again.

Paige shrieked and grabbed for her wrists, but Azzi was already in full gremlin mode, giggling as she launched a full-scale tickle attack, fingers merciless at Paige’s sides.

“No—Azzi—AZZI—” Paige squirmed, breathless with laughter. “This is not fair—”

“You started it,” Azzi said gleefully, ignoring the squeals and flailing limbs. “You said you were tired. I’m just helping you… energise.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Paige wheezed, rolling them over so she was on top, pinning Azzi’s wrists above her head. “You absolute menace.”

Azzi looked up at her, panting a little, hair a mess, but her grin was still all sunshine and chaos. “You love it.”

Paige bent down, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Unfortunately.”

She rolled off with a dramatic sigh and flopped onto her side, Azzi curling into her like gravity pulled her that way.

They lay there, limbs tangled, hearts still racing with laughter.

After a moment, Paige nudged her gently. “You know your birthday’s coming up. And Ruby’s.”

Azzi groaned. “God, don’t remind me. She’s gonna demand glitter cannons and six types of cupcakes.”

“And you’re gonna love every second,” Paige said smugly.

Azzi buried her face in Paige’s chest. “I want to pretend I hate it, but honestly, I kind of live for her chaos.”

Paige ran her fingers lightly over Azzi’s back. “I was thinking we could do something for both of you. Like a joint celebration.”

“Oh, good,” Azzi said, muffled. “A party where I get to share attention with a toddler. My dream.”

“You’ll get your own present,” Paige teased. “Maybe.”

Azzi lifted her head just enough to pout. “Rude.”

“I’m just saying,” Paige replied, biting back a grin, “if you want birthday sex, you better say please.”

Azzi gasped, mock-offended. “Mummy Paigey!”

Paige burst into laughter, her whole body shaking with it. “I hate how that made me feel things.”

Azzi rolled her eyes fondly and yanked the covers over both of them, wrapping herself around Paige like she had no plans to move again. “We’re disgusting.”

“We’re perfect,” Paige corrected.

Azzi didn’t reply—just pressed a kiss to Paige’s collarbone and sighed like the weight of everything had lifted, just for now.

They lay like that, wrapped up in each other, the quiet humming around them, warm and unbothered.

[callsign-rogueone]

gentle giant

garrick tavis x reader (angel!)

words: 2.1k

🏷️: smut, first time in the relationship, mentions of penetration being painful, but they stop and do alternate activities, because how are these fantasy heroines always taking pipe the size of their forearm with no lube or anything, thigh riding, gare gets a handy and loses his mind a little, mentions of size difference between you, but I tried to just emphasize him being big instead of saying you are tiny because not all of us are violet sized, especially not myself, you wear his shirt and it’s implied to be big on you, his hands are bigger, he’s taller… I think it’s easy enough for everyone to relate. this is kinda rushed but when I saw the prompt for today I knew I had to finish this draft that literally had the same title already! posting with 1h20m to spare 🥳

“Are you sure you want to— oh, fuck,” Garrick breathes, his grip on your waist tightening as you lower yourself down.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Your words are cut with a soft whimper as you sink lower, stretching around him. You’re trying to keep your cool, but he can feel your thighs shaking, feel you squeezing him so fucking tightly, your breaths coming out in pathetic little pants as you try to adjust to the thickness.

“Angel,” he says softly, moving his hands to your waist. “If it’s too much, we can—”

“I can take it,” you interrupt. “Just give me a second.”

Maybe if you shift your hips a little, you can get a better angle, and it’ll stop feeling like you’re being torn apart.

Nope. That’s even worse.

Hold your breath, then, so he can’t tell how much it hurts, and you don’t kill the mood. This is the first time you’ve done anything more than kiss, after all. It should stop hurting after a few minutes, right? Just power through, and…

It’s too easy for him to lift you up off of him and sit you on his thigh, wrapping his arms around you and stroking your back. “I don’t want you to be in pain, Angel. We should stop.”

“M’ sorry,” you say in a small voice, working your head into the side of his neck.

“Don’t apologize, Angel. It’s okay.” He continues smoothing his palms up and down your back in slow, grounding movements. “What do you want to do? We can go to sleep, or just cuddle for a while… or we could have some fun in a different way.”

You pull back to look at him. “I didn’t completely kill the moment?”

He’s grinning ear to ear. “Are you kidding? I have the most beautiful woman on the continent sitting in my lap with no pants on, and it turns out that my dick is actually too big.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. Of course he’d find a way to joke about this, and make it feed his ego. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

You sit up straighter and guide him back into another kiss with a hand on his jaw, stroking your thumb over his cheekbone.

His hands find your waist again, slipping underneath your — his — shirt, and smoothing up your ribs to rest just below your breasts. He’s always been touchy with you, but even after being the two of you a couple for a few months now, he’s still a little hesitant to touch you anywhere intimate, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. It’s cute, really.

You reach down, settling your hands on his wrists and guiding his hands up to where he really wants them to be. He’s gentle, massaging the soft skin and brushing his thumbs over your nipples. It’s a new sensation, a soft, buzzy pleasure that adds to the desire growing within you.

The kisses had started off gentle, slow and loving, meant to reassure you that he still wanted you despite your difficulties, but now it’s more than that — you’re back to the same eager, frenzied makeout that had started this whole thing off.

He pulls back for air, and you whine softly, scooting closer.

He gives you a sly smile. “Someone’s needy. You enjoying yourself there?”

Your cheeks warm as you realize what he’s talking about — you’ve been rocking your hips against his thigh for the past few minutes, in search of any kind of stimulation.

“If you want to get yourself off like that, that is more than fine with me.”

There’s no denying that it felt really nice, but could you really make yourself cum that way?

It wouldn’t hurt to try, you suppose.

You nod shyly, giving another exploratory rock of your hips against his thigh. It’s perfect for this; wide, firm, but pliant enough to be comfortable. Just like the rest of him — thick muscle, with just the right amount of softness covering it, good for sparring and cuddling and several other things, including this. And there’s just something about the size of him, the way he towers over you, and how much bigger he is than you, that makes your heart race.

Is it a little superficial? Maybe. But he feels the same way about you.

The first time he’d seen you wear one of his shirts, that draped down to your thighs, just long enough to cover your ass, he’d forgotten how to speak. Even before you’d admitted your feelings to each other, he’d loved comparing the size of your hands, making jokes about being able to see over the top of your head, and being able to move you around effortlessly, guiding you through crowds or sitting you in his lap like this…

And he’s always loved your softness — both the feel of your skin, your hands smooth and soft compared to the roughened skin of his palms from all his training and exercise, and the plush of your body, so easy to relax into, to cuddle up with and rest his head on, to knead in those giant hands of his while you do things like this…

He pulls back, his nose brushing against your cheek. “You mind if I help myself out a little?”

You shake your head no; of course you don’t mind. If anything, watching him is going to help you get there.

He wasn’t lying about you not having killed the mood — he’s still hard, aching with need. And even held in his own hand, he still looks giant.

You take mental note of the way he’s doing it, the lazy pace and the way he twists his hand when he reaches the top before sliding back down, soft little sighs leaving his lips every now and then.

He probably does this quite often, to know what he likes. He might have even done it while thinking of you — you’ve certainly spent more nights with your hand in your panties and his name on your lips than you’d ever admit.

As good as this feels, it’s tiring. Your legs were already aching from the day’s training, and this isn’t helping you at all. You sigh in frustration, your hips slowing, but you continue to rock back and forth, sitting up a little straighter to reach his lips.

He’s always known exactly what you want, and what you need — you gasp into his mouth as he takes over, sliding you back and forth over his thigh with minimal effort. This is much better, enabling you to concentrate on the feeling of the muscle rubbing against your clit instead of the ache in your hips and thighs.

And it’s godsdamned sexy how strong he is, how he can handle you any way he pleases.

He leans forward, his other hand sliding up your neck to tilt your head back, allowing him access to the side of your neck.

Despite this being the farthest you’ve ever gone together, Garrick has clearly established that no inch of your skin will go un-kissed, or otherwise unloved. He’s an excellent multitasker — his lips are still on your neck, one hand helping guide you back and forth against his thigh, the other hand having returned to your chest, just playing with you, groping and stroking and pinching, just seeing what you like.

It’s soft little circles of his thumb that seem to have you the most vocal, arching forward into his touch. He’ll keep doing that, then.

“Gare,” you breathe, your hand finding the one that rests on your hip, your fingers curling around his.

He pulls back from your neck with a soft, wet sound — there’s definitely going to be some bruises there tomorrow, that Xaden will tease you both for relentlessly — and even with your eyes closed in concentration, you can hear the smile in his voice. “Aww, are you close, angel? You wanna cum for me?”

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing your hips forward to help him, and help yourself. “Yes, please, keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“All of it.”

He’s a perfect soldier, excellent at following orders. And he’d do anything you asked without hesitation, especially if it pleased you like this. His lips return to the side of your neck, sucking at your pulse point, continuing those little strokes of his thumb…

You nearly sob as it washes over you, your inner muscles clamping around thin air, and your hand clutching his. He rocks you back and forth a few more times to help you ride it out, still mouthing at your neck, but after a moment it becomes too much — you start to squirm, squeezing your thighs together around his, which he takes as a sign to stop.

You slump forward against his chest, dazed and a little bit in awe of the fact that he just made you cum without laying a finger on you. Your tummy feels fuzzy, your whole body relaxed… and your pain appears to have ceased, which is an added bonus.

You’re vaguely aware of his hand rubbing your back. He's talking to you, cooing praises into your ear. “Did so good, angel. N’ I’ll never get tired of seeing you in my clothes.”

You stifle a yawn, lifting your head up enough to give him a kiss. Your lips land more toward his jaw than his mouth, but that’ll have to do for now. “Thank you,” you add. “Felt really good.”

He reciprocates your kiss, a soft peck to your temple. “Anything for my perfect girl. S’ late, you wanna go to bed?”

“In a bit,” you murmur, smearing another kiss against his jaw as you reach down again, wrapping your hand around him. He gasps in surprise, his thigh tensing underneath you. “Is this okay?”

“Uh-huh,” he breathes, his eyes still locked with yours, subconsciously pushing his hips into your hand, rutting forward into your touch.

You hum happily, boldened by how quickly he’s falling apart beneath you. “Felt so good grinding on your thigh like that. All that strong muscle, and the way you could move me so easily…”

You punctuate each sentence with a slip of your thumb over his tip, watching the way his abs clench as he squirms underneath you.

“Oh, just like that, Angel,” he breathes, “Fuck, your hands are so — soft, feels so good… so much better than — fuck — better than mine. Not gonna last.”

You hum against the side of his neck, kissing and sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, where his relic ends.

He whines, his hips pushing against your hand faster now, his desperation increasing. “Please,” he gasps. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” you murmur. “I’m not going to stop. Especially not when you asked so nicely.”

He buries his face in the side of your neck, his fingers digging into the softness of your hips.

If you thought his needy little whines were pretty, then the sound he makes when he cums is absolutely gorgeous — it’s a shame that it’s muffled by your skin. You’ll have to do this again soon, so you can hear it properly.

His thighs are shaking, and your hand is covered in his spend, but just like he did for you, you don’t stop right away, just slow down and let him ride it out. “Holy shit,” he pants, catching his breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum that fast before. That’s actually a little embarrassing.”

You can’t help but giggle, pleased with yourself. “You’ll just have to show me how long you can last, then.”

He groans. “Don’t say shit like that right now. You’ll get me hard again.”

“Oh nooo, we can’t have that.”

“Not tonight, at least. We need to get some sleep.”

“Fair enough,” you agree through a yawn.

You’ve both already showered, and used all your energy for the day, so a quick wipe-down is enough until morning, and then it’s back to your normal routine of getting tucked into bed together. You’ve only used your own bed twice since getting your own room a month ago, now. You might as well just share his room, at this point, but there’s only one desk and one closet, which would cramp things up.

“Angel?” he asks softly, before turning the light out.

You hum in reply, eyes already closed.

“I really enjoyed tonight, even if it wasn’t what we planned.”

“I did too. Was fun.”

“Good,” he says quietly. “I just don’t want you to feel bad, or anything. Really.”

“And that right there is why I love you so much,” you murmur, scooting over to rest your head on his chest. “You’re big and scary, but you’re really just a gentle giant. With me, at least.”

“Only with you,” he agrees, stroking a hand over your hair. “I have a reputation to maintain, y’know.”

“Mm. Can’t have people finding out that you’re a big softie.”

“They’ll put it together eventually. But not today.”

[hans-wh0re]

A.N: this is a drabble that m thinking of expanding as a fic

"Fuck, that's it baby..." Hyunjin rasped out in a low, filthy growl that made you shudder. His scorching gaze raked over your lewd display through the phone's lens - spine in a debauched arch, mouth fallen slack with blissed-out moans as you eagerly speared yourself on his thick length again and again.

