#the jump scare of a lifetime | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rowarn · 1 year ago

Text

IF YOU NEEDED ME !

simon riley/reader – 7.1k words sale of a lifetime mini series !

tags: smut, childhood best friend!simon, virginity for sale trope, unrealized feelings, soft!simon, protective!simon, virgin!reader, afab!reader, no prns for reader

cw: loss of virginity, cunnilingus, wet & messy, fingering, creampie, mid-sex love confession, a little arguing but nothing crazy tbh, petnames (love, lovie, sweetheart)

; he remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. he never thought he was deserving of such happiness. but now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

or.

he may not have been the first man you picked to give your first time to. but looking back, you realized he was the only right choice in the end.

Meeting some unknown, shady guy out on the street outside of a seedy bar wasn’t the smartest decision you’ve ever made. Nor was it how you actually intended to spend your Friday evening. But it was the only option you had at the moment, so you swallowed your nerves and forced yourself to stay put at the spot the guy had chosen despite the fact that being out on the street made you feel x10 more nervous and vulnerable.

You could hear the loud music and chatter inside the bar every time the door opened to let someone in or out. There was a chill in the air that had you contemplating actually going inside and just telling the guy to meet you in there – you were about to give the bastard your damn virginity, the least he could be was accommodating to your temperature struggles. Plus, you could really use a drink.

A car, expensive by the looks of it, pulling up to the curb had you pausing in that train of thought. You recognized him from his profile picture when he stepped out of the vehicle – Lucas, you recall being his name. Whether that was really his name or not didn’t matter; all that mattered was he brought what he promised.

“You have the money?” you asked when he approached you, giving him a tight-lipped smile as a greeting.

“Yeah, got it in the car. All cash, I hope that’s alright,” he grinned, a sight that made a shiver go down your spine. His tone didn’t match the smile, all transactional and dull despite the glimmer in his eyes.

He wasn’t necessarily unattractive but he certainly wasn’t your type. There was a look in his eyes, one that made your skin crawl because you felt like you were nothing but a piece of raw meat in front of a starving, salivating predator.

“We should get going,” he said, hurrying to open the backseat of his car for you.

You paused, “Aren’t we going to go inside or something?”

He looked confused, grip on the door tightening for a moment before he bursted out laughing. When he saw the shocked look on your face he sobered up, “Sorry, sorry, that was rude of me. Sweetheart, this isn’t a date. I’m just here to get what I paid for.”

“Oh…” you swallowed around the lump in your throat at the condescending tone, humiliation making your cheeks burn, “Right.”

Tears stung the back of your eyes and you quickly averted your gaze so he wouldn’t see how much that stung. Of course, you knew it wasn’t a date. This was a transaction. But you at least thought you’d get to know the guy who was about to take your virginity. You should have known better.

A man who was paying for your virginity wasn’t bound to be someone you could trust to feel comfortable around. You quietly sigh, resigning yourself to this all for the sake of some fucking money.

You settle into the car, heart jumping into your throat when the door slams. It feels as if you’ve just sealed your fate and you can’t deny that you’re scared.

But there’s an envelope next to you that you can see stuffed with bills and you clench your fists, trying to calm your racing heart by closing your eyes and breathing.

You just hope this decision doesn’t cost you your life or something. You’d hate to imagine what that would do to a certain someone.

Suddenly, the car jostles. Your eyes snap open and you see Lucas is jacked up against the side of the car, a very familiar form caging him in. His scarred hands grip the man’s shirt in tight fists. You can’t hear what they’re saying but you can see Lucas is chattering frantically, gesturing wildly with his hands in an attempt to quell the angry man in the skull balaclava.

You curse to yourself, a different kind of terror shocking through your system. Lucas is thrown to the side and you wince at how hard he hits the pavement before the car door is jerked open.

You can’t even say anything before a strong, rough hand wraps around your arm, yanking you out. You stumble once you’re on your feet, falling right into his chest.

You try to pull away but his arm clamps down around you.

Lucas is cursing and screaming his head off, words you don’t even bother to try and decipher because you’re too preoccupied with the masked figure that made his sudden appearance. Nerves make your knees shake and from the look of pure rage in his eyes, you know you’re in deep shit.

Lucas opens the car door and slams it before driving off, tires squealing against the pavement before he vanishes. Along with that wad of cash that was going to be yours in just a short time.

Suddenly you’re angry, shoving your hands against his chest to get him away from you.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Riley?!” you shriek, shooting him the fiercest glare you could muster.

“I should be askin’ you that,” he sneers, “The hell were you doin’ with that prick?”

“I–”

“Don’t answer that,” he snaps, cutting you off swiftly, “I know what you were doin’. If you needed money that badly you should have told me.”

“It’s not your concern, Simon!” you cry, resisting the urge to petulantly stomp your foot.

You’re so pissed.

Simon Riley and you went way back, childhood friends. The two of you had always been in each other's lives. Simon especially was always there when you needed him, a beacon of safety and protection. Your best friend and someone you loved to the ends of the Earth.

But right now, you’re so angry with him that you can’t seem to think straight.

How dare he show up now, when you’re about to do the most humiliating act of your entire life. How could he show his stupid, masked face here when you didn’t even ask for his help in the first place for a reason.

“You are always my concern,” he shoots back, scarred knuckles turning white from how hard he clenches his fists, “I have always taken care of you. You should have come to me for help instead of puttin’ yourself in danger like this. You didn’t know that guy, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Anger makes your skin hot, sweat beading on your forehead, blocking out the chill that once made goosebumps rise. You feel ashamed that you were caught in this situation – that the man you’ve known your entire life knew you were about to sleep with some random asshole for a fat wad of cash. You don’t like that he’s made you feel ashamed and confronted you with it.

“Just fuck off, Simon!” you shriek, the only thing you can think of before turning on your heel and stalking away from him.

You don’t glance over your shoulder to check if he’s following because you know he most likely is – from a safe distance to make sure you make it inside your apartment alright but far enough that you can’t get mad at him for it. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that you feel a headache radiating down your neck.

By the time you reach your apartment, the anger has simmered and all you’re left with is a festering shame that makes tears fill your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself and quickly shuffle yourself inside, not bothering to check if Simon is out there or not. All you want is to get a hot shower and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend.

You do just that, letting the burning hot water scald your skin until you can’t feel any emotions except exhaustion. And then, you crawl into bed and let sleep overtake you without a second thought.

When you wake up, it’s clear that it’s late into the afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and shining painfully bright through the crack in your curtains. You groan and roll over, slapping the bed to find your phone.

You grab the device and unlock it, taking a moment to scroll through your notifications. There’s some angry messages from the guy from last night – cursing you out for setting him up to be jumped. It makes you roll your eyes before a particular notification catches your eye.

It’s from your bank – alerting you of a deposit.

You sit up straight in your bed, brows furrowed before your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see your bank statement. It’s more than you needed and you know exactly who was responsible.

You jump out of bed, not even bothering to dress out of your pajamas before you’re shoving some slides onto your feet and storming out of your apartment.

You’re so heated that you can’t even remember the walk to Simon’s place, your mind racing a million miles a second. You storm up to the door and slam your fist on it, the hard wood making your hand sting from how hard you pound.

The radiating tingle of pain is quickly forgotten when the door swings open.

Simon stands there, looking down at you expectantly. He leans against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an army-issued t-shirt that’s a bit too tight. The sleeves stretch taunt around his biceps and you can make out the swell of his pecs. It’s not very often that you get to see his tattooed arms, littered with scars since he tends to wear long sleeves most of the time.

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you, clearly having expected you. The apathetic look in his eyes just solidifies that you were right all along.

“What the hell is your problem?!” you cry without so much as a greeting.

He sighs, broad shoulders rising and falling with it before he opens the door wide and motions you inside. You duck underneath his outstretched arm, turning to watch as he closes the door and locks it.

He wanders into the kitchen and you realize you can smell bacon. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by your outburst nor does he seem interested in acknowledging your question.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, only solidifying how unperturbed he is by your display of anger.

“No!” you snap, “I want to know why you did that, Simon!”

He sighs again, much louder but doesn’t respond. You stand in the doorway to his kitchen, watching him plate his lunch – which is actually just breakfast food. He places the dish on the table and pauses, looking up at you.

“You needed the money, I had it,” he offered with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I was handling it on my own,” you say, “I-It was my problem to solve.”

“By sellin’ yourself to some prick?” he snarls, the anger he was masking coming out in a flurry.

“I wasn’t selling myself–” you refute but he slams his palms down on the table. His cutlery clatters with the action and you jump.

“I read that post you made,” he hisses, teeth bared, “There’s no fuckin’ reason you should be selling your virginity for some cash when I was right here the whole time!”

Your cheeks burn when he brings up your virginity, crossing your arms over your chest protectively, “I-It’s mine to sell if I want to! I needed that money!”

“And now you have it,” he says with finality.

He takes a seat and you stand there, fuming. Your jaw is clenched, teeth grinding together as your mind races to find a rebuttal. He begins to eat, taking large, fast bites that just shows how he’s been conditioned to eat quickly by the military.

“That’s not the point, Simon,” you huff, growing less angry and more frustrated by this conversation. You were just going around in circles.

“Then what is the point?” he snaps, snatching his empty plate and angrily tossing it in the sink. He turns to you again, a frown evident on his face, “You got the money you needed safely. That’s all that matters.”

“It’s too much money, Simon!” you cry, “I was selling something in exchange for it!”

“I care about you,” he says, “That doesn’t matter to me. What’s mine is yours, you know that.”

You silently glare at him, wishing that the heated stare would get through to him. He stands unbothered, staring blankly at you with his fists clenched by his sides.

You hang your head, sighing, “I-I can’t take your money, Simon, alright? I’m already in debt and I’m not going to be in debt to you of all people.”

“You feel like you owe me, is that it?” he asks.

You nod your head, heart rate spiking when he stalks towards you. You’re close enough to smell his body wash and aftershave, a painfully familiar scent that you adore. He stares down his nose at you, brown eyes lidded and lazy.

He reaches out suddenly, rough hand gripping your cheeks, smushing them together until your lips pucker, “Then give me a kiss as payment.”

“H-Huh?” you whimper dumbly, eyes wide in shock as his face grows closer and closer.

“It can be payment for a kiss, lovie,” he coos, syrupy sweet and soft, “Will that make up for it, then?”

The air in your lungs suddenly doesn’t feel like enough. This is a man that you’ve known almost your entire life so you’ve obviously thought about him in a romantic sense at some point. Hell, when you were a teenager you even had a crush on him. But he never once looked at you any other way than as a friend so you quickly got over it – or maybe that’s just what you told yourself. Because as you stand there, staring into his eyes, you realize that kissing him would feel like a dream come true.

You find yourself nodding despite the inner turmoil going on in your head. Simon huffs through his nose before leaning down and pressing his lips against yours.

There’s a shock of electricity that goes through you at the contact. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into the kiss, letting him take over. He works his lips expertly against yours, eventually abandoning his hold on your face in favor of wrapping his arm around your waist. You gasp into the kiss when he suddenly yanks you closer, your body pressed close against his.

He’s warm and sturdy against you, a solid form of muscle that makes you feel safe and content – just as he always has. His hands are big and rough as they grip your hips, kneading the soft flesh there as he gets lost in kissing you.

“S-Si,” you find yourself muttering without realizing.

He hums in response, chuckling when you continue to mindlessly kiss him. He pulls back, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around your throat, thumbing at your jaw as your eyes slowly focus on him, “What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

“I-I don’t…” you swallow thickly around the forming lump in your throat, “I don’t know. I just…”

“Show me,” he breathes, softer than you’ve ever heard his voice.

The sweet, tender look in his big, brown eyes is what gives you the courage to grab his wrist, leading it just under the hem of your shirt so he can touch your bare stomach. You give him a shy glance from under your lashes, hoping he’ll get the hint that you want more.

You want him.

Simon, in all his experienced wisdom, understands immediately what it is you’re aching for. His hand travels up further, pausing at your ribs, just under the swell of your breast. Your heart hammers in your chest when your gaze meets his. His eyes are lidded, long lashes obscuring his pupils but still burning into you.

He stares deep into your eyes, waiting for any sign of hesitation as his fingers creep higher and higher. You suck in a breath when he cups your breast in his palm, squeezing lightly to feel their weight.

A large, calloused thumb creeps up, passing ever so softly over your nipple until the bud peaks and hardens under the attention. You sigh at the feeling, new shocks washing over you that you’ve never experienced before.

Sure, you played with yourself plenty – you had a healthy masturbation life, you’d say. But you’d always just been focused on reaching an orgasm, never on the build up. You imagine, however, it would never feel as good by yourself as it does with him.

He pinches your nipple between two fingers and you whine, lips parting as the sound escapes. Simon takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. Your hands grab his shoulders, desperately clinging to his shirt as you lose yourself in the sloppy kiss.

Drool drips down your chin – it's messy and hot between the two of you. His hand switches to your other breast to give it the same attention as the other. You tremble in his arms, overcome by the insatiable throbbing between your thighs.

You shift on your feet, the fabric of your panties stick uncomfortably to your core. You’re so wet, wetter than you’ve ever been in your life. By the time he pulls back, there’s a string of saliva connecting your lips to his.

“You want more?” he asks, voice gravelly as he speaks, as if he’s drunk. You nod your head and he clicks his tongue, “You gotta tell me, sweetheart.”

“I-I want more, Si,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks burn as you admit it.

“Let’s go,” he hums, taking your hand in his as he leads you around the couch towards the hallway.

“Where?” you ask dumbly, hoping that making some kind of conversation would ease the nerves steadily building in your chest.

“The bedroom,” he responds, stroking his thumb over the top of your hand as if he can sense that you’re nervous, “Wouldn’t want to be stripped down in the middle of the living room, I imagine.”

“N-No,” you squeak, cheeks burning even hotter at those words.

You’re going to be naked. In front of another person for the first time. In front of him. Simon.

“There now, lovie,” he whispers as he shuts his bedroom door behind the both of you. He takes your waist in his hands, kneading the soft flesh there, “It’s alright.”

“I-I’m just–”

“Nervous,” he finishes for you, smiling softly when you nod, “I know. We can stop anytime you’d like.”

“I don’t want to,” you rush out, hands coming up to press against his firm chest, “Just…d-don’t be upset when I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The tender way he looks at you sets your heart pounding like a little rabbit. A ghost a smile appears on his lips, “I would never do somethin’ like that.”

“I-I know, I just…” you look down at your feet only for him to catch your chin in his fingers, pulling you to look up at him.

You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat, holding your breath as he descends down. His lips find yours all over again, as exhilarating and mind-melting as the first time.

Just the sweet, deep kiss he gives you has your nerves dissipating a bit – back to normal levels. You no longer feel the desire to flee, you just feel an intense longing and anticipation. You crave more from him.

As if sensing this, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. He slowly starts to pull it up, agonizingly slow. But you’re grateful for it, it gives you time to prepare before you’re bared completely to him. You lift your arms for him, a sign that you’re still okay with this.

He pulls it up over your head and lets the fabric drop to the floor. But he doesn’t look down, he continues looking in your eyes, softly pecking your lips as his hands cup your breasts once more.

When you sigh and lean into his touch, he finally lets himself break the eye contact. He sucks in a sharp breath when he sees how pretty your tits sit in his hands. He touches them softly, sweetly brushing over your nipples in admiration.

“Perfect tits, lovie,” he coos, chuckling when you whine in embarrassment.

His head descends, pink lips parting to take one of your nipples in his mouth. It’s hot but his tongue is soft when it circles and flicks at the bud. He sucks, popping off lewdly before switching to the other one.

The sensation makes you squeeze your thighs together, imaging what that would feel like around your clit. Your hole clenches around nothing, drooling messily into your panties. The fabric was so wet by now that it couldn’t soak it up anymore, leaving it to slick up your thighs instead.

Your core ached, a feeling only Simon would be able to soothe.

“Please, Si,” you finally break, whimpering pathetically.

He detaches from your breast, lips wet and swollen from the worship he had been giving your now sore nipples. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing brown and you were sure that yours looked the same.

He stands to his full height, nudging you backwards until your knees hit the bed. They buckled at that, leaving you to fall back against the bed. Simon’s bedding was soft, the scent of detergent and his own body wash filling your senses. You relax at the familiar, comforting scent, sinking into the blankets with a bashful smile on your face.

To Simon, you’re an ethereal beauty. You take the air right out of his lungs with the way you look at him.

He remembers the way you would look at him when you were children, all smiles and bright eyes. He never thought he was deserving of such happiness. But now, with you shyly covering your bare breasts, in his bed, he feels like he’s the only man deserving of you.

He scooches you up the bed, crawling on after you until he’s on top of you. Though you’re still wearing your pants, you feel so vulnerable beneath his weight. He’s heavy and warm and he smells so good. You can’t focus on anything except for him – he’s all around you and it’s exhilarating.

Feeling bold, you reach up and tug at his shirt. He pulls it off with ease, revealing his toned, scarred upper body. You can’t help but trace over some of the ones you’re familiar with – there’s one from a time he fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat that you had been crying about. He fell out of the tree on the way down, a jagged branch stabbing into his upper arm and slicing it open. There was another one from when you were teenagers, some other kids jumped him and he took a stab to his shoulder trying to protect you. You kiss that one and he softens, as if he’s remembering it too.

He’s always been there for you, an overwhelming presence that you simply couldn’t live without. The fact you’re here, in this bed, about to give him your virginity is something that you never would have expected.

And to think, you were planning to sell it off to some random loser.

“I’m glad you stopped me,” you find yourself whispering.

He looks confused for a second before he hums, nodding in understanding, “I am too.”

“I-I want it to be you, Si,” you whisper, the confession leaving you embarrassed. It’s true, all this time, you realize, he’s all you’ve ever really wanted. You had just buried it deep down so you no longer felt those sparks towards him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers back, as if the two of you are sharing some secret little moment that no one else can hear about even though it’s just the two of you in this room.

“You always do,” you respond, the words making his dark eyes light up.

He kisses you deeply, moving his lips slowly against yours. When your hands come up to grip the back of his neck, he takes that as his cue to move down to your neck, then your collarbones, down the center of your chest between your breasts, the spot between your breasts, and finally your navel.

You lay back, head in his pillows with your hands on either side of your head. You watch him, breathing labored as you wait for his next move. He pauses in his path, looking up through his lashes at you before his fingers find the hem of your sweats. You swallow thickly, holding your breath when he slowly begins to pull the fabric down. You lift your hips to help him, pulling your legs free while being careful not to kick him by accident.

He keeps his gaze on you until you’re settled back down into the bed and the pants are forgotten on the floor to be collected later. Then, he looks down.

Even though you still have your panties on, you know that the white cotton is soaked through and hides absolutely nothing from his view.

You watch as he licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly bone dry. His hands are burning hot when he touches you again, sliding over your thighs to your hips. He leans down, pressing his lips against each of your thighs.

His thumb reaches down, stretches over your pubic bone to touch the sticky fabric. You nearly jump at the sensation – someone’s fingers other than your own touching you there for the first time. Simon’s fingers.

As if he can’t help himself anymore, he tugs the waistband of your panties and yanks them down your thighs. You squeal when you’re jostled under the force.

He holds the material up and you’re mortified to see just how wet they are. He runs his thumbs over the crotch and you whine, drawing his attention from them. He drops them to the floor and returns his hands back to you, gripping underneath your knees, so he can spread you all the way open.

Your hands fly to your face, covering your eyes in embarrassment at how exposed you are. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing a kiss over the top of your hands before moving back down your body.

You peek through your fingers only to find him already staring at you with a sparkle in his eyes. He carefully spreads your slippery folds apart with his thumbs, the movement causing a wet, sticky sound to emanate from between your legs. The little bud of your clit is hard and twitching as it’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. When he’s sure you’re looking he leans down, pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. You stop breathing as you watch a fat glob of spit roll down the surface of the smooth muscle and splatter right on your clit.

“Si-!” your squeal of his name is cut off when your eyes roll back in his head as that sinful tongue slides right over your bud.

Your whole body twitches at that, hands falling away from your face so you can reach down and grab his hair. It doesn’t even seem like he notices your grip, focused on slurping up that sensitive nub into his hot mouth.

You choke out a moan, tilting your head back into the pillows as your back arches. It feels just as good as you thought it would when he was giving the same, lewd treatment to your nipples.

He continues to suck and lick your clit until your mind is completely blank and all you can think is him. Then, all at once it stops and he pulls back, letting your bud slip from the heavenly clutch of his lips.

“You ever have somethin’ inside you, lovie?” he asks, bringing up one of his fingers to swipe through the folds of your entrance, as if to show you what he intends.

You swallow to moisten your throat before nodding, “J-Just my fingers.”

“How many?” he asks, growing more confident in prodding at the tight little hole.

“T-Two,” you breathe, any embarrassment you felt long dissipated in the face of true pleasure.

“Alright, lovie,” he hums, “Just lay back, I’ll take good care of you, yeah?”

You nod and do as he says, turning utterly boneless against the blankets. The sweat already slicking your skin despite the fact you’ve only just begun makes the fabric stick to you.

He prods at your entrance for only a second longer before finally, he pushes his thick middle digit inside you. Your cunt is so wet and pliant that it hungrily swallows it up to the very last knuckle. You clench around it intentionally, getting used to the feeling of the foreign finger inside of you for the first time.

It feels so different compared to your own, thicker and rougher. The sensation is so strange but you can’t say you don’t like it – in fact, it feels amazing. You already want another, feeling like one just isn’t enough to give you that unknown feeling you’re chasing. It’s like you have an itch that needs to be scratched and only Simon can do it for you.

As if sensing this, ever the reliable one, he carefully introduces a second finger. The stretch is unfamiliar, a burn around your entrance following as he reaches the last knuckle on that one too. His middle and ring finger stuffed snuggly inside your gooey little cunt as you whine and squirm from the feeling.

Once you’ve adjusted, he slowly begins working them in and out of you. You slick up his fingers easily, streaks of creamy white coating his skin and making his mouth water. When he crooks his fingers up suddenly, prodding at that tender little spot inside of you, your entire body twitches and the most beautiful moan rips from your chest.

He can’t resist leaning down and trapping your pulsing little clit under the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t slurp it into his mouth like before, instead, he just licks over it, pressing it down with the muscle. Your eyes are rolled up and your mouth hangs open as you moan and moan, tugging mindlessly at his hair as he works you towards your orgasm.

It grows and grows, the unrelenting pleasure of his fingers fucking deeply into you and his tongue lapping sloppily at your clit like a mutt driving that knot in your belly to tighten. Drool spills out around his tongue, slipping down to meet his fingers where he easily fucks it into you – the added lubrication not needed but so very welcome with how much wetter and messier it makes you.