The harsh smacking of skin on skin reverberated through the room in tandem with your desperate, cloying whimpers. Each time you ground your asscheeks flush against his pelvis, Hyunjin's cock would split you apart with that soul-shattering *stretch* that had stars bursting behind your screwed-shut eyelids.

"Nnghh...that slutty little cunt just can't get enough, huh?" he rasped out, voice gone rough with lust. "Taking my cock like you were made for it."

Hyunjin shifted positions then, grabbing a fistful of your sweat-damp locks to wrench your head back at a punishing angle. You gurgled out a pitchy whine past your spit-slick lips as he brought the phone up unbearably close, the lens zeroing in on your ruined, slack-jawed expression with sadistic focus.

"Look at you..." he sneered in dark gratification, studying your glazed, vacant features. "Such a desperate cum-hungry slut. Is this what you wanted? To be my personal fuck-puppet while i records just how much of a messy little whore you are?"

Despite his cruel vitriol, you could only keen out a shuddering, mewling whimper of bliss. Lost in a hedonistic vortex of sensation, you mindlessly shoved your hips back to impale yourself in one long, shuddering grind on the punishing density of his cock.

Hyunjin hissed out a harsh breath through gritted teeth at the feeling of your abused, sloppy hole fluttering and clenching around him in spasming milks. That iron-hard length somehow managed to split you open even wider as he surged in with a vicious snap of his hips. Thick ropes of your essence immediately started to dribble free in vulgar gouts, trickling down over your puffy folds to soak the bedsheets beneath you both.

"That's right you little whore..." he growled, nostrils flaring. Using his grip in your hair, Hyunjin pulled your face up and forced you to meet the camera's gaze while he treated you like a twisted little pocket pussy.

"Give the people what they want. Drool all over yourself while i utterly ruins this messy fuckhole..."

He punctuated the threat with a series of harsh, pounding jackhammer thrusts that instantly punched a shrill, gurgling wail past your swollen lips. Drool collected obscenely at the corners of your mouth as your eyes rolled back in delirious rapture - you were completely gone, nerves thrumming from the onslaught of sensation.

Everything became a spiraling vortex of feral rutting, filthy squalor, and erotic bliss. Hyunjin's physique glistened with a sweat-sheened sheen as he plowed into your squelching, convulsing cunt with relentless, animalistic fervor. The room filled with a cacophony of your pitchy howls, his rough grunts, and the lewd wet sounds of your essence being messily reamed.

The camera (and subsequently Hyunjin's burning stare) didn't miss a single degrading second - greedily capturing every graphic detail of your debauched defilement. And still you craved more, grinding back to meet his brutal thrusts with wanton keening whines.

Stars exploded across your vision as Hyunjin buried himself in one last cruel, obliterating grind that had you choking out a ragged, open-mouthed sob. He held you there impaled on the swollen, pulsating crest of his cock as rich, viscous ropes of seed immediately began pumping into your abused, fluttering hole.

"That's it, sweetheart...fucking milk me..." he snarled against the sweaty nape of your neck, voice utterly guttural with possession. "Take every fucking drop like the filthy cumdump you are..."

[flixpii]

morde me

fem!reader x remmick

word count : 16k

a/n : the gap in the votes 😭 i know what y’all are…. anyways, i’ve been working on a one-shot where remmick gets reader pregnant … getting over my fear of pregnancy and childbirth to finish it 🙏🏾

thank you @madkingcrowley for giving me the idea for them to fuck near a dead body kiss.

and thank you @iceemochaa for helping me figure out how to make this header 🫶🏾

sypnosis : three years after he turned you, you still haven’t forgiven him. but when blood stains your mouth and he’s dragging a corpse through the woods, you fall into the only rhythm you know—teeth, hands, bruises, and skin. you never stop long enough to ask why.

warnings (mdni !! 18+) : voyeuristic themes, masturbation, hate sex, vampiric attack (blood feeding, neck biting, flesh tearing), feeding-induced euphoria, choking, pinning, manhandling, sex as emotional outlet, forest sex/semi-public, sex near dead body, oral (m!receiving), grinding (non-penetrative foreplay), possessiveness, fingering, facefucking, spit/drool, unprotected sex (p in v), handjob, riding, nipple play, dubious consent themes (engaging in intense acts while physically exhausted or overwhelmed), doggystyle, pain/pleasure overlap, rough sex, hair pulling, mutiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, verbal power play & sharp banter during sex, lack of gentleness (by mutual design), marking (biting, scratching, bruising)

“get off of me.”

your breath leaves you in a harsh pant, chest heaving beneath the solid weight of him. his own chest presses flush to yours, damp with sweat, the heat of him clinging to your skin like something you couldn’t scrub off. his breath ghosts along your throat—hot, uneven, still carrying the remnants of a groan he hadn’t quite let go of.

he pulls his head back just enough to get a good look at you, head angled just enough for the shadows to catch along his jaw. 

your hair is a mess—tangled, mussed from where his hands had been rough in it earlier, his fingers fisting into the roots like he needed to anchor himself. strands cling to the sheen of sweat along your temples, wild and damp, framing your face in a halo of disarray. 

your lips—still parted from the last moan you let slip—are swollen, shiny with spit, and slightly red where teeth had caught. his gaze drags over your face, heavy-lidded and slow, like he’s memorizing the mess he made. your eyes are barely open, lids low and heavy like the weight of what just happened is pressing down on them. 

you look up at him through lashes that clump with sweat, your stare dazed but defiant, too tired to move but too stubborn to look away.

there’s a curl to his mouth—lazy, smug—that makes something tighten deep in your gut, though whether it’s rage or want, you can’t quite tell.

“you sure?” his voice is thick, ruined from everything he’s just done to you. “i can always go for a round tw—”

“i will fucking kill you.”

his groan is immediate—low, guttural, deep in his throat like your threat only spurred him on. he finally pulls back, the shift of his hips dragging his cock from your body. he’s softening now, but not enough to make it easy. you feel every slow inch of him as he slips free, the wet drag of it against your still-throbbing walls making you hiss. the stretch lingers, leaving you empty and aching.

you grit your teeth, jaw tight with restraint. you don’t give him the satisfaction of another gasp, another tremble, another sound. he doesn’t deserve it.

“you can’t say things like that.”

his voice is low, not quite a whisper, more like a confession, and it spills out with a breath that shudders once he’s fully slipped out of you. the drag of him still lingers—an echo of pressure, slick and sore—and you feel the emptiness sharp in its absence.

“it turns me on,” he adds, almost absently.

you sit up slowly, the ache between your thighs immediate and pulsing. your legs shift closed, a sharp sting blooming from your center that makes you bite down hard on a hiss. your hand steadies against the sheets as you move, fingers curling tightly into the fabric like it could ground you.

you glance down and assess the damage like habit. like ritual.

the bruises along your hips are already yellowing, the deep purple centers beginning to fade. you can still feel the imprint of his hands there, the ghosts of his grip branded into your skin where he’d held you too hard—too tight.

your thighs bear him too. twin bite marks bloom high on your inner thighs, ragged around the edges where his fangs had broken skin. the skin around them is tender, a little inflamed, already slow to heal with the venom still lingering beneath the surface. it burns, just faintly—like a fever caught low in your blood.

one wrist is ringed in a flush of red where his fingers had wrapped around it, pinning you down. it aches with the dull throb of bruising, nerves sparking beneath the surface like a warning. your neck—still damp from his mouth—is littered with hickeys and shallow bites, some of them fresh enough to sting, others already scabbing over.

they’ll all heal. eventually.

“get out.”

you say it flatly, voice too hoarse, too hollow to carry any real weight. the words are there, but the strength isn’t. you stare him down anyway, refusing to look away, even when it hurts to keep your head upright.

he doesn’t respond.

he isn’t looking at you.

his eyes are fixed lower, between your legs, watching—shamelessly—the thick, messy drip of your mixed fluids slipping out from between your thighs. it coats your skin in a slow, obscene slide, catching the light like something molten. he stares like he wants to carve the image into memory.

“remmick.”

he glances up at the sound of his name—your voice cutting through the thick silence like a thread snapping.

his head tilts slightly, already waiting. like he’s bracing himself for what always comes next. for the venom in your tone. for the sharp, tired ritual you’ve both memorized too well. maybe you’ll scream, maybe you’ll spit some half-hearted insult or tell him you hate him again—he’s used to it. it’s practically foreplay by now.

three years.

three years of this twisted, tangled thing—hate laced with need, loathing soaked in want. ever since he turned you, this cycle has devoured the space between you. it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. none of it was.

the first time had been an accident. or something close to it.

you’d been yelling—loud, vicious, like your throat might tear from the force of it. words you barely remember now, fury clashing with his until it all blurred into something white-hot and unbearable. you’d gotten too close. your chest brushed his. your breath tangled with his, and in that fraction of a second, something shifted.

heat rose. logic disappeared.

and then your mouth was on his, teeth clashing, hands grasping at whatever flesh you could find. clothes torn. limbs tangled. anger melted into pleasure that felt like punishment.

when it was over, you were both bruised and bitten all over—purple marks blooming across your skin like flowers in decay—and floating in that strange, post-fury bliss that neither of you knew how to name.

it was supposed to be a one-time thing.

but here you were.

again.

and despite everything, despite the pain, the damage, the mess—he still looked at you like he wanted more.

like he never stopped.

“let me watch.”

his voice is hoarse, stripped down to something almost desperate. there’s no shame in it—there never is with him. his hand drifts low, fingers curling around the base of his soft cock, already coaxing it back to life with slow, needy strokes.

you watch, dazed and half-detached, still hovering in that hazy space between aftermath and awareness. the ache in your limbs grounds you, the sticky pull between your thighs a reminder of what just happened—what always happens.

you know exactly what he wants.

after all these years, after all the times you’ve clawed and fucked and cursed each other senseless, this part remained untouched. sacred in its own way. the cleanup was always solitary. always silent. one of you would slip away like it meant nothing, leaving the other in the wreckage of it all.

but now, he wants to stay.

he wants to see.

he watches the war behind your eyes, the pause in your breath, the flick of your gaze toward the bathroom like it might change your mind. and he waits—hopeful, panting, hand still moving lazily between his thighs.

“i don’t care,” you mutter, the words falling from your lips before you can think better of them.

and you don’t. or maybe you do—but it’s too late now.

the bathroom tiles are cool beneath your feet as you step into the tub, and the water greets you with a searing kiss. steam curls around your body, licking at your skin as the heat begins to seep into your sore muscles. a sigh leaves you—quiet, unguarded—as the tension eases from your limbs.

behind you, you hear it: the wet sound of him stroking himself, punctuated by shallow breaths and low groans that he tries to stifle and fails.

you don’t look at him. not yet.

“fucking pervert,” you whisper under your breath, not expecting him to hear.

but he does. you know he does—because the next sound is sharper, a choked-off breath that stutters through clenched teeth.

you lather the soap into your scrub, dragging it along your skin with slow, deliberate circles. you scrub the sweat from your collarbone, the spit from your chest, the mess between your thighs that makes you wince as the fabric brushes over half-healed bites. you hiss when it grazes a particularly raw one at your neck, but you keep going—methodical, clinical.

and still, he watches.

you don’t have to look to know his eyes are devouring you—tracing the line of your spine as you lean forward, following the water as it runs in rivulets between your thighs, catching in the curve of your hips.

when you finally step out of the tub, the air bites at your damp skin, sending a shiver across your shoulders. you grab a towel, but don’t wrap it around yourself just yet. your gaze lifts to him, and sure enough—he’s still there.

still pumping himself with steady, unrelenting strokes.

his knuckles are flushed pink, his breath ragged, and his cock is slick and twitching in his grip. his eyes are glassy—hungry—and when they meet yours, something cracks.

his mouth parts with a soft, broken sound.

and then he comes, spilling across his hand in messy spurts, jaw clenched as he gasps through it, eyes never leaving yours.

you just stand there. dripping. spent. 

by the time the sky shifted—brushing the horizon with the bruised blush of dawn—remmick was gone.

no door slam. no parting words. just the familiar absence settling into the space where his heat had lingered. you didn’t move right away. you just stood there, damp towel clinging to your skin, staring at the spot he left behind until the first hints of gold started crawling through the cracks in the world outside.

and then—like always—you moved.

you did what you always did when the sun threatened to bleed across the land. you pulled the heavy wood panels from where they were leaned, fitted them over the window with practiced ease. thick nails. thick hands. years of repetition. not a single sliver of light would make it in. not anymore.

you hadn’t seen the sun in years. not really. not since the turning. not since the day your body stopped depending on it.

now, you lived by moonlight and instinct.

you sank onto your mattress—silent, still—letting the silence settle over your bones. no need for sleep. not anymore. the urge had left you long ago, burned out like the last flicker of candle wax. but lying here, in the stillness, pretending for a few hours that you were just tired instead of undead… that brought a kind of peace. a false, quiet comfort.

so you laid there.

watching the ceiling.

counting the faint thrum of blood moving somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, the birds chirping in the far-off distance, the way the house creaked like it remembered being alive.

and you waited.

for the heat of the sun to pass.

for the moon to rise again.

it didn’t hurt.

not really.

if anything, it felt like the brush of a leaf across your cheek—soft, inconsequential. barely there. the kind of touch you wouldn’t remember if not for the blood that followed.

his nails scraped at your skin in wild, uncoordinated desperation, trying anything to wriggle free from your grip. his chest heaved under you, heart pounding like a trapped animal’s, eyes wide with that raw kind of fear that always came when they realized—too late—what you were.

his throat was raw, voice cracked as he screamed at you, begged you to let him go.

but you didn’t.

you’d found him stumbling along the dirt road behind your house, cutting through the woods like some foolish, half-drunk ghost. backroads weren’t made for walking this late. not with things like you out here.

and now, he’s pinned beneath you—writhing, clawing, his limbs jerking like a caught rabbit in the mouth of something ancient and sharp.

his nail catches your cheek again, this time a little deeper. a faint red line blooms across your skin—but just as quickly as it appears, it closes, the blood fading as your body seals the wound without effort.

his hand lashes out to grab your wrist, but you’re faster—so much faster. you catch his arm mid-swing and twist.

there’s a sickening crack, sharp and final. his scream splits the quiet woods, echoing off trees and curling into the night like smoke. his wrist hangs at an unnatural angle, and his body spasms beneath you, breath coming in shallow, broken sobs.

you grab a fistful of his hair—rough, clumped with sweat—and yank his head to the side. the motion is brutal, practiced. the slope of his neck stretches out beneath you, pale and trembling, pulsing with fear.