“S-Simon…” you pant, gasping to catch your breath as the pleasure makes it hard for you to even think.

He glances up at you through his lashes but doesn’t offer any other acknowledgement. There’s a knowing look in his eyes that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s going to wring this orgasm out of your little cunt whether you like it or not.

And fuck, do you love it.

The orgasms you brought yourself in the deep of the night, little hands stuffed down your panties as you played with your clit and stuffed yourself with your own fingers was nothing like what you were experiencing now. Simon’s thick fingers and hot tongue were torturing your little clit until your entire body started to lock up.

You looked at him desperately, unsure what was even going through your mind besides him and how fucking good you felt right now.

Just as you teetered on the edge of this orgasm, he suddenly changed up and swallowed your twitchy little clit into his mouth. He sucked, sending you flying over the edge with a shrill wail of his name. Your legs kicked and twitched, heels hitting him on the back as you trembled and shook through the orgasm that he eagerly fucked out of you onto his fingers.

He suckled your clit, swirling his tongue around it until it was too sensitive and you were tearily pushing him away. When he finally released you, slipping his fingers from your cunt, you were boneless and twitching on the bed. You didn’t even try to close your legs when he pulled away, giving him the perfect view to watch your cute little pussy clench and messily drool cum in the aftermath of your orgasm.

He popped his fingers in his mouth, eyes rolling and lashes fluttering at the taste of your cum tingling on his taste buds. As you came down, eyes closed and breathing heavy, he began pulling at his belt.

You could hear the metal clinking as he dropped it to the floor, peeking your heavy lids open to see him pull the button of his jeans open. As he slowly pulled them down, his underwear went with and suddenly you were more aware than ever.

His cock was something to behold. Thick and veiny, bobbing in the air where it hung – too heavy to actually stand upright. You’d seen dicks in porn before but none of them prepared you for Simon’s. Precum dribbled from the tip, creating a long, gooey string down towards the floor before it broke.

He wrapped a big hand around himself, giving a few good strokes as he reached down to cup his own heavy balls. The hair wasn’t wild or offensive, but neatly trimmed short.

“All good, lovie?” he asked, stepping out of the pool of his jeans and boxers so he could kneel on the bed again.

“All god-good!” you blushed as he laughed, leaning down over you to balance his weight on his elbows.

“You still want this?” he asks, hushed and sweet,

You glance between your bodies to see that intimidating cock, drooling messily over your skin. You realize, quickly, that you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

When you voice such, he looks relieved, like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. He sits back on his heels and spreads your legs, pushing your knees up to your chest.

“Hold them there,” he orders, which you follow immediately.

Your elbows circle around your knees, holding yourself open for him as he asked. He whistles low in appreciation when your cum-slicked cunt was spread and exposed for him to prod his cockhead against.

He swipes the tip up and down through your folds, humming appreciatively when your little hole tries to suck him in every time he grazes past it. He nudges your clit, the little bud still hard and sensitive from your orgasm but so eager for more. He couldn’t wait to grant your wish and make you cream on his cock.

You watch him with wide eyes as he starts to push into you. Your jaw drops as you feel that burning stretch, an ache settling between your legs as he continues to sink himself into you.

“F-Fuck, wait, Simon!” you squeal and he halts immediately.

He’s only reached just past the head of his cock but he reaches down to pet your clit. The pleasure shoots through you, making your toes curl and your walls relax around him. He keeps his eyes on your face for any sign that you want him to stop as he moves his hips again.

More and more of his cock sinks inside and his thumb keeps working little circles over your clit until his hips are flush with yours. Your voice breaks as you moan when you realize you’ve taken every single inch of him.

He’s heavy and throbbing inside of you and you clench around him intentionally, forcing a moan from his chest.

He leans down, arranging your knees over his shoulders, folding you up and pressing down on you. He’s heavy and it makes it hard to breathe but that makes it even better – the pleasure of being speared on that fat cock and being utterly helpless underneath this man is better than any fantasy you could have made for yourself.

“Fuck,” he snarls, rolling his hips back before rocking them forward again, heavy balls slapping against you as he does, “Can’t believe you were gonna give this little cunt away to some prick.”

“S-Si,” you whimper, biting your lip at the feeling of him slowly and carefully rocking his hips against yours, “‘M sorry, sh-shoulda been you all this time.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hums, “No one else gets to love you but me, sweetheart.”

“O-Only you!” you agree, nails digging into his shoulders when he hits that spot just right.

He can feel you soaking his cock, drippy cum lathering him up to make every glide of his cock wetter than the last. He sits back up on his knees, adjusting his grip so he can pin your legs wide open, giving him the best view of your greedy cunt swallowing his length up.

He begins to fuck you in earnest, pulling out halfway before sliding home again - nothing like the little movements he gave you to prepare you. He was going to show you exactly why you should only think of giving him this precious pussy for the rest of your life. No one will ever be able to fuck you as good as he can, he’s going to learn your body like the back of your hand and you’re never going to be able to cum as hard as you can with him. You’ll never even want to use your own fingers again when he’s done with you.

You can’t do anything but lay there and take it, take the pleasure and take his cock. He hits so deep, prodding at your cervix in a way that aches but it only feels that much better when it’s mixed with mind-numbing pleasure.

Simon looms above you, panting and groaning as he fucks you like he was made to. He angles his hips just right, blunt nails biting into your thighs where he pins you open, neither of you caring if he happens to break skin while he does. You don’t even register the bite of pain underneath the way his cock prods you g-spot so perfectly.

Your own fingers would have been tired by now, no longer able to work that little spot like you need. Simon’s cock, however, is unrelenting. The pleasure builds and mounts uninterrupted, every stroke of his length sending you higher. His body moves fluidly, rolling his hips tirelessly so he can give you every ounce of pleasure your sweet little cunt needs.

You’re creaming around him, a frothy, milky ring forming around the base every time he sinks in and becoming visible when he pulls back. It’s filthy and messy and makes your cheeks burn but Simon seems to not mind in the slightest.

“So fuckin’ messy, love,” he coos, breathy and slurred, “Look at that, pretty cunt needed some cock, huh?”

“Y-Yours!” you manage to choke out.

“What’s that?” he asks, a crooked, teasing grin on his face.

“Y-Your cock! Only needed your cock, Simon,” you pant, reaching up to grope your own tits, pinching and rolling your nipples meanly. It hurts so good, making you clench around his cock. He moans at the sight, his pretty little virgin tormenting your own nipples.

“That’s right,” he hums, reaching a shaky hand down to thumb at your clit, “Keep pinchin’ those pretty tits, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”

You nod your head, unable to form a vocal response from the new sensation of your clit being played with while he fucks you. It feels so damn good that you could go drunk from it all. Everything in your brain is slow, thoughts of only him and how good you feel are all that’s there. Your entire world, right at this moment, revolves around Simon Riley.

He knows it too, a cocky grin on his face as he works you to your orgasm. You dangle, almost helplessly, staring unblinkingly at his handsome face as he works it out of you.

After what feels like minutes, but is probably only seconds, you cum. Hard.

Your head slams back against the pillows, back arching as you cunt clasps tight around him. You cry out in pure, unadulterated pleasure as he fucks you through it. His thumb keeps working your clit as it twitches and pulses under the digit, cumming nice and pretty for him just like he wanted. Just like you deserved.

You cream his cock messily, it drips down his balls and down your ass to the bedding below. So fucking sloppy and wet, a perfect little cunt made to take his cock.

His brows furrow, mouth falling open as his own orgasm mounts and builds. Now that your well-earned orgasm is out of the way, he can finally let go and allow himself to experience it as well.

“Where do you want it?” he grits out, teeth clenched from the ache of holding back.

His balls draw up, heavy and full. He feels ready to positively explode when you gasp, “I-Inside!”

His head falls back, the loudest, most drawn out moan you’d never expected to come from a stoic man like Simon falling from his lips. It’s deep and primal, full of nothing but euphoria as he spills into you. His load is hot and thick, drooling out of the sides of his cock as he slows his thrusts to milk the least bits of pleasure from the orgasm.

When he comes down, he collapses. Your legs lock around his waist and he draws you tightly into his arms, neither of you caring for the way his weight crushes you. All you care about is being wrapped up in his arms where you belong.

He pulls his neck from your chest and kisses your forehead. Then he kisses your nose. Then your lips.

“Pretty,” he breathes, still drunk on the endorphins of the sex so his lips are a little looser than they’d normally be, “Always thought you were pretty.”

“Really?” you prompt, cheeks heating at his confession.

He hums, “Glad you’re finally mine.”

You beam, “No one deserved me as much as you.”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world, rolling off of you with a sigh. His cock unplugs your cunt and a gush of your mixed cum comes out, making you whine. He laughs softly, drawing you back into your arms.

You’ve never felt safer and warmer in your life, knowing in that moment that you should have come to Simon all along. There’s no one in the world who would be there for you, more willing and able than he.

this work belongs to rowarn. do not repost to third party websites or use for character ai. reblogs welcome and appreciated!

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #cod x reader #cod smut #ghost x reader #ghost smut

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lieslab · 5 months ago

Text

If we could only turn back time

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Chan X gn reader

Summary: After a Dispatch article leaks, your betrayed boyfriend kicks you out of your shared apartment and you're silenced in the worst way possible.

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 5.1K

Trigger warning: Misunderstood trope, physical assault, anger, yelling, a car accident, plus graphic descriptions of physical injuries, and doctors/hospitals.

A/N: I had three hours of sad One Direction music, one request, and a dream. Requestee, you asked for angst and I have given it my all. I hope this meets every expectation and more <3

_ _ _

You were the light of Bang Chan’s life. At least, that’s what he thought. For months, his love grew for you. Over time, he opened up more and more. You crawled into his heart and made yourself at home.

And then you tore it open.

He thought he finally had the love of his life, but it turns out, you were just like the others. Not really loving him, but dragging along, clinging onto clout, and when the next man came, you jumped with both feet. You didn’t even say goodbye, but neither did he.

There was no warning for either of you. One day, the two of you were head over heels for each other. The next, everything fell apart. Hearts cracked like stained glass. Tears fell, but the words from both of you didn’t provide the comfort the other so desperately craved.

In the end, two hearts ripped apart. The world tipped in the wrong direction. You both lost your footing and for weeks, nothing would be the same for either of you, ever again.

~ ~ ~

When you came home from buying groceries, the apartment was quiet, like usual. Chan’s warm presence had been gone since this morning. Up at the crack of dawn, he disappeared to continue making his dreams come true.

You missed him when he was gone, just as he missed you, but dreams were important. No matter what happened between the two of you, it was the one thing you both agreed that it was important. No matter where your life took you, the most important thing was keeping focused on your dreams.

Yes, the two of you were in love, but that wasn’t stopping either of you from pursuing your passions. Not yet engaged, the two of you vowed to be supportive of each other. Through thick and thin, in the risky moments, and everything in between; you swore to be there for one another.

Your bare feet glided across the tile floor with ease. Without Chan, the apartment felt empty, but that didn’t stop you from trying to make it feel warm and fuzzy. Over on the side counter, you turned on the candle warmer. Maybe by the time Chan got home, the apartment would be full of a welcoming vanilla buttercream.

You swore his cologne had hints of vanilla. He disagreed with you and insisted you didn’t know your scents. Just to prove a point, you bought the vanilla candle, and yet, he refused to see it.

He could be stubborn like that sometimes. Certain things he couldn’t see. No matter how hard and how obvious you attempted to make these things, he refused to see them. Sometimes, it was more frustrating than anything, but you learned to deal with every part of him; the good and the bad.

You had your own set of flaws, too. Out of everyone existing in the world, there was nobody that you wanted to be with more than Chan. The two of you were still so young. There was a lifetime of adventures and fun to have. You were hoping the relationship between the two of you would last forever.

It ended when Chan stormed through your front door. The bang of the front door slamming against the sidewall sent your heart racing. You grabbed a can of peas for defense and held your breath.

Footsteps stormed through your living room. Your fingers turned pale around the can. A sigh of relief fell from you when you saw the furrow on Chan’s face. “Holy shit, you scared the crap out of me. What’s wrong, baby? What happened?”

You put down the can and walked towards him. Your hands stretched out to grab his face. To your surprise, he swatted them away. Your eyes widen at the faint sting. “What are you-”

“You don’t get to baby me after what you did!”

“I-I did something? What did I-”

“Shut up! You don’t get to pretend like you don’t know! You know I’ve felt like a piece of shit because I can’t be here twenty-four-seven! You know I travel for work and yet you still choose to hurt me in the worst way possible!”

Confusion filled your face and it just pissed him off more. He jerked his Samsung phone from his pocket. You watched as he typed in the password. Your actions from the past few days rolled through your head like stop-motion. Each silent click, more scenes filled your head.

None of them stood out. You couldn’t recall what you did wrong, but Chan was furious. Your mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. He flipped the screen to find the bold words of a Dispatch article. Your heart hit the ground with a sickening splat.

Trouble in paradise: A Rocky Road Ahead For Stray Kids’ Bang Chan’s Romantic Relationship.

Attached, two photos of you grinning at another JYP idol from another group. In one, you were waving at them. In another, you were leaning over and hugging them.

“It’s not what it looks like!”

“Really? Because you know what it looks like to me? It looks like you were attempting to hide a close relationship with someone in a younger group.”

“That’s not true! Chan, it’s Dispatch! You can’t possibly believe that I-”

“I want you out of my apartment.”

Your face fell at his words. “You…you wouldn’t. Please, just let me explain and I-”

“When have you ever talked about him? Never! You’ve never been close to another idol! Yet now, you’re hugging him?”

“Chan, please!”

“Get out!”

“But-”

“Out!” His voice raised. “Get your stuff and get the fuck out of my apartment! Don’t bother coming back!”

The words were loud enough to frighten you. You left the grocery bags scattered on the kitchen island and took off. Tears filled your eyes. You wanted to explain, but he kept cutting you off.

Too heated to think about the situation, his insecurities got the best of him. In the kitchen, he slumped against the counter with his head in his hands. Warm tears filled his eyes at the sound of your sniffles.

He wanted to comfort you, but the hurt was too much. He grew to love you with everything he had and within one Dispatch article, his swollen heart popped. How could you do this to him? After everything the two of you had been through, why did you have to ruin it?

Tears blurred your vision and you didn’t look back. You jerked items from the closet and tossed them in your suitcase. Grabbing handfuls from each of your dresser drawers, you tossed them in with everything. Even the toiletries, you didn’t have time to organize them.

Chan wanted you to go, so you’d leave. At the end of the day, this was his apartment. You paid rent, but his name was the first on the contract. He paid the down payment, not you.

You gave him one last desperate look as you passed by, but he didn’t see it. His name fell from your mouth in a weak croak, but he didn’t pull his hands from his eyes. “Please, just go away.”

You spun around, gripped your suitcase tighter, and then you did.

~ ~ ~

All night, you drove around without a destination in mind. You refused to call one of Chan’s members and plead for help. It’d only stir up drama in the group. That was the last thing you wanted.

Numbness hung over your head. You still couldn’t believe everything that happened a few hours ago. If he would have listened, he would have understood. The tears dried up a while ago, but the empty feeling in your chest didn’t go away.

Seoul’s late afternoon crept into another dark night. Gray blotted skies drifted into a pitch black. Neon lights reflected off the paint on your car, but the warm colors didn’t warm your heart.

The car felt lonely without Chan. You’d give anything to hear his laughter from beside you. The playful banter while he reminded you to turn on the correct turn signal. It’d been a constant inside joke between the two of you. Ever since you accidentally flicked on the wrong signal and turned the wrong way, he’d never let it go.

The way he tipped his head forward. Messy tendrils of dark hair fell over his forehead. His squeaky laugh warmed your heart. Such a far comparison from the anger that rattled the apartment walls earlier.

You poked his dimples between the stoplights. On nights when the two of you wanted to get away from everyday life, you found peace in this car. You’d drive and be in control for once. He’d sit beside you with a hand on your thigh.

Simple conversations filled the car. Love pooled between the two of you. Shared laughter, quiet conversations, and the secret getaway that your car provided you’d do anything to turn back time.

You loved him for a reason. You always had and you always would. Just because photos told one story, it didn’t mean they told the entire story. Snippets didn’t capture the truth. The context was important, but Chan was too distraught tonight.

Too stressed out. Too angry. Too frustrated. Things built up and that article was the breaking point. Those photographs became thorns in your relationship. In one day, the roses wilted. Withered petals gathered at your feet.

Tomorrow would be better, you reassured yourself as you drove. Tomorrow, Chan would realize he was wrong. He jumped the gun in this situation. In the morning, he’d call you and apologize.

Tomorrow, you’d be welcomed home with a heartfelt apology and a bouquet of fresh flowers. A glass full of red wine, sweets, and a home cooked dinner. Tomorrow, things will be okay again. These tears were temporary. This hurt wouldn’t last forever.

At a stoplight, you grabbed your phone and dialed Changbin’s number. On speaker phone, you waited and waited, but he didn’t pick up. If anyone would know the truth and be able to rationalize Chan’s brain, it was him.

The red light from the stoplights highlighted faint tear streaks. You sniffled, wiping your long sleeve across your dripping nose. Your eyes shut and your voice cut out and quivered as you spoke.

“Please know that I didn’t mean to cause him or you guys any harm. I ran into him the other day and asked if he could help teach me a dance. He’s one of JYP’s best dancers and I know Stray Kids are busy. His group is on break and I just thought I could surprise Chan with a dance.”

“Saying it out loud, I get that it’s stupid now. I was just hoping it’d cheer him up. He’s been so stressed lately. I thought the least I could do was make him laugh.”

“If you get a chance and if he’s willing to hear it, please let him know I love him. I love him and I’m sorry. Dispatch is stupid and I hate them. You can even ask that idol and he’ll tell you the same thing. I’m so sorry, Changbin. I’ll talk to you later. I have to find a place to stay tonight.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and shut your eyes. After clicking the end call button on your phone, you threw the device into your passenger’s seat. Maybe if you were lucky, Chan would hear out Changbin. Level-headed and rational, you knew Chan appreciated the advice he gave out.

A car horn honked behind you. Your eyes quickly reopened and the green light stared back at you. Unblinking, you grumbled beneath your breath. “I’m going, I’m going, geez.” You inched out into the intersection, expecting to continue going straight.

You weren’t expecting your car to jerk left. Your screams blended with the sound of crushing metal. Orange sparks flew. The sickening scent of burnt rubber and diesel hit your nose. Your seatbelt cut into your neck and briefly cut off your air flow.

The last thing you remembered was the horn of the semi-truck vibrating your entire car.

~ ~ ~

It wasn’t Dispatch that was the first one to find out about the devastating car accident; instead, it was Jeongin. He sucked in a deep breath as he walked into the hospital. Last night, after struggling with the flu, someone admitted his friend to the hospital.

He mumbled beneath his breath, trying to figure out what to say. A blue medical mask sat over his nose and mouth. He knew to keep his distance, but he still felt awful that they were here.

Hospitals were lonely. In the brief moments when families and friends disappeared. When the nurses were following their routine rounds and doctors were checking in on other patients, people were left alone. The isolating white walls. The uncomfortable piercing beeps from the heart rate monitor. The cold IV drips, distributing medicine directly into the bloodstream.

Surgical stitches ached. Disease weighed heavily upon the lungs. Intubation and the mechanical push and pull of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Hospitals were the opposite of warm and welcoming. Cold and sterile, he rather wished his friend was at home.

The colorful bouquet of multicolored flowers was the brightest thing in the hallway. Closed doors with numbers passed by as he walked. The nurse’s announcement of his friend’s room number echoed in his head.

It dissipated when he heard your name from a nurse in a cracked room. Before he knew it, he was pushing the door open and stepping inside. On the hospital bed, you were unrecognizable. Scrapes and cuts laced your face. Both plum purple eyes swelled shut.

The right side of your face puffed up unnaturally. Black stitches poked out from the bottom of your lip. That was just your face. That wasn’t beginning to touch the cast on your arm and the rest of your body hidden beneath the blue covers.

He knew it was you. He recognized the promise ring on your ring finger. He had helped Chan pick it out. He glanced around, searching for Chan, but he wasn’t there.

“Are you lost?”

He glanced up to find the nurse. Her blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail. She observed him through black, circular-rimmed glasses.

He shook his head and repeated your name. The nurse frowned and he pointed to you. “Is this-”

“Are you family?”

“Brother.”

You weren’t biologically related, but it felt true deep down.

~ ~ ~

Changbin tried to bring the situation up to Chan, but every time he spoke your name, Chan would shut down. From what Changbin knew, Chan didn’t know what happened to you. The rest of the guys did, but they all received the same results. Every time they spoke your name, Chan grew irritated and short-tempered.

“I don’t want to talk about them! Stop bringing them up! Enough!”

The charming and charismatic leader unraveled at the seams. His heart was full of love for you and you ruined it. That wasn’t something he took lightly. The hurt oozed out in other ways.

His songs weren’t coming together as easily anymore. He used to get your feedback when he went home, but now the apartment was empty. The bed was colder without you. He was lonely, but he wouldn’t admit it.

He snapped during dance practice. After he snapped at a manager, a manager lectured him about authority and respecting his elders. Nobody understood the hurt that he was going through. It didn’t help that Dispatch began showing up and bothering him.

They could take all the pictures they wanted. He’d never give them the satisfaction of breaking his heart. Instead of listening, he put on his airpods and cranked up the music. He shoved through the camera flashes with his baseball hat low and a face mask covering the rest of his face. They didn’t deserve to turn his heartbreak into entertainment.

He’d never let them break him. They already did it once. You were gone and the longer you went without a call or a text, he assumed they were right. They caught you cheating and you accepted it. You didn’t fight for your relationship.

You didn’t call and beg for him to take you back. You didn’t call and try to explain. He sent you one text, but you never opened it. He was at a complete loss without you.

Some would call him stubborn for it, but he’d say that he was just trying to protect himself from more hurt.

~ ~ ~

The lonely days for you didn’t stay lonely for long. Jeongin discovered you hours after your accident. The days slipped by, but you weren’t alone anymore. Unconscious and pumped full of medicine, sure. They were far from lonely.

Every evening, the guys took turns hanging out beside your bed. Seungmin would sing the songs you liked. Jeongin told you funny stories of Chan, trying to bring you back to consciousness. Minho brought you warm comments from the fans who found out about your accident. The rest of the guys had their own things, but Chan’s voice never filled the room.

Stuck in a coma, things were dark. Occasionally, you could hear the beeping of your machines. You could feel your lungs expand and compress unnaturally. Your body felt like a shell more than anything. Voices came and went, but never Chan’s.

In the darkness, you couldn’t see. You weren’t sure if you were dead or not. Stranger’s voices appeared in soft whispers and then they faded. You weren’t sure what was going on, but you knew you were exhausted.