“please—!”

he gasps it, half-whimpers it. his voice cracks again, high and wet with panic.

you hesitate.

just for a moment.

not from guilt. not from mercy.

but from hunger. the kind that makes you savor the moment before the first bite. the kind that lives in your bones now, ancient and patient and cruel.

your mouth parts.

and then you strike.

your fangs pierce his skin with ease, sinking deep into the vulnerable flesh just above his collarbone. he screams again—louder, rawer—his hands flying to your back, scratching and tearing at the fabric of your dress as he tries to push you away.

but it’s too late.

his blood rushes into your mouth, hot and copper-sweet, thick as syrup. it coats your tongue, spills from your lips, trickles down your chin and over your collarbones, soaking into the bodice of your dress until the fabric clings wet and sticky to your skin.

his body trembles violently beneath you, spasming with each pull of your mouth.

his body begins to go slack beneath you.

not dead. not yet. you’d know if he was. the blood would tell you—sour, spoiled, turned to ash in your mouth. but now it’s just weak, thinned-out, trickling like a slow stream from a dying spring.

your grip in his hair softens, fingers slipping to cradle the nape of his neck. not tender—never that—but supportive, stabilizing his limp head as it tilts uselessly to the side. the warmth of him is fading fast.

your eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenching as the familiar surge rises through your body. it coils through your veins like heat poured straight into your bones—fast, hot, and blinding. the sensation isn’t overwhelming, not like it used to be, but it’s enough to bring your breath to a soft hitch. enough to pull a quiet, involuntary sound from your throat—something between a gasp and a moan.

you bite down harder.

deeper.

your fangs shear through tendons and muscle, slicing clean. his throat convulses under your mouth as you pull him closer, crushing his body to yours with a strength that leaves no room for resistance. not that he has any left to give.

and then it starts.

the souring.

slow. subtle. you taste the shift in his blood—like iron gone to rust. it clings to the edges of your tongue and you know it’s time.

but before you can pull away, before the final drop turns bitter—

you hear him.

“what a mess.”

his voice drips like oil across your spine—smooth, familiar, smug.

you open your eyes slowly, pupils dilated wide, the world blurring at the edges as intoxicated warmth pulses through you. it’s not strong—not like it used to be when the thirst was new and any blood could send you spiraling. but the haze is there. just enough to soften the edges. just enough to lull.

you draw your mouth back, blood smeared across your lips and chin, your breath coming in slow, thick exhales.

you look down at the man beneath you—at the carnage. his throat is torn, skin shredded like wet paper, the blood pooling under him in a wide, dark stain that soaks into the dirt. the wound pulses once, weakly.

he won’t last long.

you hear the tsk behind you, sharp and judgmental.

but you don’t acknowledge him.

your jaw ticks.

you try to clench it, to lock it tight with irritation or restraint—you’re not sure which—but the sharp weight of your fangs won’t allow it. they press against the edges of your mouth, jutting out just enough to keep your lips parted in that permanent, threatening curl. your breath hisses quietly between them, blood still fresh along your teeth.

“you goin’ to ignore me?”

his voice is louder this time—firmer. not angry, but something close. like he feels entitled to your attention, your gaze, your reaction. like silence is a personal insult he won’t let slide.

you don’t look at him right away. you let the beat stretch.

and then—finally—you turn your head.

you take him in slowly, assessing him like he’s just another piece of the ruin you both helped make.

he’s nearly as wrecked as you.

his eyes, usually sharp and cutting, are glazed now—blissed out and low-lidded, the haze of fresh blood making him look dream-drunk. the edge of hunger has dulled, but there’s still a flicker of it twitching beneath the surface, just behind his stare.

his mouth is painted in blood—smudged at the corners, clinging to the cut of his lips, dripping slightly down his chin where he hadn’t bothered to wipe it. it shines dark red in the low light, almost black.

his bangs stick to his forehead, damp with sweat. they curl there like they’ve been plastered by heat, and the flush of his cheeks hasn’t faded yet—skin glowing faintly with the kind of heat that only comes after a good feed or a good fuck.

he looks like sin incarnate.

you shift your weight, rising slowly, and the man beneath you crumples with a dull thud as the support of your body disappears.

his limbs sprawl unnaturally, like a puppet cut from its strings, blood still seeping in slow pulses from the gaping mess you left at his throat. the sound of him hitting the ground is wet, final.

you don’t spare him a glance.

instead, you lift yourself with unhurried grace, spine uncoiling like something that had been crouched for far too long. your movements are liquid, slow and feline, a dark silhouette dripping in blood and silence.

he watches you—closely.

your bare feet pad across the dirt, sticky with blood. the hem of your dress clings to your thighs, soaked heavy and dark where it brushed the man’s body. your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, still pulsing with the aftershock of the feed, and your mouth hangs just barely open, fangs still bared, still glistening.

his eyes follow the way your body straightens, the way your shoulders roll back, like you’re shedding the last traces of restraint. the moonlight cuts across your face and catches the smear of blood on your jaw, the glint of your fangs, the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to your collarbone.

“there she is,” he murmurs.

the corner of his mouth twitches up into a crooked grin—tired, cocky, a little too pleased. like this—this—was what he was waiting for.

you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “you like watching me work?”

he leans against the nearest tree, dragging the back of his hand across his bloody mouth, smearing it further across his cheekbone. “like watchin’ you lose yourself.”

you move toward him with slow steps, not quite a threat, but nothing soft either.

“don’t pretend you’re any different,” you murmur, voice low, thick with the haze of bloodlust. “i saw the way you looked… like you wanted to crawl inside the taste of it.”

he chuckles under his breath. “i do.” he tilts his head, exposing the faint trail of someone else’s blood dried down the side of his neck. “but you—you wear it better.”

you pause a foot away from him, your eyes locked, your breathing steady. the buzz between your bodies is palpable—shared hunger, shared ruin. the space is thick with it.

you reach up slowly, casually, and swipe a smear of blood from your own chin with your thumb. you suck it into your mouth, eyes still on him.

he watches your mouth, pupils dilating just slightly.

“you gonna clean me up next?” you ask, tongue flicking out to catch the last drop. “or just keep runnin’ your mouth?”

his grin widens, lazy and slow.

“depends,” he says, voice rough. “you gonna let me touch?”

your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you can try.”

you stand there, locked in place.

the air between you is taut—buzzing. you don’t move. neither does he. just a long, heavy stare.

his gaze drifts—slow, deliberate—down the length of you, taking in the blood still slicking your skin, the way your chest rises and falls in the aftermath, the gleam of something unspoken in your eyes.

you stare right back.

daring him.

until, finally, he looks away.

his jaw shifts, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek, and he lets out a soft, short breath before turning and stepping past you.

he walks over to the body. the man’s limbs are splayed awkwardly, his blood already cooling in the dirt, dark and tacky. remmick crouches beside him and reaches for what’s left of his neck, his fingers curling beneath the mangled jaw with unsettling ease. the body lifts like it weighs nothing.

“still feed like a newborn,” he mutters, turning the man’s head slightly in his grip.

you scoff behind him. “you feed the same. like you’ve got something to prove.”

he glances back at you, an eyebrow raised—but there’s no humor in his eyes.

then he returns to the task at hand.

he angles the corpse’s neck so you can see it clearly, fingers firm against the ruined skin. even in the shadows, the tear of flesh is brutal—jagged, deep, too deep. bone glints faintly beneath the shredded tissue, and blood drips in slow trails down the man’s shoulder.

“you bit too deep,” remmick says, tone flat. “you went through tendon. nearly hit the spine.”

you roll your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. “and?”

his fingers slide from the man’s jaw, letting it drop back with a dull thump against the earth.

he rises slowly, brushing his hands against his trousers like the blood might bother him, though you both know better.

“you’re gonna kill someone too quick if you keep doin’ that,” he says, tone half-scolding, half-something else. “not everything’s a damn frenzy.”

you shift your weight, eyes narrowing slightly. “says the one who’s usually elbow-deep in someone’s ribcage.”

he smirks faintly, but it doesn’t last long.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “but i know how deep to go.”

you watch him—still blood-stained, still smug—as he dusts his palms off on his trousers like he hadn’t just chastised you over a corpse.

your tongue presses to your fang, jaw working.

“if you were planning to scold me,” you say, voice cool but edged, “maybe you should’ve thought twice before taking my life.”

he freezes—just for a moment—but it’s there.

you see the tension settle between his shoulder blades. the way his jaw tics before he scoffs, shaking his head like you’ve said something tired. old. rehearsed.

“you done?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer.

he bends at the knee and grabs the dead man by the ankle, lifting his leg and beginning the slow drag through the underbrush. leaves crunch under the weight. the man’s head bumps unevenly over a tree root, but remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pause.

you follow, your steps light, steady, a stark contrast to the corpse thudding behind him.

“you didn’t have to turn me,” you go on, pace quickening so you can stay at his side. “you made a choice. and now you act like i’m the burden.”

“you think i wanted to?” he snaps, barely turning his head toward you. “you think i was just lookin’ to babysit some brat with no control?”

“then why the fuck did you do it?” you bark, walking faster now, matching his stride. “you should’ve let me die.”

he stops.

the sudden halt makes the corpse slide forward a few inches, dead weight tugging his arm. he doesn’t look at you right away—just stands there, his breath curling into the cool air, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.

then, slowly, he turns to you.

“maybe i should have,” he says. quiet. flat. but the edge of it slices through the space between you.

you swallow sharply.

your voice drops low, sharp. “then do it now. finish the job.”

he lets go of the man’s leg.

the body hits the dirt with a dull thud, forgotten for the moment as remmick steps toward you.

“you really want me to?” he says, close now—close enough that you can see the dried blood at the corner of his mouth, the twitch in his brow. “because you run your mouth like you don’t care, but if I left you in this forest, alone, no one would find you. you’d rot out here with your teeth bared and your pride clutched to your chest.”

“better than being your mistake,” you hiss.

he laughs—sharp, bitter.

“you’re not a mistake,” he mutters. “you’re a fuckin’ reminder.”

that shuts you up for half a second. just long enough for the weight of the words to land between you, heavy and cold.

and then—

“fuck you,” you say, too quiet, too tight.

he nods once, jaw working again.

“you already did.”

remmick exhales sharply through his nose, then bends again to grab the corpse’s leg, the man’s boot scraping across the dirt. he doesn’t say another word as he resumes dragging him deeper into the woods, like the conversation—like you—no longer matters.

but that silence makes your blood roar hotter.

you close the distance between you in two steps, your hand snapping out to grab his wrist—tight.

“i don’t need you to do anything for me.”

your grip tightens, and he stops walking.

his head turns slowly, eyes flicking down to your hand on his arm, then back up to your face. his expression is unreadable—but that smug edge creeps in as his lips curl.

“no,” he mutters. “you just wouldn’t do it properly.”

that’s it.

that’s the spark.

you shove him.

hard.

his body jolts backward, boots skidding in the loose dirt as he stumbles a step—two—before catching himself. the corpse thuds to the ground beside him, limp and discarded again.

remmick straightens slowly, his head turning toward you.

his eyes are darker now—dilated, wild. all that cool detachment stripped away. what replaces it is something raw and mean, something that’s simmered under his skin for too long.

you don’t even have time to react before he’s on you.

his hand is at your throat, slamming you back against the nearest tree. the bark scrapes your spine as your back hits the trunk, and your breath catches in your chest—not from fear, but from the sheer force of him.

his body presses close, arm pinning you in place, the scent of blood and sweat rising thick between you.

his grip tightens just enough to remind you who’s stronger.