Those audible voices and sounds never lasted for long. You couldn’t feel pain. Every sensation within you felt numbed. A heavy fog filled your head and something clouded your vision.

You attempted to open your eyes every so often, but they didn’t budge. Someone glued them shut. Every limb tingled with tiny pins and needles. You didn’t know if this was death, but it didn’t feel comforting. Somewhere between the realm of the living and dead, doctors kept you in a medically induced coma.

How else could they heal the swelling of your brain? ~ ~ ~

“I can’t take this anymore!” Felix cried out. He shoved himself from the chair and pulled out his phone. “This is such bullshit! I’m tired of keeping this from him.”

“Well, we’ve tried. What do you propose we do? Tell him to get to the hospital without mentioning his significant other’s name?” Seungmin crossed his arms over his chest. “Good luck. We’ve tried everything and it’s been twenty-something days.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what we should do. How much longer can this go on for? This is pathetic, even for him! I get that he’s hurt, but look at them!” He reached over and gestured towards your bed.

You remained intubated and unmoving. The swelling in your puffy eyes faded a little more each day, but they still looked awful. The stitches in your lips disappeared, but a fresh pink scar remained.

Swirls of purple and blue smeared along your face. Broken bones reset and were on the mend. You were a living miracle. The first responders were afraid you wouldn’t make it, but when they pulled you from the wreckage, you continued breathing.

So he unlocked his phone and hit Chan’s contact name.

“Hello?”

“Chan?”

“Yeah?”

“You need to get to the hospital right now. Call me when you get here.”

“WHAT?”

“I can’t talk. Just call me when you get here.”

“Felix!”

He grimaced and hung up the phone. Seungmin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You probably gave him a heart attack. He’s going to kill you when he gets here, you know?”

“That’s a problem for later.” ~ ~ ~

Chan flew from his apartment. His heart pounded in his chest and he couldn’t breathe. Losing you was hard enough. If anything happened to a member of his group, he’d never forgive himself.

“Come on, come on!” He fumbled with his seat belt in one hand. With the other, he swung his car door shut. In seconds, he jerked the car in reverse and slammed the pedal.

He lurched down the driveway, spun the wheel with a rubbered squeal, and shifted the car into drive. The engine roared and he sped down the road.

What-ifs grew stronger on the way to the hospital. His breath caught in his throat and he struggled to stay calm. Last he knew, everyone was fine so what happened? Who? How bad was it?

The moment he parked, he whipped out his phone and dialed Felix’s number. When Felix responded, his voice came out frantic. “I’m here! Where are you?”

“Room one-twelve. I’ll meet you half-way. I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait, who is-”

Click.

“Fucking hell!” He cried out. He grabbed the keys, sped from the car, and rushed towards the automatic door.

Everything was a blur inside. Voices appeared from the waiting room. The receptionist glanced over the front desk and eyed him, but she didn’t stop him. He glanced left and right and opted to go left.

The carpet disappeared beneath his feet and turned into squeaky clean white vinyl. An easy material to clean and disinfect daily. He rushed forward when he saw Felix appear down the edge of the hall.

The squeak of his shoes didn’t matter. He ignored the doctor he passed that told him to stop running. By the time he reached Felix, he grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. “Who is it? What happened? Tell me!”

“Just, come on.”

“Felix!”

Felix didn’t budge. He grabbed Chan’s wrist and pulled him along. His chest filled with anxiety and his lungs compressed. When the pair appeared at the right door, Felix dropped his wrist and slowly pushed the door open.

He expected to find Han or Jeongin. A broken and battered Hyunjin or Changbin hooked to oxygen. This was the intensive care unit. This was for the severe cases. The patients that required a close eye and keen detailing.

Upon seeing you, his face fell. The bruising upon your face. The tube down your throat. Your lifeless skin and unmoving limbs. There was no sign of the life the two of you created.

No reassuring smiles, or laughter. Seungmin sat solemnly beside your bed in a chair. “I’m shocked that you finally made it.”

“What the hell happened?” He hurried to the opposite side of your bed. His hand reached out, but he didn’t touch you. Too frightened by your state, he didn’t know where he could touch without causing you pain.

“Try their hand,” an unfamiliar voice spoke up. He whirled around to find a nurse in blue scrubs. “Their hands survived the crash. You can touch their hands if you wish.”

“Sorry, I came in to get some vitals. It’ll only be a few moments and then I can leave you alone. Visiting hours are open until eleven o’clock tonight. I’ve never seen you here before, so I thought you should know.”

“How long have they been like this?” He whispered. Tears filled his eyes and his heart ached.

“Since the night you told them to leave your apartment.”

“What?”

“Felix!” Seungmin’s voice shot out sternly. “It’s not like that, Chan. Yes, the accident happened that night, but don’t beat yourself up over it. A driver of a semi-truck was speeding and couldn’t stop in time.”

“That was nearly a-”

“I’m sorry, hyung.” Felix’s hand appeared on his shoulder. “We tried to tell you, but every time we tried to utter their name, you were angry. We should have found a better way to tell you, but…” He trailed off, unsure of what else to say.

The nurse grabbed your vitals and disappeared to give the guys time with you. Chan collapsed to his knees and grabbed your hand with both of his. For nearly a month, you’d been stuck in this bed. He thought you’d given up on the relationship with him.

This entire time you haven't texted him back. Not because you were angry. Not because you were sad. Not because Dispatch’s rumors were true. But it was because you physically couldn’t. Intubated and trapped in a medically induced coma, you couldn’t reach out, even if you wanted to.

“I’m so sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry, I-I thought that they-”

“Easy, hyung.”

“What did I do? What the fuck did I do? If I wouldn’t have kicked them out of the apartment, this wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have been so angry. I should have let them explain.”

Seungmin shot Felix a look. He shrugged and gently rubbed Chan’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Channie. You were hurting and you didn’t mean for this to happen.”

He was supposed to be the leader. A strong pillar and an even stronger influence on his younger members. As the eldest member, he was supposed to be reliable. At that moment, he crumbled. Tears appeared in his eyes as a sob broke from his chest.

No wonder you had been so quiet. He called you once and hit your voicemail. He longed to hit the call button, just so he could hear your voice again. He squeezed your hand tighter and pressed it against his cheek.

“Wake up. Wake up, baby, please! Come back to me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I'm so sorry!”

Tears blurred his vision. He struggled to comprehend your mangled face. Your other hand sat wrapped in a cast. You must have been so broken when you arrived here. He wasn’t here to comfort you. He wasn’t here to try and console and cheer you up.

A wheeze fell from his throat. The betrayal slicing through his heart disappeared. This time, he felt like he was the one that had betrayed you. He hurt you in the most unimaginable way possible.

You laid here broken and half-dead. You spent hours fighting for your life alone. And where was he? Walking around your shared apartment drowning in his own self-pity. He’d never forgive himself for this.

“What is this?” He finally whispered after his sobs faded away. His throat was raw. His voice came out scratchy. “How bad is it?”

“The doctor said they should wake up at any time. They weren’t breathing on their own. A medically induced coma ensured to make sure their brain’s swelling could stop.”

“It was that bad? They’ve been suffering through all that alone?” His bottom lip quivered. He grew afraid of the response he’d receive.

“No,” Seungmin spoke up. “Jeongin found out first. He was the one that notified us. He said he tried to tell you, but when he showed up at your apartment, you told him to leave.”

Horror filled Chan at the memory. Later that same night, back when you left, Jeongin appeared on his front porch pale. Instead of hearing out the younger member, he told him to get lost and slammed the door in his face. Deep down, he was afraid to be viewed as weak in front of the younger member.

The memory stung his heart. Poor Jeongin just wanted him to know the truth and he slammed the door in his face. No wonder Jeongin seemed so nervous around him. He was probably worried that Chan would find out the truth and yell at him for not telling him.

He rubbed his face and pawed at his eyes. “So does everyone know?”

“Everyone besides you.”

“Sorry you’re late. None of us knew how to get you here. You’d never listen when we tried to talk about them.”

“I was such a stupid, selfish asshole.”

“You were hurting,” Felix corrected him.

“And a stupid, selfish asshole.”

“You were.”

“Seungmin!” Felix cried.

“No, I want him to know that he was. I’m not going to sit here and pity him. You were a jerk, Chan. I hope you remember this moment whenever you try to act like an asshole again.”

The words were a slap in the face, and yet he wanted to laugh. As harsh as Seungmin’s words were, they rang true. He was a jerk and maybe, in the cruelest way possible, this was his karma.

He opened his mouth to respond, but paused when your fingernails scratched at his hand. The tube in your throat caused you to choke. You couldn’t fully see as your eyes half-opened. Still swollen, your vision remained limited. Silhouettes appeared and voices became more distinct.

“Get a nurse!”

Footsteps hit the ground. You gargled and reached your opened mouth. “No, no, no! You can’t touch that yet.”

“Easy, love. Try to relax and don’t fight the tube. It’s breathing for you right now.”

The distress and quickened-pace of the heart rate monitor hit a hiccup. Chan’s familiar voice grounded you, but you still struggled with the tube. Your lungs wanted to expand, but the machine compressed them. You choked again, still fighting the pesky thing.

More footsteps. Another silhouette. Glasses on an unfamiliar face and latex rubbing against your skin. “It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m going to take this out now, okay? On the count of three. One, two, three!”

You gasped and coughed at the removal. Your lungs filled with air of your own accord. More coughing. You attempted to swallow, but your mouth was so dry. The lingering phantom of a headache filled the side of your head.

“Try a sip of this, sweetheart.”

The nurse’s tone was honey to your ears. You swallowed the water the moment it hit your lips. One swallow and then another. Two more and suddenly, you were gulping like crazy.

“Easy, or you’ll choke,” Chan gently reminded you.

The nurse pulled the glass away when you finished. “Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital?”

“Do you remember your name?”

“Chan?”

“I’m right here, honey. I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. Do you remember your name? This nice nurse wants to help you get better. Your doctor is on his way.”

Every question asked, you answered it perfectly. A buzz of excitement swirled around the room from your consciousness. Seungmin and Felix left the room to give everyone the good news.

When the doctor concluded you were stable, he disappeared with the nurse. A silence fell between you and Chan. You still couldn’t see perfectly, but you could feel the weight of his hand in yours.

“Baby, I’m so sorry for that night.”

“I don’t want to talk about that night.”

“I was an idiot.”

“Dumbass,” you weakly corrected him.

“I see getting hit by a semi-truck hasn’t taken away your sass.”

“If I can survive this, I can survive anything.”

“I love you and I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I love you and I don’t want to hear anything else about that. I’m so tired. Can you sing me to sleep or something?”

“If I do, promise you won’t die?”

“I promise.”

Even if you couldn’t make out his face, you knew his voice, and that was good enough for you.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght

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#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids drabbles #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #bang chan #bang chan fanfic #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan x y/n #bang chan angst #christopher bang #skz angst

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gweelczz · 2 months ago

Text

“Home”

Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x Y/N (Sugar)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, smut (Y’all KNOW he a FREAK) MDNI

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap your Willy!) mentions of child abuse, this fic is LONGGGG I got a bit carried away y’all I’m sorry!!!

Summary: A lover’s quarrel breaks out between the two love birds and it’s up to Sammie to choose what he goin do

The Mississippi sun had dipped low, bleeding red across the fields when the shouting started. Folks in Clarksdale knew better than to pay too much mind to lovers’ quarrels, but when it was Preacher Boy Sammie Moore and his girl Sugar — everybody knew.

“You always talking ’bout dreams, Sammie,” Sugar snapped, arms crossed tight against her chest, her voice trembling more with hurt than anger. “But you too scared to chase ‘em. Scared of your daddy. Scared of what folks gon’ say.”

Sammie’s fists were balled at his sides. Not to strike — Lord, no. Just trying to hold it all in. His pride. His shame. His fear.

“I ain’t scared,” he bit out, jaw tight.

“Then prove it,” she shot back, tears glassing her big brown eyes. Her skin, a rich dark ebony with that gold shimmer whenever the light caught her just right, looked like it belonged to some goddess out the old stories. Her coily hair framed her face, a wild crown she didn’t even know she wore.

He said nothing.

That silence — heavier than any slap — broke her heart clean in two.

Sugar turned on her heel, dust kicking up under her bare feet.

“You ain’t ready,” she said, voice small now. “And I ain’t waitin’ ‘round watchin’ you let yourself rot.”

He watched her walk away. Watched until the blue of her skirt disappeared down the road toward the woods where Annie’s shack sat hidden behind a crooked fence of bones and bottle trees.

——

Annie’s place smelled of sweetgrass and turpentine, smoke curling out the chimney like lazy fingers. Inside, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Jars of oil, roots, and stones lined the shelves. Every color and spirit of the Delta lived in that little shack.

Sugar slumped into a chair, head in her hands.

Annie — full-figured, dark-skinned, with a warmth about her like a heavy quilt — sat across from her, shelling peas slow and easy. She was only a few years older than Sugar, but the way she moved, the way she looked at you, made her seem like she’d lived two lifetimes already.

She watched Sugar for a long minute, not rushing her.

“Man’s got chains on his soul,” Annie finally said, voice low and knowing. “Ain’t easy breakin’ ’em. ’Specially when them chains was put there by his own blood.”

“I just…” Sugar started, but her throat caught. She shook her head. “I just want him to see what he could be. Not what folks tell him he gotta be.”

Annie smiled, soft and sure.

“Don’t give up on him, girl. Some seeds take longer to sprout. But when they do, Lord, do they grow strong.”

Outside, the night thickened. Crickets sang. Somewhere, a hound barked long and low.

And then — a knock at the door.

Sugar turned, heart thudding.

There he was. Sammie.

Hat crushed in one hand. A scraggly bunch of wildflowers in the other. Dirt smudged on his knees from where he’d fallen once, maybe twice, on the way over.

He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. Like he knew the fall would kill him but he was ready to jump anyway.

“I cain’t do this without you, Sugar,” he said, voice raw. He dropped the flowers, sank to his knees right there on Annie’s worn floorboards.

“You hear me?” he begged, hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bein’ a fool. I’m sorry for not fightin’ harder. I’m gon’ be better. I swear it on my life.”

Sugar’s chest squeezed so tight she thought she might fall over.

Annie sat still, shelling peas, not saying a word. She knew some things had to be worked out without her hand in it.

Sammie looked up at Sugar, eyes wide and wet, heart cracked open for the whole world to see.

“You my home, Sugar,” he whispered. “Ain’t no point in dreamin’ if you ain’t in it.”

The flowers were crushed. His hands were dirty. His voice was breaking.

But it was real.

God help her, it was real.

Sugar knelt too, lifting his face in her hands.

“Don’t you ever make me walk away again,” she said, voice shaking.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I swear it.”

And in that little shack, under the watchful eyes of the ancestors hanging thick in the smoky air, Sugar forgave him.

——

Sammie led her back to his daddy’s house, hand in hand, heads bowed against the heavy southern night. He didn’t care if his father was sitting on the porch with a belt or a bottle.

This time, he wasn’t walking alone.

And this time, he wasn’t running from himself either.

The porch light was nothing but a flickering bulb, casting long, mean shadows across the yard. Sammie slowed his steps when they reached the gate, hand tightening around Sugar’s.

There he was — Preacher Moore — sitting in his rocking chair, a half-drained bottle of corn liquor at his feet, the old hunting belt looped lazy across his lap like a coiled snake. His face, carved rough like old wood, didn’t flinch when he saw them coming.

Sammie’s throat dried up. Every memory of every beating, every harsh word, every dream stomped down under his father’s heavy hand — it all came rushing back like a flood.

Sugar gave his hand a squeeze.

“You got this, baby,” she whispered.

Sammie swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The porch boards groaned under his weight, but he didn’t falter.

Preacher Moore watched him, slow drag on his cigarette, eyes hard as river stones.

“You finally decide to come back with your tail tucked?” he rasped.

Sammie stood straight. For the first time, he didn’t look away.

“I come back a man,” he said, voice steady. “And I ain’t askin’ your permission no more.”

The cigarette paused halfway to Preacher Moore’s mouth. A dangerous flicker lit in his eyes.

“You gettin’ mighty bold for a boy livin’ under my roof,” Preacher Moore growled.

“I ain’t just livin’ under your roof,” Sammie said, taking another step closer. “I’m buildin’ somethin’. And if you can’t see that, then maybe I need to build it somewhere else.”

Sugar stayed right behind him, her presence a warmth at his back, a shield he hadn’t even known he needed.

“I wanna sing,” Sammie said, the words dragging out of him rough and painful like pulling a thorn from flesh. “Not just in church. Not just in secret. I wanna sing the blues. I wanna write my own songs. Play my own music. And I ain’t gonna be ashamed no more.”

The porch went still. The crickets even seemed to hush.

Preacher Moore’s face cracked — not much — but enough for Sammie to see something raw underneath. A flash of fear. A flash of sorrow.

“You think singin’ them devil songs gonna feed you? Gonna save you?” Preacher Moore spat.

Sammie shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said. “I think bein’ me gon’ save me.”

He reached back, took Sugar’s hand in his again.

“I got folks standin’ with me now. Folks who believe I ain’t just some broken piece of you.”

Preacher Moore set the cigarette down. The belt slid off his lap and onto the porch with a soft thud.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just rocked. Just stared.

And then, like a levee finally giving way after too many rains, the fight drained out of him. His shoulders sagged. His chin dipped. His pride — that big, ugly thing that had ruled the Moore house for two generations — cracked and crumbled like old clay.

Preacher Moore dragged a hand down his face, voice rough with something like regret.

“You your own man now,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do to change that.”

Sammie felt the breath he didn’t know he was holding rush out of him.

“You sure that’s what you want, boy?” Preacher Moore asked, almost gentle now.

“I’m sure,” Sammie said. “Been sure.”

Preacher Moore nodded once, stiff and slow.

“Then go on,” he said. “Go sing your songs.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was enough. Enough for tonight.

Sammie turned to Sugar, who was smiling through tears, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

Together, they stepped off that porch — not as preacher boy and dreamer girl — but as something new. Something stronger.

The night wrapped around them as they walked into a future that, for the first time, was theirs to claim.

———

The road to Sugar’s house twisted through cotton fields and thick woods, the night air humming with the slow, secret music of the Delta. Sammie held Sugar’s hand tight as they walked, his heart still hammering from what he’d left behind on that porch.

Preacher Moore’s voice still echoed in his ears, but it was faint now, like a storm rumbling far off. What mattered was the hand in his, the steady light ahead — the little house Sugar’s granddaddy had left her when he passed.

The place wasn’t much to look at to anybody else. A two-room clapboard house, porch sagging a little, white paint peeling like old bark. But to Sammie, it looked like freedom. Looked like home.

Sugar fished the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She didn’t say much, just pulled him inside by the hand. The house smelled like lavender and fresh bread, warm and good.

Sammie had only been here a handful of times, always with the nervous, guilty feeling of a boy sneaking into someplace he didn’t belong. But tonight was different. Tonight, she opened the door wide and left it open behind him, like she meant for him to stay.

“Granddaddy wanted me to have it,” Sugar said, setting her purse down. “Said a woman needs her own land to stand on.”

Sammie nodded, drinking it all in — the soft quilt folded on the couch, the little wooden cross nailed above the door, the framed picture of Sugar’s granddaddy smiling wide in his Sunday suit.

“You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, “I got my own shop now too. Folks come from all over for my oils and teas. I do good.”

He smiled, proud in a way he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“I know you do,” he said. “Ain’t nobody like you, Sugar.”

She laughed, light and low.

“One day,” Sammie said, voice almost breaking with the bigness of it, “I wanna be able to take care of you too. Not ’cause you need it. But ’cause you deserve it.”

Sugar crossed the room in two quick steps and pressed her forehead to his.

“You already do,” she whispered.

They stood there a long moment, breathing each other in, letting the world fall away.

Sammie knew he didn’t have much. A voice. A few songs still trapped inside him, scratching to get out. A heart bigger than he knew what to do with.

But somehow, standing there in the warm light of Sugar’s house, it felt like enough.

Tomorrow, there would be work to do. Songs to write. Battles to fight. Maybe even more nights spent arguing with ghosts and memories.

But tonight — tonight he had her.

Tonight they had a roof, four walls, and a world of dreams between them.

And sometimes, Sammie thought, that was more than enough to start a whole life on.

The hum of cicadas mixed with the soft shuffle of feet on the old wooden floors of Sugar’s house, and Sammie, still buzzin’ from the confrontation with his father, felt the weight of it all.

Sugar’s house was quiet now, the air in the room feelin’ as heavy as the memories. The house was sturdy and worn, like time had kissed it just right. A little faded around the edges, but still standin’, just like her. Just like him.

Sammie’s fingers trembled as he rubbed the back of his neck, still feelin’ the heat from his father’s words mixed with the pride he hadn’t known he could hold. But Sugar… she was the one who’d always seen it in him, even when he’d been too blind to see it himself.

She sat beside him, her body close but not touchin’, her presence like a balm for all his frayed nerves. He could feel the heat of her, the warmth of her gaze that was so full of pride, so full of somethin’ deeper that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“You did it, Sammie,” she said, her voice soft but steady like a slow river. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I always knew you had it in you.”

He let out a breath, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I ain’t never thought I’d be here, Sugar. Never thought I’d be standin’ up to him like that. Didn’t think I had the strength to fight for what I wanted. Hell, didn’t think I deserved it.”

Sugar’s eyes softened, her lips parting like she was about to speak but then she just shook her head. Her hand reached out, like it always did when he needed it most, and she placed it over his.

“You deserve every bit of it, Sammie,” she said, her voice full of that calm confidence that always made him feel like maybe he wasn’t so lost after all. “And you’ve got so much more in you than you even know.”

His chest tightened, and he didn’t know if it was from the weight of her words or the way she made him feel like a man again. A real one, with dreams and a purpose. And as she looked at him, that proud smile on her face, Sammie couldn’t help but feel a pull deep in his gut. She always did that to him — made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

“Sugar…” he breathed, his voice a little rough. “You’ve always seen me. Always been the only one who believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

Sugar moved closer, her body just inches from his, and he could feel the heat of her against his arm. Her touch was like a spark, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did. But tonight, he saw something else in her eyes — something softer. Something real.

“I ain’t never stopped believin’ in you, Sammie. You’ve got this, baby. You always had it in you.”

Her words were like a lullaby, and as they lingered in the air between them, Sammie couldn’t help but draw her in closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pullin’ her to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held her tight, his chest full of so many emotions he couldn’t even name.

The softness of her body against his made his breath hitch. Sugar felt like home. Like everything that had ever mattered. Her scent filled his senses, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“You make me feel like I can take on the world, Sugar,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with the weight of what he was feelin’. “Like I ain’t never been broken, like I’m whole again. I ain’t never been able to thank you for that.”