“think that made you feel good?” he growls, voice low and venomous against your ear. “pushing me around like you’ve got any power over me?”

your fingers dig into his wrist, but you don’t push him off. not yet.

your fangs flash as your lips curl into something dangerous.

“you think choking me’s gonna scare me?” you rasp. “you forget what i am now?”

his grip doesn’t loosen—but his breath stutters. just slightly.

there’s something between you now that isn’t just anger. something tighter. rougher. it thrums between your chests like a wire pulled too taut, trembling with everything unsaid.

for a heartbeat, neither of you move.

then he leans in, close enough that his mouth almost brushes yours.

“don’t tempt me,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “i might forget to stop next time.”

his eyes stay locked on yours for a beat longer, and then—

his grip tightens.

just for a split second.

just enough to make your breath catch in your throat and your pulse flicker against his palm.

he watches the way your eyes narrow, the way your jaw clenches even though your mouth is slightly parted, fangs still bared. the way your body doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t weaken—if anything, it leans in.

his breath is hot when he moves, lowering his head, mouth dragging close to your cheek, his voice curling against the shell of your ear—low, slow, and guttural.

“is that what you want?” he murmurs. “you want me to fuck you?”

the words are thick with heat and venom, not sweet or soft—not some gentle offering.

they’re a challenge.

his grip on your throat loosens just enough for you to breathe again, but he doesn’t pull away. his body is still flush with yours, his lips hovering at your skin, waiting. testing.

your fingers twitch at your sides, nails curling inward as his words sink in.

you hate how your body reacts before your mind does—how heat crawls under your skin, how your stomach twists, how your thighs press together without meaning to.

his breath ghosts against your ear, lips brushing so close you feel the shape of every word. he hasn’t pulled back. he’s waiting—still holding you there like he owns the right to, like you haven’t fought him tooth and claw every step of the way.

you don’t answer him.

not with words.

your hand shoots up, not to push him away—but to grab a fistful of his shirt. you yank him closer, the fabric stretching tight across his chest, and your lips barely graze the line of his jaw.

he laughs. low. dark. a sound that vibrates between your bodies.

“thought so.”

his free hand moves fast—grabbing your hip, dragging you against him. he pins you harder to the tree, the bark biting into your spine. the angle of it pushes your chest into his, and you can feel the tension rolling off of him in thick, unrelenting waves.

his mouth finally touches yours—not a kiss, not really. just the press of his lips against your lower one, the faint scrape of his fang when he pulls back.

“say it,” he mutters, voice frayed at the edges. “say it, and i’ll ruin you right here.”

your head tilts back against the tree, breath sharp in your throat. his hand is still at your neck, not choking—just holding. just reminding.

you swallow hard.

then you say it—quiet, hoarse, but without hesitation.

“do it.”

he growls—not a sound of frustration, but something closer to relief. like he’s been waiting to be let off the leash.

his mouth crashes against yours then, all teeth and heat and blood. it’s messy and immediate, your bodies colliding like neither of you want to be gentle. his tongue tastes like iron, like heat and rot and hunger, and you kiss him back like you want to devour him from the inside out.

his hand drags down your side, gripping your thigh, hiking it up over his hip as he presses himself harder against you. the friction sends a jolt through your spine, and when you gasp, he bites—just below your jaw, not enough to break skin, but enough to bruise.

he pulls back only long enough to speak again, voice rough, unsteady.

“you asked for it.”

his mouth crashes back to yours—hot, claiming, all teeth and breath and hunger—but this time, he doesn’t rush. he drags it out. lets the kiss linger with purpose, lips parting slow as his tongue slides against yours, tasting the blood still caught between your teeth.

his hand is still braced at your throat, fingers splayed wide across your skin, thumb brushing over your pulse like a warning. he’s not squeezing—but the weight is there. the threat of it. the promise of it.

your thigh stays hooked over his hip, the fabric of your dress bunched up between you. his palm splays against your leg, sliding slowly—up, down, up again—his fingers dipping just beneath the edge of your underwear but never quite committing.

you breathe against his mouth, low and uneven. your hands move to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt, feeling the taut muscles beneath the fabric, the way his chest rises and falls faster with every second that passes.

he breaks the kiss just enough to speak, voice hoarse.

“you feel that?”

you do.

he’s hard against you, pressing into the heat between your legs, rolling his hips slow just once—just enough to make your breath stutter and your nails dig into his chest.

he watches you carefully, eyes heavy and dark, like he’s reading every twitch of your mouth, every flutter of your lashes.

“don’t act like you hate this,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, then down your throat. “you need this. just like i do.”

his mouth lingers there—hot, open, fangs grazing your skin as he sucks a bruise into the hollow of your neck, right over where your heartbeat thrums. you gasp, hips shifting, trying to grind against him—but he pulls back just enough to stop you.

not yet.

he wants you to beg for it without saying a word.

his fingers curl tighter around your thigh, lifting it higher, spreading you open around his hips. the pressure between your legs is maddening, but he doesn’t move faster. he holds there, steady, thick tension curling in the space between you.

his lips drag back to your ear, breath warm and ragged.

“you gonna let me take my time with you?” he asks, voice low—almost gentle. almost.

but there’s something sharper underneath. something waiting to snap.

your answer comes with a breathless nod, lips parted, thighs trembling.

and that’s when he starts to move.

slow. grinding. letting the friction build, letting you feel every inch of him through the thin layers still separating you. he wants to make you squirm. wants to feel you come apart before he’s even inside you.

and you let him.

he keeps moving against you, slow and grinding, not rushing a thing—like he wants to drag it out until you’re shaking. your leg’s still hitched around his hip, and with every roll of his body into yours, the friction builds—just enough to keep your breath shallow, your fingers digging tighter into the fabric of his shirt.

he presses in again, mouth at your throat, his voice low and rough against your skin.

“you’re already soaked for me.”

you don’t answer—your head tips back against the bark, eyes fluttering shut, hips pushing forward on instinct. your body’s answering for you, the ache blooming too hot to ignore now.

his hand slides down between your thighs, palm cupping the heat of you through the soaked fabric, and you gasp—a soft, bitten-off sound that has him smirking against your neck.

but then—your hand shoots out.

flat against his chest.

not hard. just enough to still him.

your eyes open slowly. steady. clear enough now to mean it.

“not on the tree.”

his brow furrows, and he pauses, breath catching. “what?”

your fingers tighten into his shirt, grounding yourself in the memory.

“not on the tree,” you repeat. “last time… i’m not doing that again.”

something flickers across his face. he knows what you’re talking about. of course he does.

he stares at you for a second longer, the weight of it passing in silence.

then he nods.

without a word, he grips your thighs and pulls back—just enough to lower you down. he catches your fall with a practiced ease, guiding you, shifting your body as your back meets the forest floor. the dirt is soft from the season’s rains, warm where the moonlight filters in, and you feel leaves crumple beneath your shoulders as he settles above you.

the moment shifts again.

his hips slide between your thighs, and the position changes everything. wider. deeper. more.

his hand presses to the inside of your knee, pushing your leg aside as his other hand rakes up your side—slow and heavy—palming your breast through the fabric, fingers dragging over your nipple until you arch.

“better?” he asks, but it’s a murmur, distracted, because his mouth is already back on yours.

you nod into the kiss, and that’s all he needs.

he rolls his hips again, this time with more pressure—more intention—and your body bucks slightly, that sweet friction finally returning. 

he breaks the kiss only long enough to move—his hands sliding down your thighs, rough and steady, until they hook beneath the elastic of your panties. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t tease. just yanks them down in one clean pull, dragging the soaked fabric past your knees and tossing them somewhere behind him into the dark.

you don’t even have time to say anything before he’s reaching down between you, unbuckling his belt with one sharp tug. the clink of the metal, the drag of the zipper—it’s fast, practiced. impatient.

you watch him from beneath your lashes, breathing heavy, lips still slick from his mouth.

his cock springs free, hard and flushed, the head already glistening from the friction. he grips it once at the base, pumping lazily, the tip brushing against your inner thigh as he lowers himself again, settling between your legs like he belongs there.

then he presses himself to your folds—skin to skin.

hot.

wet.

so fucking close.

he doesn’t push in—not yet.

he stays pressed against you, the head of his cock slick where it grinds against your folds, sliding between them with every slow, grinding rock of his hips. 

he drags himself through the mess he’s made of you—deliberate, teasing, just enough pressure to make your legs tense around his waist.

you grit your teeth, a soft, involuntary gasp slipping free as he rolls his hips again, the ridge of him catching your clit just right.

his hand comes up to your jaw, not gentle—tilting your face toward his with a firm grip like he owns the right to do it.

“this isn’t you beggin’ yet?” he mutters against your cheek, lips brushing your skin.

you scoff, even as your breath shakes. “please. you’d come in your pants if i did.”

he laughs—sharp and quiet, his teeth grazing your jaw.

“you talk so much for someone who’s dripping for me,” he says, voice low and thick with heat.

“and you hump like a dog,” you snap back, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave lines through his shirt. “are you gonna fuck me, or just grind on me until you lose rhythm?”

his eyes darken.

his next thrust is harder. sharper. not enough to hurt—but enough to make your head knock lightly against the forest floor, enough to steal the breath from your chest.

“keep talkin’,” he growls, voice rough now, losing that smooth edge. “see how nice i am when i finally do.”

you meet his glare head-on, your nose brushing his, your mouths still inches apart.

“you’re never nice,” you say through clenched teeth.

he grins.

“you never ask me to be.”

his hand moves between your bodies again, sliding down, thumb circling your clit with purpose—slow, but with more weight. your hips jerk, breath catching hard in your throat.

he watches you closely—waits for your mask to slip. just a little. just enough to say he won.

but you don’t give it to him.

instead, you reach down between you, curling your hand around his cock where it grinds slick against your folds, guiding him lower—pressing him just a little harder where it feels best.

his breath stutters.

you smirk. “see? you need me to do all the work.”

his jaw flexes.

his hips push deeper against you. his cock slides through your folds again, slow and steady and maddening, catching against your clit in just the right way to make your legs shake.

the air between you is thick now—hot and tense, full of sharp breaths and sweat and hate and need.

his cock slides against you again—slow, heavy, dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. the pressure is maddening, just shy of enough. your hips push up on instinct, trying to chase it, to make him do something.

he groans under his breath, low in his throat. not soft. not sweet. it rumbles out of him like it irritates him to feel this good.

“you’re so fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, mouth brushing your jaw, breath hot and uneven.

you huff out a breath, trying not to roll your eyes—even as your legs tighten around his waist. “just fuckin’ do something, remmick.”

he rolls his hips into you—slow, grinding, the tip of his cock nudging your clit just enough to make your breath stutter.

“that feel like nothing to you?” he grits out, jaw tight.

you moan—quiet, almost unwilling—and dig your nails into his back, raking them lightly just to feel him twitch.

“i’ve had better,” you lie, panting through a half-smirk.

he chuckles, humorless and sharp. “you’re so full of shit.”

“and you’re still talkin’.”

his hand moves between your bodies again, fingers slick as they rub against your entrance, sliding slow, teasing like he knows you’re trying to hold it together. your thighs twitch, breath catching.

you grit your teeth. “if you’re not gonna—”

his fingers press just inside.

you gasp—sharp and sudden—and his mouth is at your ear again.

“shut up,” he growls, breath ragged. “or i won’t prep you at all.”

you freeze under him, lips parted, heart hammering.

his fingers slide in a little deeper, slow and firm.

your hips lift, chasing him, but you don’t say a word.

not now.

not with that threat hanging in the air between your thighs.

he smirks against your throat, his voice low and wrecked.

“good girl.”

remmick shifts above you, pulling back just enough so his cock isn’t dragging through your folds anymore. the sudden absence makes you bite down on a breath, your thighs twitching from the built-up friction he’s now denying you.

but you know what’s coming.

and he doesn’t make you wait long.

his hand slips back between your thighs, and without a warning—like always—he shoves a finger inside you. no slow ease, no gentle stretch. just a hard press and a quick thrust, like you were something he already owned and didn’t need to ask permission from.

you hiss, hips jolting slightly, but you don’t stop him. you never do.

this is the way it always is with him—rough, practiced, a rhythm neither of you ever talked about but both learned down to the bone. no sweet words. no slow tenderness. just the hot, grinding need that always boils over when you’re too pissed at each other to think straight.

he curls his finger inside you without mercy, testing your tightness, jaw clenched like he’s annoyed at how ready you already are.

“fuckin’ knew you were soaked,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

you glare up at him through heavy lids, your breath hitching again as he adds a second finger just as fast. no warning, no pause.

you grunt out a sound that borders on a moan and a curse, your hands grabbing at his shirt, balling the fabric into your fists like you need something to hold onto.

“you never warm me up right,” you grit out between clenched teeth.

he thrusts his fingers deeper, harder.

“you never fuckin’ need it,” he growls back, his voice right at your ear. “you’re always ready to get split open.”

his fingers work inside you, unforgiving, knuckles pressing flush as he pumps them in deep, fast strokes—just enough to loosen you for what’s next.

your head tips back, a sharp breath tearing from your throat as the pressure builds, low and hard.

“you don’t even fuckin’ like me,” you pant, voice breaking through the wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you.

he leans in, mouth brushing your jaw, his breath shaking just slightly.

“you think i gotta like you to want to wreck you?”

his fingers curl deep again, and your back arches off the forest floor.

you don’t answer.

because he already knows the truth.

his fingers pick up the pace—rougher now, faster, the wet slap of them echoing between your legs as he drives them in, over and over, knuckles deep.

you gasp, the sound cracking on the way out of your throat.

then another sound follows.

and another.

a whole leash of them.

high and broken and desperate—spilling from you before you can catch them, before you can remind him how much you hate giving him anything.

his eyes flick up to your face, and he smirks, teeth flashing, sweat beading at his brow.

“there she is,” he breathes, voice tight, rough with restraint. “already falling apart on my fuckin’ fingers.”

you claw at his shirt, trying to keep yourself grounded, but your hips keep lifting off the ground to chase the pressure. he doesn’t slow down. if anything, it makes him go harder—his fingers thrusting into you like he’s already imagining how you’ll take his cock next.

he leans down, his mouth close to your ear again, his breath hot and ragged.

“we just fed,” he murmurs. “you know what that means.”

you shudder under him, head turning slightly, cheek brushing the dirt and leaves.

“means i get to take my fuckin’ time,” he growls, voice like gravel and heat. “means you’re not gettin’ just one position tonight.”

his fingers curl again, right against that spot inside you that makes your legs twitch and a choked moan claw its way out of your chest.

“means i’m gonna bend you over every surface i can find—fuck you against trees, drag you into the creek, put you on your knees in the goddamn dirt if i feel like it.”

you moan again, louder this time, and he grins like he just won something.

“gonna keep fuckin’ you till you forget your own fuckin’ name.”

your body jerks beneath him, the pleasure coiling too fast now—too deep. your cunt clenches around his fingers, your thighs tightening as another broken sound spills out of you.

“already close, aren’t you?” he taunts, pumping harder. “already so fuckin’ close and i haven’t even given you my cock yet.”

you try to snap back—try to spit something at him—but it dies in your throat as his thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing tight, fast circles in time with the brutal pace of his fingers.

your back arches. your mouth falls open.

he leans in, voice a low, guttural whisper against your lips.

“come for me.”

it hits you fast.

hard.

your body tenses beneath him like a cord pulled too tight—and then it snaps.

your thighs lock around his hips, toes curling, your stomach tightening as every muscle in your body goes rigid. your back arches high off the ground, pushing your chest into his as the first wave crashes through you.

a moan rips out of your mouth—loud and raw, torn from somewhere deep in your chest, the kind of sound you never mean to give him but always do when it’s him.

your walls clench around his fingers, fluttering tight as he keeps thrusting through it, not easing up for a second. his thumb grinds into your clit with just enough pressure to send the pleasure spiraling, pulsing in deep, unbearable waves.

“that’s it,” he groans, watching you with that same fucked-out hunger in his eyes. “just like that. fuckin’ take it.”

you’re gasping now, mouth open, hands clawing at his arms—at anything you can reach—desperate for something to hold onto as your orgasm rips through you. your vision goes white at the edges. your body trembles under his grip, legs spasming as he keeps fucking you through every last second of it.

your hips try to jerk away, too sensitive, but he holds you down with a hand braced against your thigh, fingers still working inside you until the last ripple fades, and your body finally collapses back to the earth.

he pulls his hand away slowly, fingers soaked.

you’re still panting, chest heaving, lips parted as you try to catch your breath.

he stares down at you for a moment—eyes dark, jaw tight, his cock twitching against your thigh.

“that was just the start,” he mutters.

then he lowers his mouth to yours.

not gentle.

not slow.

just hunger.

pure and sharp.

your body sinks into the earth, boneless, dazed.

the coolness of the dirt beneath your back soaks into your spine, grounding you. your thighs are still twitching with the aftershocks—little trembles you can’t quite control. your chest rises and falls in ragged swells, lips parted, skin damp with sweat and heat and breathlessness.

you feel him watching you.

feel the weight of his gaze dragging across your body like another kind of touch.

then—smack.

a light slap against the outside of your thigh. sharp enough to make your muscles flinch.

“get up.”

his voice is low, hoarse, somewhere above you—but it feels far away. muffled through the fog in your brain, your ears still ringing from how hard you came.

another smack, this time closer to the inside of your leg.

“come on,” he says again, firmer now, but not harsh. “up.”

you blink slowly, trying to piece the words together as your eyes flutter open. the trees blur above you. moonlight cuts through the canopy in thin beams. the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and damp earth.

you shift, slowly, arms bracing behind you as you sit up, body heavy and unsteady.

and when you do—

he’s there.

standing above you.

his pants pushed down around his thighs, cock flushed and hard, slick with your wetness from all the grinding earlier. it stands just inches from your face, bobbing slightly with the rhythm of his breath.

you tilt your head up, dazed eyes meeting his.

he looks down at you like he’s already imagining what you’ll do next—like he knows you’re still too fucked-out to put up a real fight. like he’s not going to ask permission this time, because you already gave it—back there, when you moaned his name like it belonged to you.

his fingers reach out, brush a strand of hair from your cheek.

“open,” he murmurs.

not a demand.

not a question.

just what comes next.

you blink up at him, still catching your breath—lips slightly swollen, jaw slack from how hard you’ve just unraveled. your eyes are half-lidded, lashes damp with sweat, and your body’s still trembling in soft waves that roll under your skin like an aftershock.

he’s waiting.

watching you.

his cock inches from your mouth, heavy and flushed, the tip shining.

you shift onto your knees, slow and unsteady, tongue darting out just barely to wet your lips. your fingers curl into the dirt beside your thighs for balance, the coolness grounding you.

then you look up at him—eyes dark, mouth twitching into something like a smirk, breath still ragged.

“you always get so eager when i’m too fucked-out to bite,” you pant, voice low and edged in defiance. “what happened to all that stamina, huh?”

his jaw flexes.

his fingers twist into your hair.

and without a word—he thrusts forward.

your breath catches as the head of his cock pushes past your lips, hot and thick, filling your mouth before you can finish the next breath. your throat tightens instinctively, hands bracing on his thighs as he presses deeper, forcing you to take more of him.

your smirk dies right there.

his other hand settles at the back of your neck, not choking—just holding you in place, controlling the pace as your lips seal around him.

he pulls back just enough for you to inhale, then pushes in again—slow, steady, but firm. claiming. wiping the words from your mouth like they didn’t matter.

“thought i told you to shut up,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, hips rocking forward again, sliding over your tongue. “open that smart mouth just a little wider for me.”

you do.

because you can’t do anything else now.

he groans when you relax into it, jaw loosening as your tongue curves under him, taking him deeper.

he groans low as your mouth stretches around him, the heat of you pulling a shiver straight up his spine.

your fangs—once bared and threatening—are gone now. they’d receded when you came, sharp edges dulled back into flesh, leaving your mouth soft, wet, open. your lips mold around him without danger, without that usual threat lingering behind every gasp and growl. and he knows it. feels it. takes his time because of it.

he fucks your mouth slow.

not lazy—just measured. deliberate.

each stroke is long and steady, hips rolling forward with the kind of practiced control that makes you ache more than if he were rough. your breath flutters hot through your nose, fingers still gripping his thighs, holding tight every time he pushes a little deeper.

he watches your face the entire time.

the drag of his cock over your tongue. the way your lashes flutter, lips stretched wide and glossy with spit. the way your throat works to take him.

“look at you,” he mutters, voice raw with want. “all that mouth earlier—and now it’s full.”

he brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek, feeling how you hollow it out for him, how warm and tight your mouth is wrapped around him.

you hum low in your throat—something dark and smug—and he groans when the vibration ripples down his shaft.

you pull back slightly, just enough for the head to sit on your tongue, eyes lifting to his with a heavy-lidded, deliberate look.

he twitches.

“don’t fuckin’ tease,” he growls, hand tightening in your hair.

your lips curl around the tip, breath hot against his skin. and though you don’t speak, your expression says it all.

make me.

he pushes forward again, slow and steady, burying himself deeper—your jaw stretching, drool spilling from the corner of your mouth as he holds you there for a moment, not cruel, but commanding.

then he eases out again, a slick sound filling the space between you.

“you like this?” he mutters, voice tight. “that pretty little mouth ruined and wet for me?”

your fingers dig into his thighs in response, nails biting into his skin—not enough to stop him. just enough to remind him you’re still in this.

still sharp.

even if your teeth are gone for now.

his grip in your hair tightens, thumb brushing along your jaw as he begins to move with more purpose now.

slow fades to steady.

steady builds to deep.

his hips roll forward in controlled thrusts, each one pushing his cock deeper across your tongue, your throat tightening around him with every slow, fluid stroke. spit pools at the corners of your mouth, thick and messy, stringing down your chin as your lips stretch to take him.

he groans—low and guttural—the sound curling down your spine like smoke.

“fuck—just like that,” he breathes, voice unsteady now, the tension finally threading into his tone. “knew you’d take it. always do.”

you let him.

you open wider, relax your jaw, let him guide your head as he rocks into you, deeper each time. your fangs remain tucked away, your mouth pliant and warm, slick and safe—for now.

his head tips back briefly, throat flexing as he grits his teeth, and his next thrust pushes past the threshold of comfort, nudging the back of your throat. your hands grips his thighs, fingers tightening—not to stop him, just to brace.

he notices.

he always notices.

“too much?” he rasps, voice dark and knowing.

you blink up at him, eyes sharp through the haze, and deliberately flatten your tongue against him, sucking gently as he slides back just a bit.

a silent answer.

no.

his jaw flexes, breath shuddering.

“you’re fuckin’ filthy,” he mutters, hand guiding your head now with a little more force, his cock slipping deeper with each pass of your lips. “always actin’ like you hate me… till you’re down here like this.”

you gag once—just barely—as he pushes deeper, and his hand slips from your hair to the side of your face, steadying your jaw as he pulls back slightly, dragging your mouth with him.

he doesn’t stop.

he’s watching every reaction—your watering eyes, the slick trail down your chin, the soft sounds breaking in your throat each time his hips meet your lips.

you suck harder.

just to hear him swear under his breath again.

and he does.

“jesus fuck—”

the pace picks up now, steady and deep, each thrust pressing into your mouth with a little more urgency, his hips rolling in tight circles as the tension coils higher in his stomach.

his hips jerk forward harder now—deeper, rougher.

the last of that controlled rhythm shatters as the tension inside him snaps tighter, and you feel the shift immediately. his cock drives into your mouth with sharper thrusts, his grip on your face firmer now, thumbs braced against your cheeks as he holds your head in place.

your throat flexes, taking him, swallowing around each deep stroke as he begins to fuck your mouth in earnest.

no more teasing.

no more patience.

just the sound of slick, wet movement and the heavy slap of his hips against your face.

drool pours from the corners of your mouth, coating your chin, soaking your neck, and still—you take him. your hands gripping his thighs for balance, your fingers digging deep with every thrust that pushes you closer to the edge of breath.

your eyes flutter, lashes damp, and through the blur you see him—head tipped back, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like he’s fighting for air he doesn’t need. he groans your name under his breath, low and guttural, his body trembling with restraint as he buries himself to the hilt.

your gag reflex kicks once, and he hisses at the tight clench around him—but doesn’t stop.

his fingers slip back into your hair, fisting at the roots now, dragging your head into each thrust. your nose brushes the base of him again and again, the scent of skin and sweat and sex overwhelming every inhale.

“fuck—look at you,” he growls, voice frayed. “takin’ all of it… mess all over your fuckin’ face—god—”

you moan around him, the sound muffled and wet, and he nearly stumbles.

his cock twitches on your tongue, and his hips falter for half a second before he pulls out with a wet gasp—your mouth popping free, spit trailing from your lips to his tip in thick, glossy strands.

you cough once, chest heaving as air rushes in, your chin glistening, lips swollen and red.

he looks down at you—jaw tight, eyes blown wide with lust and something that might almost look like desperation.

“you want me to come in your mouth,” he breathes, voice wrecked, “or you want to feel it while i fuck you?”

your breath stutters as you lick your swollen lips, spit still strung between them in glossy threads. your throat aches in the best way, jaw loose and trembling, chest heaving as you look up at him through damp lashes.

you meet his eyes—dark and wild above you—and without flinching, without shame, you pant out:

“come in my mouth.”

his body jolts like you hit something vital.

his cock twitches in his grip, and for a second, his head tilts back with a groan so guttural it rips straight from his chest. like he wasn’t expecting you to say it. like he needed to hear it.