Sugar’s hand slid up his back, her fingers light against his skin, and she pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were dark with emotion, and the softness in her gaze made Sammie’s heart ache.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sammie,” she said, her voice a whisper now, like the words were only meant for him. “I’ve always been here for you. Always will be.”

Sammie’s chest tightened again, and this time, he didn’t fight the urge to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, soft at first, like he was askin’ for permission. But when she didn’t pull away, when she leaned into him, it felt like a release. He kissed her deeper, the tension in his chest unwinding as he pulled her closer, feeling her warmth flood him.

He didn’t know how long they’d been sittin’ there, lost in each other, but when he pulled away, breathless, he looked at her with all the words he hadn’t said, all the things he still needed to say.

“Sugar, I ain’t never been more sure of somethin’ in my life. I need you. I’ve needed you since the first day I laid eyes on you. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Sugar smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and her fingers grazed the side of his face, tender but firm.

“You don’t need to say nothin’, Sammie. I’ve known. I’ve always known.”

And before he could say another word, she leaned in again, kissing him with the kind of tenderness that made him ache deep inside. He held her tighter, his hands roaming to the small of her back as the heat between them built, the air thick with need.

Sammie pulled Sugar into his lap allowing his hands to rest on her waist not going any lower than that, pulling he looked into her eyes silently asking for permission to touch her which she gladly granted. Leaning forward he kissed her once more, the kiss full of want, need and hunger. His hands moved down to grab handfuls of her ass causing them to moan into each other’s mouths, their breaths mingling together.

Sugar’s hips ground themselves against Sammie’s making him bite down onto her lip, she pulls away swirling her tongue around his ear before biting down onto it. She trails her lips lower kissing on his neck tasting the salty sweat with her tongue. Meanwhile he’s lifted up her dress with permission, unbuckling his pants afterwards letting her sink down slowly onto his cock.

They moan into each other’s mouths once again, Sugar wrapping her hand around his throat and his fingers tangled in her hair as she rides him. “Sugar? Lemme try somethin hear?” He speaks through moans and she answers with a breathy “yes”. With permission granted he flips them so she’s now under him, his hips rolling into her while his free hand protects her head from slamming into the arm of the chair.

Pulling down the straps of her dress he exposes her breasts to him, lowering his head he takes a nipple into his mouth. His free hand reaches down between them finding her clit giving it tight fast circles to match the pace of his thrusts. “Sammie… Baby…” Sugar pants out watching him angle his hips to go deeper hitting her spot without knowing.

“Baby right there” he pulls off her nipple long enough to respond in his baritone voice “right there sugar?” To which she nods gripping the back of his head when he dove back in sucking on her nipple. She gasps arching her back slightly moaning loudly into the air not caring about who heard. “Sammie… I’m gonna…” he keeps his tempo the same while rubbing her clit, pulling off to rest his forehead against hers. “C’mon sugar, cum for me, let go”

The coil in her stomach snaps and she swears she sees white as she cums around his cock, Sammie thrusts a few more times before pulling out cumming on her stomach with a low groan. They lay there for a few moments before Sammie gets up picking Sugar up bridal style carrying her down the hall.

“Let me take care of you, Sugar,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur. “I ain’t gonna leave you like this.”

He lifted her into his arms, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body press against his. Her head rested on his shoulder as he carried her, every step slow and deliberate as if he didn’t want to break the moment. The bed creaked softly as he laid her down, his hand lingering on her side for a moment longer than necessary.

Sugar closed her eyes, her body still humming with the aftereffects of everything they’d shared. But Sammie knew there was more to do. He wasn’t about to leave her just like that.

He stepped away briefly, his movements purposeful as he went to the basin in the corner. He ran his hands under the water filling up a huge pot heating up the water on the stove, the steam rising in the small space. He grabbed a soft cloth and soap, his hands shaking slightly with the anticipation of what was next.

When the water was ready, Sammie dumps it all into the bathtub before he returned to Sugar, who was propped up on the pillows, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. She smiled weakly, her voice soft. “You don’t have to do all this, Sammie. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “You deserve every bit of care, Sugar. You trusted me, and I’m gonna show you how much you mean to me.”

With a gentle touch, he helped lift her into his arms again, guiding her to the edge of the bed. He carefully wiped her skin with the warm cloth, his touch slow and steady as he cleaned the traces of their love from her body. Each stroke was soft, as if he was worshipping every inch of her, every curve, every part of her that he cherished. He then lifts her into the tub gently washing her body. The cloth moved over her belly, down her legs, until every trace of him was gone, and all that was left was the soft heat of her skin.

Sugar looked up at him, her eyes full of vulnerability and trust. “You make me feel safe, Sammie. Like I’m the only one that matters.”

Sammie’s heart ached. He placed the cloth back in the bowl, then turned his attention to the small copper pot of warm water he’d heated. He poured it gently into a shallow basin, setting it between them.

“I’m gonna wash your hair now, Sugar,” he said, his voice low. “Let me take care of you, just like you took care of me.”

She nodded, a soft, grateful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He was so gentle with her, so focused, his every movement thoughtful and deliberate. He poured the warm water over her hair slowly, his hands cradling the back of her neck as he worked the lather into her thick curls. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she let out a soft, contented sigh.

“Mm, that feels good, Sammie,” she murmured, her eyes closing as she relaxed into his touch.

Sammie continued to work, washing her hair with tender care, making sure every strand was clean, every inch of her body pampered. He rinsed her hair, his hands careful and slow as he ran them through the curls, feeling the smoothness of her wet locks slip between his fingers. There was something so intimate about it — the way he was taking care of her, the way she let him in.

When he was finished, he dried her off gently, wrapping a soft towel around her shoulders, letting the warmth of it sink into her skin.

“You’re perfect, Sugar,” he whispered, his eyes full of adoration. “I just want you to know that. You’re perfect.”

Sugar looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the edge of his jawline.

“You don’t have to do all this for me, Sammie,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But I’m glad you do.”

Sammie smiled, his hand brushing through her damp curls, his heart full. “I’ll always do this for you, Sugar. I’ll always take care of you.”

He laid beside her then, pulling the covers over them both, his arm around her waist. Sugar nestled into his chest, her breathing slow and steady as she drifted into a peaceful sleep, the weight of the day finally settling in. Sammie held her close, his heart full of love and pride, knowing that, for once, everything was exactly as it should be.

#sinners film #sammie sinners #stack sinners #smoke sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners #sammie moore #Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore #preacher boy #Sammie Moore fanfic #Sammie Moore x reader #x black!reader #x black! fem reader #preacher boy x reader #Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x reader

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mcsstydia · 11 months ago

Text

Faking it - Finnick Odair

prompt: you won the hunger games, now snow forces you to sell your body. your mentor, finnick odair, proposes the both of you fake a relationship so the capitol citizens won’t be interested in you anymore.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

Warnings: mentions of forced sexual labor

word count: 2.2k

Masterlist

You won the hunger games. After weeks of fighting to survive, of hiding, of pure fright, of killing children who were not much older than you, you won the games. Now, a lifetime of glory and wealth awaited you, right?

You could have never been more wrong. You could have guessed that there was a flaw to what was promised to you. Sometimes, before and also after the games, your mentor, finnick odair, would look at you with a kind of concealed sadness, as if he knew there was something just as bad as the games would wait for you once you survived.

Finnick was 19, only two years older than you, but you had a feeling sometimes you could see in his eyes he had already endured a lifetime worth of pain. Turns out, your feeling was right about the amount of pain his heart had to carry.

Two months after you've won the games, when you've returned home, on a late Wednesday afternoon, Finnick rang the bell at your new house in the victor village. As you opened the door, you were unexpectedly greeted with the handsome man that was Finnick Odair. You had had a crush on him for forever, and it had only intensified during the time where he was your mentor.

Your stomach began to turn in nervous circles. Why was he here? Did he come to see you? Spend time with you even? Wait, that was not it. You could see it in his face. You were good at reading him.

His gaze rose from where it had been previously fixed on the ground to meet yours. There it was again, that sadness. ''What happened?'', you asked, scared it had to do with your mother, who was out of the house for the evening. ''Your mother is alright.'', Finnick said calmly, as if having read your mind.

You visibly relaxed and exhaled. Nonetheless, your grip around the edge of the door did not loosen. ''Then what it is?'', you asked anxiously, trying to seem collected, composed. But Finnick knew you almost as well as you did him.

''Can I come inside?'', he asked in turn. You nodded silently, your body began buzzing with anxiety. The pleasant turns your stomach initially performed upon seeing Finnick had now turned into unpleasant ones. Finnick headed for your living room and you followed him blindly. He pulled up an armchair and gestured you to take place on the couch. He placed the armchair so it was right in front of the couch. Both of you sat down, and then he gently took both of your hands into his large, warm ones.

This is how bad it was? Normally, you would jump in the air at the touch of his hands on your skin. Now, you could feel the colour draining from your face and the warmth leaving your hands in dread of what was to come.

''Just tell me'', you demanded. You knew he would search for the best way to tell you, to somehow sugar-coat it. Finnick looked at you, and you knew he could see in your eyes that this was what you needed.

''Snow sells the good-looking winners to the citizens of the capitol. At least their body. And now he wants to sell you.'', he said. For a moment, the information had to sink in. Then, you could feel the remaining control you had had over your facial muscles seep away. All expression fell from your face, your eyes made no effort to conceal the tears that came flooding in, and your hands began shaking in the gentle hold Finnick had on them.

His grip around your hands strenghtened, but stayed gentle. ''No…'', you managed to breath out, shaking your head in disbelief. You could feel all the strength leaving your body. Finnick seemed to notice, or he had anticipated it, because he caught your head as it fell toward him, his hands gently cupping the sides of your face. A thought came to your mind about the person you cared most for in this world. In between ragged breaths, you managed to ask ''Did he do it to you?'' The look in his eyes was all you needed to know it was true.

Loud, ugly sobs escaped your lips and you made no effort to hide them. Finnick made no effort to calm you, he knew there was no point in telling you it was all going to be okay. ''I've got you,'', he whispered into single strands of hair, your head still in his hands.

He rocked your body back and forth in an attempt to tell you he was there, and he wouldn't leave. He had begun to do that on the first night after your name was drawn for the games. You had been in the train on your way to the capitol, as he found you on the floor, weeping. He held you the whole night, until you had finally managed to fall asleep. He had rocked you gently, had promised to get you out of the arena alive.

At this point, you had thought he would tell that to every young girl he would mentor. Now, you came to the tentative conclusion that you meant something to him.

Suddenly, he whispered, ''I have a plan,''. The sentence brought you back to reality. His hands never leaving your face, you managed to lift your head just so much as to be able to look in his eyes. His beautiful face was blurred by the tears still in your eyes, and by your already-swollen eyelids. He looked at you with concern, and care, and suddenly you knew you were anything to him but simply another tribute he had to mentor.

You realised you were more than important to him. His next sentences only proved how much you meant to him. ''I won't let him do that to you,'', he began, wiping away one of your tears with his thumb. You could also see fear in his eyes, but it was fear for your wellbeing, for your life.

''It's risky,'', he continued and breathed in. ''But I would risk it, for you.'', a deeper meaning of his words hung in the air, but it was not important now. ''If we fake to be in a relationship, Snow can't sell you. The capitol citizens would then never want to tear us apart.'', he explained. His word registered in your head, and the word fake sent a painful, but quickly fading, stab into your chest.