“fuck—” it spills out of him.

then he’s grabbing your face again, cock lining up with your mouth before you can even brace—

and he thrusts back in.

deep.

rough.

completely undone.

his hips piston forward with no more caution, no rhythm—just desperate need. he fucks into your mouth with ragged, broken groans, his hands guiding your head, holding you where he wants you.

your lips stretch around him, your throat working as he drives in over and over again, the head of his cock slamming into the back of your throat. spit and precum mix, flooding your mouth.

his thighs tense beneath your hands.

his breathing turns sharp. erratic.

“fuck—fuck—”

he buries himself deep.

your nose pressed to his skin. your throat stretched.

and he comes.

hot and thick, pulsing across your tongue in heavy waves. he groans through gritted teeth, his body shaking with the force of it, one hand still gripping your hair like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart.

you swallow around him, slow and steady, milking every last drop as his cock twitches one final time against your tongue.

he pulls back slowly, panting, your lips slipping off with a wet pop.

your mouth is wrecked—slick, red, chin soaked with spit—but you stare up at him like you’re proud of it.

and he looks down at you—spent and sweat-slicked.

the forest is quiet now, save for the twin sounds of both of your breathing—harsh, uneven, loud against the backdrop of crickets and wind.

remmick stands there for a moment, still flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just fought something off—or given in to something bigger than him. his cock hangs slick and softening, glistening with spit and release, while your mouth remains parted, lips bruised and wet.

you’re both panting.

your knees ache from the earth beneath them. your hands twitch slightly at your sides, still trembling from earlier—whether it’s your previous orgasm or the fact that he just fucked your mouth like it was a goddamn promise, you can’t tell.

he blinks down at you, jaw still tight, sweat clinging to the curve of his throat.

then—without a word—he moves.

his legs bend, and he slowly lowers himself down to the ground in front of you, knees pressing into the dirt, bringing you nearly eye level. not looming. not hovering. just there. his breath fans across your face, still warm. still shaky.

your eyes lock.

and neither of you looks away.

your chests rise and fall in unison, heat radiating between you in that narrow, electric space. his hands rest on his thighs, still twitching with leftover tension, like he hasn’t decided if he wants to hold you or shove you down again.

your gaze flickers across his face—his jaw, his lips, the flushed color still clinging to his cheekbones—and then back to his eyes.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

you just stare.

your breaths mingle. your bodies thrum. the dirt presses into your knees, but neither of you moves.

then, slowly, the edge of remmick’s mouth curls into something crooked—something smug.

his voice is low, rough with the ghost of a groan still clinging to it.

“think i’m gonna bend you over that log behind you,” he mutters, his eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before dragging slowly back up. “pull that pretty ass up in the air and—”

“no.”

your voice cuts in—hoarse, breathless, but firm.

his brows tick up, just slightly.

you sit back on your heels, chin lifted, lips still glistening with spit and cum, your jaw set in that way that always makes him pause.

“i’m riding you.”

he huffs out a breath—half a laugh, half something darker—and leans forward just a little, his hand dragging lazily across your bare thigh, fingers dipping into the sticky mess between your legs, his touch casual, claiming.

“you think you’re in charge now?” he murmurs.

you meet his eyes, unflinching.

“i know i am.”

he stares at you for a beat longer, the heat in his gaze deepening, thickening into something molten. something fond and fucked-up.

then he leans back on his heels, spreading his thighs wider, arms bracing behind him in the dirt like he’s offering himself up—but only because he’s letting you.

“then do it,” he says, voice low, eyes dark. “come take what’s yours.”

you don’t move right away.

you just watch him—watch the way his body shifts slightly under your gaze, the way his hands flex behind him like he’s deciding whether to keep playing along or flip you back under him.

but he doesn’t move.

so you do.

you lift your hand and press it to the center of his chest—firm, steady.

his muscles tense beneath your palm, but he doesn’t resist as you push. slow. deliberate. until his elbows give and his back hits the ground, dirt sticking to the sweat bleeding through his shirt.

he exhales through his nose, looking up at you now, head tilted, brow low.

“really think you’re in control, huh?”

you swing your leg over him and straddle his hips, settling on his thighs—not yet where he wants you, not yet where you want to be, either. just close enough to remind him who’s holding the rhythm now.

you drag your hands down his chest, then lower one between your bodies, fingers curling around the base of his cock. he’s soft—but only just. still slick with your spit and his release, still sensitive, still warm in your palm.

you stroke him slow.

long, unhurried pulls from base to tip.

his hips twitch beneath you, a soft grunt slipping from his lips as you work him back to life, each stroke coaxing blood to the surface, swelling him under your touch.

he grows harder in your hand by the second—thick and flushed, pulsing faintly against your palm.

you glance down between your bodies, watching the way your hand looks wrapped around him, the way he throbs with every stroke.

his breath is heavier now, chest rising under yours.

“you always this smug when you’re sittin’ on my cock,” he mutters, voice low, lips curling just slightly.

you keep stroking him, pace steady, fingers tightening just a little.

“i haven’t sat yet,” you whisper.

and the way his body reacts—hips twitching, eyes darkening—tells you he’s ready for it.

you keep your hand wrapped around him, pumping slow, steady—watching the way his face tightens every time your palm twists just right near the tip.

he’s hard now. thick and throbbing beneath you.

and still, you don’t sit.

you drag it out.

your other hand slides up his chest, nails grazing lightly across the ridges of his abdomen, up to his ribs, his sternum, until your fingers wrap loosely around his throat—not squeezing. not even applying pressure. just a warning. 

his eyes flicker.

his hands stay planted in the dirt at his sides, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back from grabbing your hips and flipping you straight onto your back.

good.

you lean in just enough to murmur near his mouth, lips barely brushing.

“what was that about bending me over?” you ask, voice quiet and mocking, breath warm on his tongue. “say it again.”

he growls low in his throat, hips bucking up into your hand, but he still doesn’t touch you.

his lips part, eyes heavy-lidded, but you cut him off before he can speak.

you release him.

his cock twitches as your hand slips away, and he makes a sound in his chest—frustration, hunger, maybe both—but you’re already reaching lower, gathering the hem of your dress in your fists.

you rise slightly onto your knees, pulling the fabric up and over your head—slow, sensual, like you know he’s watching every inch of skin as it’s revealed.

your breasts bounce free first, and then your stomach, your hips, the stretch of your thighs. the whole dress slides off in one smooth motion and drops beside you in the dirt.

you’re bare to the moonlight now, flushed and glowing, slick between your legs from everything he’s already wrung out of you.

his breath catches—he doesn’t even try to hide it.

then his hands are moving.

he sits up with a quiet curse, fingers flying to the buttons of his shirt. each one comes undone fast, desperate, not messy—but impatient. his chest is already glistening with sweat, muscles tight from restraint, and when he pulls the shirt off, he tosses it behind him without a glance.

now it’s just skin.

skin and tension and breath and heat.

you’re still straddling his thighs, naked and warm against his stomach, his cock hard and pulsing just below your hips.

he leans back on one hand, the other running slowly up your thigh, palm wide and possessive.

“you done showin’ off?” he asks, voice low and thick.

you smirk, hand dragging down your own stomach, fingers grazing your inner thigh as you shift your weight.

“you done watching?”

his grip tightens slightly.

“get on,” he mutters, breath catching.

but you lean in close, lips brushing his ear.

“make me.”

he groans, head tipping back slightly as your words settle hot in his ear.

his hand tightens on your thigh again, grip bruising now, restraint burning just beneath his skin.

“get on already,” he growls, voice rough and fraying at the edges. “before i forget how long i’ve let you play.”

you smirk down at him, slow and dangerous, hips shifting just enough to let your slick folds slide along the length of his cock—barely brushing. just enough to make him twitch, to hear him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“you want it so bad,” you murmur, voice low, taunting, “then line me up.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

his hand slides from your thigh to the base of his cock, thick fingers wrapping around himself as he holds it upward—steady, the swollen head brushing through your slick, gliding easy between your folds as you lift onto your knees.

you hover there—bare, flushed, glowing from your high—your entrance hovering just above him, breath coming faster now, chest rising and falling with the heat simmering low in your belly.

his cock nudges your entrance.

and you pause.

eyes locked on his.

slow. deliberate.

your thighs tighten, steadying yourself.

then, inch by inch—you sink down.

his head pushes inside first, parting you slow, stretching you wide around the thick head of his cock. your breath stutters, jaw falling slack as the pressure blooms deep, warm and all-consuming.

he groans—deep in his chest, guttural—his fingers digging into your hips as you take more, and more.

your walls clamp around him, greedy and wet, pulling him in as you lower yourself until your thighs are flush to him.

you sit there, fully seated, full to the brim, your body trembling slightly from the stretch, from the weight of him pulsing deep inside you.

his breath shudders.

your hands rest on his chest, nails grazing his skin, your lips parted as your eyes flutter half-closed.

“good boy,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

his hands flex on your hips like he’s about to flip you right there.

but he doesn’t.

he waits.

and that restraint?

barely there.

you stay still for a moment.

just sit there, fully seated on him, your walls fluttering around his cock—tight and wet and pulsing as he throbs inside you. the fullness stretches through your belly, deep and hot, grounding you in the weight of him. your thighs are tense on either side of his hips, hands splayed across his chest, feeling the hard rise and fall beneath your palms.

remmick’s breath is ragged.

his fingers twitch where they rest on your waist, every muscle in his body pulled tight with restraint.

“you gonna move,” he mutters, voice strained, “or just sit there makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind?”

you smile—slow, wicked—and lean in just a little, your lips brushing his without touching. your hips shift. just barely.

then you lift.

only a few inches. just enough to feel the drag of him leaving you, your walls clinging as he slips free—slick, hard, aching for more.

then you sink back down. slow.

his groan is broken. deep in his throat. hands clenching at your sides like he’s trying not to take over.

you start a rhythm like that—long, drawn-out strokes. lifting and dropping your hips with measured control, rolling your body like you’re dancing on him, using every muscle to squeeze and pull him deeper.

his head tips back. his jaw clenches.

“fuck…”

his voice is hoarse now, barely audible between the sound of your wet heat sliding down his length, the slap of skin meeting skin, the soft, breathy moans leaving your mouth with each descent.

you rock your hips in slow circles once you bottom out, grinding down on him, your clit brushing the base of him just right. your body trembles, a soft gasp breaking from your lips.

his hands roam your thighs, your hips, your waist—touch hungry, greedy, but not quite taking control.

“you feel that?” you whisper, voice sweet and breathless, eyes half-lidded as you start to move again. “feel how deep you are?”

he grits his teeth, nodding slowly, barely holding on.

you lift again, slower this time, and drop down with a soft moan, your head falling back.

“you’re gonna break if i keep this up,” you murmur, almost teasing, breath catching in your throat.

and from the way he shudders under you, the way his hands curl tighter into your flesh, you know he’s close to snapping.

just the way you like him.

your hips begin to move faster now.

no longer slow and teasing—still controlled, but heavier, more deliberate. each lift and drop brings a wet clap of skin, your thighs working around his, your hands braced against his chest for leverage.

you ride him with purpose.

your moans fall freely now—low and breathy, soft at first, then catching in your throat as your pace builds. your body is flushed, glowing in the moonlight, sweat clinging to your chest and collarbone as your rhythm grinds harder, deeper.

underneath you, remmick groans—head tipped back, hands gripping your waist as you fuck yourself on him like you’re trying to prove something.

he cracks first.

“look at you,” he pants, a crooked grin breaking across his lips. “bouncin’ on my cock like you’ve got somethin’ to prove.”

you moan through a smirk, riding him harder now, the bounce in your hips sharper, the sound of it filthier with every slap of skin.

“maybe i do,” you breathe, grinding down hard as he hits deep inside you. “someone’s gotta do the work.”

he laughs—short, breathless—before his hands tighten on your hips and slam you down a little harder, making your head jolt back with a sharp gasp.

“please,” he grits. “you’re the one desperate to stay on top.”

you lean down until your mouth is brushing his, your breath mingling, sweat mixing where your bodies meet.

“because you’d lose your fuckin’ mind if i let you have control.”

his eyes narrow, pupils blown wide with lust, breath ragged beneath you.

“you’re damn right i would.”

you slam down on him again—deep, fast, unforgiving—and his groan cuts through the trees, low and guttural, hands sliding down to your ass as he guides your rhythm now, matching your pace with just enough pressure to let you know he could take over at any second.

but he doesn’t.

“keep talkin’,” he mutters, jaw clenched as you ride him harder. “see if you don’t end up face down in the dirt next time.”

you moan at that—louder than you mean to—your nails dragging across his chest.

“sayin’ that like it’s a threat,” you pant.

your pace keeps climbing—sharper now, filthier, the sounds between you obscene, wet, and desperate. your thighs burn, your breath breaks in stuttering gasps, and still you keep going—grinding down, bouncing, rolling your hips in quick, punishing circles that make him groan your name.

the rhythm shatters.

control slips.

your hips crash down onto him harder, faster—no more teasing, no more slow grind. now it’s raw need, your thighs trembling with the effort as you bounce on his cock, over and over, slick and soaked and stretched wide.

remmick meets you with equal force, thrusting up into you with brutal snaps of his hips, his grip bruising at your waist, dragging you down to take every inch. the wet smack of your bodies slamming together fills the air, broken only by ragged moans and gasped curses.

you arch your back, spine curving, hair tumbling down your shoulders as your chest rises.

that’s when he moves.

he surges up, sitting beneath you as your hips keep moving, his mouth catching the swell of your breast. his tongue drags over the soft flesh first—hot and wet—before he latches onto your nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling around it as you cry out.

your hands fly to his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as you ride through the shock of pleasure, hips grinding down deeper. he groans around your nipple, the vibration sending another jolt through your body.

his fangs graze your skin next—light, deliberate. not piercing. just threatening.

a warning.

or maybe a promise.

you feel the points of them drag slowly across the sensitive skin just beneath your nipple, not breaking, but enough to make your breath catch. your cunt clenches around him at the sensation, and he feels it.

he fucking feels it.

“you like that,” he growls against your breast, voice muffled, hot, wrecked. “fuckin’ feel you tight around me.”

you grind harder in response, riding him fast, messy, wild. the sound of it grows louder, wetter, his cock sliding in and out of you like your body was made to take him.

he switches sides—mouth finding your other breast, sucking hard, fangs dragging again across your flushed skin. your cries grow sharper now, whimpers and moans tumbling from your lips with every brutal stroke of his cock, every graze of his mouth.

“remmick—” you gasp, your voice cracking.

his hands move to your ass, gripping tight, guiding your rhythm as he fucks up into you now with force—your bodies slamming together, fast, unrelenting.

it’s not tender.

it’s not sweet.

it’s hunger. blood-deep, soul-deep.

animal.

he doesn’t let up.

not when your back arches harder. not when your nails sink deeper into his shoulders. not even when you cry out his name again, sharper this time—needier.

his cock drives up into you with punishing force now, timed to the ragged rise and fall of your chest. and still, his mouth is on your breast—sucking, biting, dragging his fangs across your flushed skin until your thighs begin to shake.

“mine,” he growls against your chest, the word half-buried in heat, half-lost in the wet sound of your bodies slamming together.

you snarl through a gasp, fingers snapping up to grip his hair. you yank his head back, baring his neck, his jaw clenched and eyes blown wide with lust and something darker.

“you don’t get to mark me,” you breathe, voice shaking. “not without wearin’ some of your own.”

and before he can respond—before he can even smirk—you sink your teeth into the curve of his throat.

not with fangs. not to feed.

just to hurt.

he groans—loud, guttural—hips jerking up into you as you bite down harder, teeth pressing into his sweat-slick skin until you feel the faintest taste of copper. he hisses, fingers bruising your waist now as he thrusts harder, deeper.

you pull back, mouth wet, his blood smeared at the corner of your lips.

he stares at you—dazed, panting, wrecked.

then his hand snaps up and grabs the back of your neck, yanking you down into a brutal kiss, mouths crashing, teeth clicking, blood and spit and breath all mixing in the space between you.

he bites your bottom lip—hard.

you bite his upper lip in return, dragging your nails down his back as you slam your hips down to meet him again, cunt fluttering around him from the overstimulation.

your bodies rock together in rough, wild rhythm now—desperate to leave pieces behind. your teeth graze his shoulder. his mouth finds your throat. his fangs press again, just enough to sting, just enough to leave little indents in your skin.

no feeding.

just marking.

your hips stutter once, your breath catching.

“remmick—” you gasp, voice hoarse.

his hand slips down to your ass, squeezing, lifting you slightly before slamming you back down again.

“that’s right,” he groans, nose brushing your cheek, his voice breaking. “say it again.”

you do.

you scream it.

because he’s everywhere—in you, on you, under your skin now.

you’re not moving with rhythm anymore.

you’re fighting it.

grinding, bouncing, slamming your hips down every time he thrusts up—no sync, just raw collision. wet, loud, punishing. it sounds like war and worship in equal measure.

remmick grits his teeth, arms flexing as he grabs your waist and holds you steady. his thrusts get sharper, deeper, his cock driving into you like he’s trying to reach something no one else ever has.

your head snaps back, a wild moan tearing from your throat as he slams into the softest spot inside you, over and over. your nails rake down his chest—hard—leaving raw lines behind.

he hisses, and the second your hands lift again, he grabs both your wrists in one of his hands and slams them down against his chest, pinning you in place.

“stay fuckin’ still,” he growls, breath hot and furious at your jaw.

“make me,” you snarl back, legs tightening around his hips as you grind even harder, defiant through the slick mess between you.

he doesn’t answer.

he bites.

his fangs sink into the curve between your shoulder and neck—not deep, not enough to draw real blood—but enough to bruise. enough to make your body jolt.

you cry out, not from pain—but from the way your cunt clenches around him instantly, your body reacting without permission.

your wrists strain under his grip, but you don’t pull away.

you bear down on him instead, muscles tightening, your hips driving down harder as you clench around his cock like you’re trying to milk him on the spot.

he groans, guttural, eyes rolling back for a second as he thrusts up so hard your body jolts.

“fuckin’ hell,” he pants, biting your shoulder again, then dragging his tongue over it like a claim.

his grip loosens, and you break your hands free, immediately grabbing his face and pulling his mouth to yours—biting at his bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth before nipping down to his jaw, his throat, anywhere you can reach.

you want him covered in you.

marked.

wrecked.

he grabs your ass again, this time spreading you wider, holding you open for the way his cock drives up into you with violent precision. your whole body jolts with each thrust now, your tits bouncing against his chest, the burn in your thighs nearing collapse.

your voice is a mess of moans and curses and breathless growls against his skin.

“you’re gonna break me—”

“good.” he slams into you again. “gonna feel me every time you fuckin’ sit for the next week.”

you sob out a laugh and ride him harder, your fingernails dragging into his scalp, your entire body shaking with strain—but neither of you slows.

your thighs start to give out first—shaking, twitching, the strength draining with every hard, relentless thrust he pounds into you. your head’s spinning, mouth open, gasping through half-broken moans that catch at the top of your throat.

he knows.

he feels it.

the way your walls start to flutter around him, tighter, wetter—gripping like a vice with every grind of your hips.

his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that send sparks skittering up your spine.

you cry out—a strangled sound—and your whole body arches against him.

“that’s it,” he growls, fucking up into you harder, faster, deeper. “go ahead—come on me.”

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescent moons behind as your release finally rips through you.

your body locks up.

your thighs seize, stomach clenching, hips jerking uncontrollably as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave that doesn’t crest. it just keeps going—your walls clenching and pulsing around his cock in desperate, helpless spasms.

you moan his name again—louder, wilder, fucked-out and barely coherent—as your head drops to his shoulder, your voice catching in gasping whimpers as your body rides it out.

he doesn’t stop.

not even when you’re shaking.

he slams up into you again and again, riding your release as if it’s dragging him under with it. your cunt squeezes him so tight he grits his teeth and curses under his breath, fingers digging into your ass as he bucks up hard.

and then—he breaks.

“fuck—fuck—fuck—”

his cock throbs inside you, buried to the hilt as he comes—hot and hard—spilling deep, hips stuttering wildly beneath you as he groans through clenched teeth. his head falls back, mouth open, eyes screwed shut as the pleasure wrecks him, his entire body trembling under the force of it.

you feel every pulse of it inside you—feel the warmth, the tension leaving his body all at once.

for a moment, neither of you moves.

you just collapse against him—sweat-slicked and shaking—his arms wrapping around you tight, both of you panting into each other’s skin.

your body still twitches with aftershocks. so does his.

he presses a breathless kiss to your shoulder, lips barely grazing the bite mark he left there.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “you tryin’ to kill me?”

you laugh softly against his throat, still breathless, still shaking.

“maybe.”

your bodies are slick where they touch—skin to skin, heat layered between the sweat, the cum, the mess of it all.

you haven’t even caught your breath fully when remmick’s hands slide back down to your hips, fingers curling tight like he’s already deciding what to do with you next.

you lift your head, just barely, eyes half-lidded, lips parted—but before you can speak, his mouth finds your neck again.

this time, lower.

rougher.

his teeth sink into the space just beneath your jaw, right over where your pulse flutters against your skin. not a love bite. not soft. it’s marking again—harder than before. enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs clench all over again around his softening cock still buried inside you.

you gasp, body jerking against him.

he doesn’t pull back right away—his mouth lingers, tongue dragging across the sting like he owns it.

and then he murmurs, low and dark against your neck:

“still wanna bend you over.”

you exhale sharply, pulse stammering under his mouth.

“course you do,” you pant, voice tight, fingers gripping his shoulders. “you’ve got no imagination.”

he chuckles, low and dangerous, biting again—just beside the first mark, your skin already flushed and bruising.

“oh, i’ve got plenty,” he mutters. “you just keep wearin’ me out before i can use it.”

you roll your hips once, slow, grinding down just enough to feel him twitch inside you, your smirk returning even as your thighs tremble with aftershocks.

he growls softly—his hands gripping your waist tighter, strong enough to bruise, strong enough to flip you over and keep going if he really wanted to.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he runs his nose along your throat again, voice low and wrecked.

“you’re sore,” he says, matter-of-fact, like he can feel it in the way you flinch just slightly when he shifts his hips beneath you. “i can feel it.”

you lean in, mouth brushing the shell of his ear.

“and you’re still hardening inside me,” you whisper. “so what does that say about you?”

he groans at that—deep and ruined—his arms locking around you again like he can’t decide whether to rest or ruin you again.

he exhales a broken sound against your throat—half a growl, half a groan—and you feel it vibrate against your skin, deep and frustrated.

then his hands move.

he grips your hips hard, fingers digging in, and in one swift motion he lifts you off him. you gasp at the sudden emptiness, the stretch leaving your cunt fluttering and sore.

“remmick—”

he doesn’t give you time to finish.

you’re flipped.

his hands press between your shoulder blades and your lower back arches before you can think. your palms hit the ground, knees digging into the dirt. your thighs are still trembling, your body still soaked, but it doesn’t matter.

he needs this.

he kneels behind you, one hand palming your ass, spreading you open with a rough groan as his cock twitches back to full hardness.

“told you,” he pants, voice low, hungry. “still gonna bend you over.”

his hand drags along the curve of your spine, not gentle—possessive. and then you feel it—his cock pressing back to your entrance, slick and hot, nudging at your swollen folds.

you try to say something—maybe protest, maybe provoke—but all that comes out is a whimper as he thrusts back inside you in one long, hard push.

your breath punches out of your lungs, your arms nearly buckle.

“fuck—” you cry, hips jerking forward from the force of it, but he grabs them and yanks you right back, his cock burying to the hilt.

he leans over you, chest against your back, breath hot against your neck.

“too sore?” he murmurs, voice full of that smug, breathless heat. “say the word.”

you hiss through gritted teeth, glancing back at him with fire still flashing in your eyes.

“shut up and fuck me, remmick.”

he growls at that—and obeys.

his hips slam into you, pace brutal from the start. your hands claw at the ground, body jerking forward with each thrust. he keeps your hips locked in place, thrusting deep, hard, relentless. slick, filthy sounds fill the air with every connection of skin, every wet thrust driving into your overstimulated cunt.

you cry out, voice breaking, but you don’t tell him to stop.

you can’t.

your body’s burning all over again, the pain bleeding straight into pleasure, your mind fogging up as he pounds into you like he’s trying to fuck everything you just gave him right back out.

“take it,” he snarls, his hand gripping your ass, then sliding up your back to press between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest lower. “you wanted this.”

your cheek brushes the dirt, your mouth falling open as your thighs tremble violently beneath you.

“fuck, remmick—”

“that’s it,” he groans, slamming into you again, his voice dark and tight. “say it louder.”

his thrusts get heavier now—deeper.

every slam of his hips drives your body forward, only for him to yank you back again, your ass smacking against his pelvis with every stroke. your thighs burn, your arms shake, and your moans spill out in wild, breathless fragments you can’t control anymore.

“fuck… ”

it’s slurred. half a plea, half a curse.

he doesn’t slow.

instead, he leans over you, his chest pressing to your back, trapping you beneath his weight as he fucks into you from behind. one hand digs into your hip, the other sliding up your spine again, up to your throat, wrapping around the front of it—not tight, just there.

his mouth finds your neck.

not gently.

his teeth scrape down to that same bruised spot under your jaw, and this time, when he sinks them in, it’s not soft. it’s not careful.

he bites hard.

your entire body seizes under him, a strangled moan tearing from your lips as he growls against your skin, your cunt tightening around his cock like a reflex. he doesn’t draw blood—just leaves a mark so deep it’ll bloom in purple and blue by morning.

his hips piston into you harder now, desperate, messy. every thrust is brutal, precise, and possessive. the rhythm is fraying, breaking at the seams.

“feel that?” he pants against your ear, voice shaking with heat. “feel how fuckin’ deep i am?”

you sob out a moan, your fingers clawing uselessly at the ground beneath you.

“can’t get any deeper, remmick—”

he growls, slams into you again.

“yes i fuckin’ can.”

you gasp, choking on another moan as your body jerks forward with the force of it. your legs nearly collapse, and he holds you up like he knows, dragging your body back to meet every thrust like he’s molding you to him.

his hand squeezes your throat once, just a bit tighter.

“say it,” he breathes into your ear, his pace turning punishing. “say this pussy’s mine.”

you try to speak, but the only sound that leaves you is a broken, desperate cry as he hits that spot again and again, his cock driving deep, thick, hard enough to make your vision blur.

he bites your neck again.

your body shakes.

you can’t speak.

you can only take it.

and he fucks you like he knows it.

his hand is still at your throat, palm warm, fingers flexed. 

his mouth hovers near your ear now, breath hot and ragged as he drives into you over and over, your name tangled in the curse that slips from his lips when you clench around him again, pulsing tight and soaked.

“still fuckin’ fightin’ me,” he hisses, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “even like this.”

you snap back between gasps, voice hoarse, trembling under the weight of him.

“not fighting.” your hips jerk back to meet him. “winning.”

that earns a low, vicious sound from his chest. he slams into you harder—no rhythm now, just chaos and dominance, raw friction that makes your eyes roll back.

“keep talkin’,” he growls, hand leaving your throat just long enough to wrap around your hair and yank your head back. “go on—say somethin’ else smart.”

you gasp at the sting, scalp burning where he grips you, back arching deeper under his weight. but you don’t flinch. you grin through it, breathless and wrecked.

“this what you call fuckin’? feels like desperation.”

his rhythm stutters—just for a second.

then he drags your body up against his chest, your knees barely holding under the angle. one arm banded around your waist, the other still in your hair, pulling your head back until your neck’s exposed and vulnerable.

you’re half-folded over him now, fully impaled on his cock, your cunt clenching with every unforgiving thrust. and he’s not hiding the sound he makes—deep, guttural, soaked in obsession.

“you think i’m desperate?” he grinds out, voice wrecked. “you’re so fuckin’ wet, i can hear how bad you want it.”

you sob out a moan as his thrusts snap faster, harder, punching the air from your lungs.

his mouth’s back on your neck—biting, licking, breathing into your skin like he’s feeding off the sound of you falling apart.

you try to speak again, but his hand tightens in your hair and he yanks you back against him until your back’s bowed so deep it aches. your walls flutter hard around him, your body shivering under the pressure, too overstimulated to hide it anymore.

“you’re gonna come again,” he pants. “i feel it.”

you shake your head, breath catching—whether it’s defiance or panic, you don’t know.

your body gives first.

he releases the hold on your waist and your hands meet the earth.

your breath stutters, legs shaking beneath you as the tension inside snaps all at once. your hands claw at the dirt, your voice caught in your throat before it finally breaks loose—a raw, aching cry as your body convulses around him. the climax tears through you like a fire that leaves nothing untouched, nothing unburned.

and still—he doesn’t stop.

remmick’s thrusts stay deep, unrelenting, as if the sound of you falling apart is the only thing that could possibly drag him over the edge. he grits out your name through clenched teeth, his pace stuttering as your walls spasm around him.

his fingers bruise your hips. a breath catches. his whole body tenses behind you, and with one final thrust—deep, drawn out—he gives in too.

his breath leaves him in a low groan, drawn from somewhere in his chest. you feel it in the way he trembles against your back, in the heat of him filling you, in the grip that doesn’t loosen even after it’s over.

for a long, stretched moment, the forest is quiet except for the sounds of your shared breathing—ragged, broken, slowly coming down.

he doesn’t move.

not right away.

his chest stays against your back, his hands still heavy on your hips. the only sound between you now is the wind in the trees and the slowing rhythm of your breaths syncing.

eventually, you find your voice.

“you’re fuckin’ heavy,” you murmur, hoarse but strong.

he exhales against your neck. not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

“and you still talk too much.”

you don’t answer. not this time.

tag for dividers : omi-resources

[saudianna]

and if i say i just wanna be fucked into oblivion by landoscar

oblivion

i would agree. heavily. 🙂‍↕️

p in v | threesome | fingering | oral (m receiving) | overstim | might’ve forgotten sm stuff sorry

the moment the front door closed, you knew.

lando looked at you like you were a meal and not someone he'd just spent the past hour teasing under the guise of a group hangout. oscar had barely said anything—but that look in his eyes, calm and dark and focused, gave him away.

“upstairs,” lando murmured, finger hooked in your belt loop. “now.”

by the time they got you into lando’s room, your clothes were halfway gone. lando shoved your jeans down with no patience, kissing down your spine while oscar sat back on the edge of the bed, arms folded.

“what are you waiting for?” lando grinned at him, voice cocky. “thought you wanted to see her break.”

you didn’t even have time to react.

oscar pulled you toward him, hands finding your thighs—slow, deliberate. he kissed you like he was tasting sin, tongue sliding against yours, one hand cupping your jaw while the other snuck between your legs, teasing your panties down and groaning softly when he felt how wet you already were.

“needy already?” he whispered, dragging his thumb through your folds. “that fast?”

lando laughed behind you. “she’s been needy since the car ride. couldn’t sit still.”

and then they were both on you. hands everywhere. lando sucking marks into your shoulder while oscar sucked on your tits. fingers inside you. two of them. thick, slow. oscar curling just right while lando whispered filth in your ear.

“you like being our little toy, huh? getting used by both of us like this?”

you could barely nod—already breathless, body burning, hips rolling into oscar’s hand like you were starved.

and that was before they fucked you.

first it was lando—he always wanted to go first.

he bent you over the side of the bed, held you down by the nape of your neck, and fucked into you with zero restraint. oscar watched from a chair, stroking himself lazily, eyes locked on the way your body jerked every time lando’s hips smacked your ass.

“louder,” lando groaned. “wanna hear you.”

and you gave it to him—loud, messy, desperate moans echoing through the room while he ruined you from behind. his pace was relentless. he slapped your ass, tugged your hair, pulled your head back to kiss you between thrusts that left your knees weak.

“fuck, you’re clenching so tight—gonna make me come just like that.”

but he didn’t—he pulled out right before he did, groaning as he coated your lower back with warm spurts and rubbed them in with slow fingers like he liked the mess.

“now she’s ready for you,” he told oscar, smirking.

oscar took his time.

he slid inside you slow—so slow—stretching you all over again, his cock thick and deep, hitting angles that made your back arch and your moans come out strangled.

“that’s it,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “just feel me.”

he fucked you soft at first. long, deep strokes. fingers rubbing your clit in little circles until you were begging. lando leaned in from the side, feeding you praise and pressure.

“doing so good, love,” he whispered, pinching your nipples. “you can give us another, can’t you?”

you came the second oscar told you to—his voice calm but commanding, his thrusts speeding up just enough to push you over.

“don’t stop,” you cried. “fuck—please don’t stop—”

they didn’t.

lando sat behind you next, holding your thighs open, watching oscar rail into you while rubbing your clit, his other hand choking you gently as your body writhed.

“she’s twitching,” oscar muttered. “about to break.”

“let her.”

you sobbed when the next orgasm hit. your whole body shook. eyes rolled. drool slipping down your chin, thighs soaked, brain static.

but still—not enough.

they flipped you on your back.

lando slid inside again without warning and your body jerked. he laughed breathlessly, watching your face twist in sweet agony.

“you’re so sensitive now,” he said, panting. “and i’m not even being nice.”

oscar was by your head, feeding his cock back into your mouth, groaning when your lips stretched wide and drool spilled over your cheeks.

“such a good girl,” he murmured. “so full, and you still want more.”

your brain couldn’t hold a single thought. just sound and heat and pleasure and pressure. the overstimulation was unreal. every nerve was on fire.

you came again. and again. and again. they didn’t stop. they fucked you through every single high—held you, whispered to you, used you.

by the end you were wrecked. sweaty. ruined. eyes red, mascara everywhere, thighs shaking uncontrollably.

oscar pulled out and spilled on your chest. lando groaned into your shoulder, cock twitching inside you as he finally came too, warmth flooding your overstimulated cunt.

and then—quiet.

you blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, trembling, your voice a broken whisper:

“i can’t… move.”

lando chuckled, brushing hair from your face. “good. we didn’t do it right if you can.”

oscar leaned in, soft kiss to your cheek. “you asked for oblivion, baby. and we gave it to you.”

[vanteguccir]

i can’t stop thinking about when matt has been gone for a while and ur too tight and he gets frustrated because he keeps slipping out 😣

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTOO TIGHT * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Matt's cock keeps slipping out of Y/N after he was away for too long

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　SMUT (mdni)

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Matt had been gone for three long weeks, traveling with his brothers, and every day without him had felt like an eternity for Y/N. The moment he walked through the bedroom door, they barely managed to exchange a few words before they were all over each other, lips crashing together with full force.

Matt's hands roamed over Y/N's body, relearning every curve, every dip that he had missed so much. Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as if she could never get enough of him. They stumbled towards the bed, shedding clothes along the way.

By the time they reached it, Y/N was breathless, her body trembling with anticipation, and Matt's eyes were dark with lust as he looked down at her, his chest heaving.

"Fuck sweetheart, missed you s'much." He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth with a hunger that mirrored her own.

Matt's hands were everywhere, caressing, squeezing, and teasing, eliciting soft moans from Y/N's lips. He kissed his way down her neck, over her collarbone, and to her tits, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently before giving the same attention to the other. Y/N arched her back, pressing herself against him, desperate for more.

When Matt finally positioned himself between her legs, Y/N was already wet and ready for him, her body aching with need. He took his time, teasing her folds with the head of his cock, spreading her arousal over himself.

"M-Matt- fuck, please! I need-" She whimpered, her hips bucking. But as he began to push inside her, he found it difficult. She was so tight, her body not having had him for so long that he could barely get his tip in.

"God, babe." He groaned, his voice rough with need. "You're so tight... I can't..." He tried again, pushing slowly, savoring the way her body enveloped him, but just as he felt his tip slip inside, it popped back out.

The sensation was maddening for both of them. The brief moment of penetration sent jolts of pleasure through Matt, making his breath hitch, and his grip on her thighs tighten. For Y/N, the feeling of being stretched, even momentarily, was electrifying. But each time he slipped out, it left them both on the edge, the pleasure cut short.

"Fucking hell, angel. How could you even become this tight? Never been like this since I fucked y'for the first time."

Matt's jaw clenched in frustration, widening her legs even more in an almost painful way. He adjusted his angle, trying to find a way to ease himself in without losing control.

He pressed forward again, feeling the delicious resistance as her tightness gave way, the head of his cock slipping just inside her entrance, a sigh of relief escaping his lips, but as he tried to push further, he slipped out again, the sudden loss of contact leaving him groaning in frustration.

Y/N could see the tension in his eyes, the way his muscles strained, a moan escaping her lips with the vision, moving her hips against nothing.

"Damn it-" Matt growled, his voice low and harsh. "So tight, can't even take me properly." He pushed in again, only to slip out, and Y/N whimpered at the loss. "Pathetic, huh, angel? Desperate for it, and yet your body can't handle it. Can't handle my cock."

Y/N's breaths came in quick, shallow gasps as she felt him tease her entrance again and again. The brief moments of penetration were enough to send sparks of pleasure through her, making her body tremble. But each time he slipped out, the pleasure was abruptly cut off, leaving her whimpering for more.

Matt's frustration reached its peak. The need to be inside her overwhelmed him. With a growl, he gripped her hips tightly - knowing for sure her skin would be bruised by morning - and thrust forward with force, burying himself inside her in one swift, deep stroke.

Y/N cried out, her body stretching to accommodate him. The initial pain of his forceful entry sent a shockwave through her, but it was quickly overtaken by a flood of intense pleasure. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her eyes rolling back in her head as she struggled to breathe. The sensation of being so utterly filled, so completely taken, made her stomach flutter wildly.

"Fuck, angel." Matt groaned, his voice thick with desire. "Squeezing me so good- like y'were made for me."

"Oh, Matt-" She moaned, her voice trembling. "Shit- so good... so full..."

Matt's eyes locked onto hers, his own breath ragged.

"Y'okay?" He asked, his voice low and strained, a drop of concern despite his overwhelming need.

Y/N desperately nodded, her body still quivering.

"Yes... don't stop... please..."

"Never." He heaved, wetting his lips. "Never gonna let'y without my cock that long again, sweetheart."

© vanteguccir