''Would they believe it?'', you asked. Finnick allowed himself to smile, and his fingers carressed your cheeks. You thought you could read him well, but you weren't so sure now. His expression screamed 'of course they'll believe us, look at how in love I am with you', but he couldn't really think that. He couldn't. You would know if he had feelings for you, and you were sure he did not.

Something brought him back from his thoughts into the situation. So he said, ''I hope they do. That's why I said it's risky. If they do not believe it, if Snow does not believe it, we would be in a lot of trouble.'' You pressed your lips together, and then nodded. ''Why would you do that for me?'', you asked, and then imeediately wanted to take the question back.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. ''Because I care about you.'', he whispered, holding your gaze. ''Once we do this,'', he continued. ''there's no going back. It will be us against the world, probably until we die. Do you realize that?'', he asked.

For once, you hoped he could not read your face, or your thoughts for that matter. Did you realize that? Yes. Was it scary? Of course. But was it scary because that meant you had to spend the rest of your life with him? No. That was the only part of this whole thing that sounded like heaven. Instead of telling him any of this, you nodded as an answer.

The next weeks Finnick and you prepared your 'relationship'. You got to know each other better, to make it seem as realistic as possible that you were in love. Many nights were spent like this, quietly, so as even your mother would not know. Many nights ended with your head in his lap, with his fingers running through your hair. Many nights, in which the both of you fell asleep on your couch, or in his bed, all the while holding on to each other.

When your victory tour began, while visiting the districts, you made apparent that you were a couple. Word quickly got out about the new power couple of victors. On the nights on the train, Finnick often lay next to you, to hold you through your cries. It was agonizing to visit the districts of the children who died in the games you were a part of.

Your new relationship was so important to the capitol citizens, that, once in the capitol, both finnick and you were invited to Ceasar Flickerman's show. So you sat there, with Finnick next you, his hand in yours. You had gotten used to the pleasant feeling that was ilicited whenever he touched you. You had gotten used to having him near, so it was not hard to appear happy next to him. It had never been, though.

The people loved you. Everyone adored the two of you together. So much so, that president Snow let go of forcing you into selling your body to the citizens of the capitol. For now.

For now, you were on your way back home from the capitol to district 4. For now, there was the slight hope that things would stay that way, and it was all thanks to Finnick. On this first night on your way back home, you hadn't asked Finnick to come into your room. He had spent the night next to you for the whole of the victory tour, calming you down, holding you when you cried.

But now? You thought Finnick was tired of taking care of you every night. You thought Finnick deserved a night to himself. After all, he wouldn't get many of those anymore that you were in a 'relationship' with him. So you lay there, on your bed, your hands neatly folded on your stomach, your thoughts almost as loud as the train on the tracks. When the doors to your compartment opened, you sat up in your bed, startled and scared. It was only when you saw that it was Finnick who entered, that you relaxed again. Somewhy, you stood up from your bed out of reflex. Finnick looked agitated, and for a moment you feared he brought bad news again. His mouth stood slightly agape, he was breathing heavily, and his eyes frantically scanned your body.

''I don't want to sleep without you,'', he suddenly blurted out. Shock was an understatement. You couldn't help yourself. ''What?'', you brought out as an answer.

The usually calm, confident Finnick he could so easily present himself as for the cameras was nowhere to be seen. He seemed scared, agitated, and lost all at once. ''I-..'', he began tentatively, and took a step toward you.

''I don't want to sleep without you. I don't want to, and I can't, for that matter, when you are not next to me, when I don't know you're safe, when I cannot feel your body next to mine.'' Although he obviusly tried to explain himself, you were no smarter than before.

Finnick could see that you were not sure what he was trying to tell you. He took a few steps until he stood directly in front of you. He took your face into his hands. ''This,'', he continued, gesturing to the two of you. ''It was never fake to me. I never wanted it to be fake. I love you. I have loved you for a long, long time, and I plan on doing it for the rest of my life.'', finally, he seemed to exhale of what seemed to have been a breath he had held for a long time.

Tears began pooling in your eyes. And for the first time in a long time, they were tears of happiness. ''Oh Finnick Odair, are you really so blind as to think I ever wanted it to be fake? I am madly in love with you.'', you finally confessed, and a grin so wide he had never managed to fake for the cameras spread across his lips.

''And now, kiss me, please,'', to any other person, this would have sounded like begging. But it was Finnick, and it was you, and you were both so madly in love nothing else mattered.

So Finnick did what you asked him to do. Slowly, he leaned down, and let his lips brush against yours. After that, it was instant. You both were so hungry for each other, so desperate to finally be able to touch each other in a way you had only dreamed of.

Hands were tangled in hair, and roamed the body of the other. Your lips and teeth clashed against one another, but the kissing erupted feelings in your stomach, and heart, and the whole body, really, that you had never thought could exist. When you broke apart, the both of you giggled, caressed each other's skin, and placed delicate kisses here and there.

That night, you fell asleep in each other's arms again, kissing, holding each other. For the first time in a long time, you weren't scared of the future, because you knew either way, you would spend it with Finnick.

#thg #finnick odair #finnick odair thg #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair angst #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x you #sam claflin #sam claflin imagine #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark fluff #peeta mellark #peeta mellark imagine #finnick odair fanfiction

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soluversworld · 3 months ago

Text

“𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫” - REDACTED X G.N Reader nsfw

14 DAYS WITH YOU is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!-

Words: long

Genre: Smut

If you find mistakes I'm sorry I did not proof read

(Reader is G.N)-(This one-shot is nsfw!)

Summary : To distract REDACTED, you suggested looking at his damn sports motorcycle, Who knew- this would end up in..fuck

Trigger Warnings (TWs) and Content Warnings (CWs):

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Graphic Sexual Content (NSFW, explicit descriptions of sex)

Breeding Kink & Possessiveness (mentions of ownership, possessive language)

Past Childhood Trauma (emotional distress, implied separation trauma)

Body Horror Elements (scarring, burns, detailed injury descriptions)

Overstimulation & Aftercare (exhaustion, body weakness post-sex)

Content Warnings (CWs):

Heavy Dom/Sub Dynamics (praise, possessive language, submission)

Affection & Intimacy Themes (nose kisses, hand-holding, childhood romance)

Food Play/Feeding Kink Lite (feeding partner cake, describing sweetness)

Emotional Vulnerability (crying, reassurance, romantic declarations)

It happened too fast, too slow, exactly as it should’ve. That day—you saw past the lie, past the face, past the teeth bared in something not quite a smile.

And today, they’re yours. Almost. A heartbeat away from fiancé, a lifetime away from certainty. It took time. God, it took time.

You wore the ring that day, but not for love, not for promises, not even for the pleasure of peeling back the layers of REDACTED like rotting wallpaper. That’s a story for another day, sweetheart. For now—

You love REDACTED more than Ren, more than the mask they made to hold the world at arm’s length. You love the rot beneath.

Realistically? A few years. Maybe forever. Maybe never. Ren’s been rewriting himself since before he even knew how to spell his own name, shaving down the edges of REDACTED into something soft, something pliable, something digestible. Someone lovable.

Because Ren, as he is, isn’t enough. Can’t be. He learned that young, learned it deep, learned it so well it’s a reflex now, a gut reaction. A knee-jerk flinch into being whatever you want, whatever keeps you looking at him. But REDACTED—ah. They don’t care. They don’t need to. They know the truth, and the truth is cruel:

You like a lot of things. You like a lot of people. But you’ll never like him enough. Not really. Not the way he wants. And he’s made peace with that.

Ren is Haruko, and Haruko is sweet. Haruko stumbles over words and tries too hard. Haruko is a puppet carved from borrowed smiles and practiced stutters. But REDACTED—RED is sharp, cruel, jagged in a way no one wants to hold. Cold, empty, tired in the bones. If he ever learned love, it was an imitation, an echo—flat, distant, never quite right.

The blushing? Real. The sweating? Also real. The stammering, the nerves, the pathetic little slip-ups? All him, honest and raw, because fuck, he never expected to have this. Angel wasn’t supposed to see him. Ren was supposed to be background noise, an afterthought, a whisper of a person that never solidified. But fate had different plans, and now he’s in too deep.

And this? This is life now. A life built on strings and careful calculations, on the soft lie of Haruko and the hard truth of REDACTED bleeding through the cracks. And you—you don’t know if it’s guilt that keeps you here. If it’s sympathy, or pity, or something worse. You don’t know if he even wants saving.

He’s shit in the saddest way possible. But he doesn’t care. Never has. Never will.

It’s all just—ah.

You’ve accepted REDACTED now, right? Last time, they held you through it—your own personal shield against every jump scare, every flicker of something too fast, too wrong in the dark. You screamed, clung to them like a lifeline, like a fucking lifeblood, fingers digging in, breath caught, and they—cool as ever—just patted your head. Like you were some trembling stray curled up in their lap.

Now? You’re a pro. A veteran. An unshakable force of—no, fuck that, you’re still scared. Still clutching them like a goddamn koala, half-buried in their chest, gripping the fabric of their hoodie like it might save your soul. And they let you. One hand still in your hair, absentminded, rhythmically soothing, the other loose on your thigh like they aren’t watching people get gutted on screen.

Both of your rings—the rings, the childhood ones—sit snug around your fingers. Like wedding bands. Like something binding. Like something permanent. Ah. Cute.

"Scary f’ ya?" REDACTED barely glances at the screen, more interested in the way you’ve tensed up, knuckles white against the blanket. "Want me t’change it?"

"Shut the fuck up." You don’t even look at them, eyes locked on the too-dark hallway stretching across the screen, waiting for something—anything—to lunge. Your fingers tighten in their sleeve like you’re bracing for impact.

They huff a quiet laugh, all amusement, all smug, before shifting. Heavy. Comfortable. Head dropping onto your lap like they belong there. "Suit yourself."

Their warmth sinks into you, grounding. Distracting. You don’t relax, not completely, but you loosen just enough to card your fingers through their hair. They hum, pleased, tapping lazy fingers against your thigh.

You flinch at a sudden jump scare.

They don’t even pretend not to notice.

They hum again, but this time, it’s different—deeper, slower, something deliberate curling at the edges of their voice. The kind of sound that sends a shiver through you, pooling low in your stomach. Their fingers, lazy against your thigh, trace an absentminded pattern, dipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely grazing skin.

"Y’really that scared?" they murmur, turning their head just enough to glance up at you, half-lidded, half-smirking. "Ain’t even watchin’ the movie no more."

"Maybe ‘cause someone won’t shut up," you fire back, but your voice is softer than you meant it to be, breath catching when they press their face into your stomach—right there—like they know exactly what they’re doing.

"Mm." They exhale slow, warm, lips brushing fabric. "Or maybe y’jus’ need a better distraction."

Their fingers ghost higher. Their grip tightens, just a little. Your heart skips.

Yeah. Fuck the movie.

Their lips are warm—almost searing—the weight of them pressed against yours stealing the air right from your lungs. It’s slow at first, teasing, like they’re testing the waters, but the second you start to lean in, the second your fingers curl in their shirt, they take it as permission to devour.

"Mm—" You barely get a sound out before they tilt their head, deepening it, a slow, deliberate slide of lips and tongue that has heat creeping up your spine. Their hand finds the back of your neck, fingers pressing just firm enough to make you shudder.

"Y’kiss back real pretty," they murmur, breaking away just enough to speak, their voice dipped in amusement, something smug curling at the edges. "S’good f’me, yeah?"

You barely get the chance to respond before their teeth catch your lower lip—a sharp little nip that sends a jolt right down to your gut. Your grip on them tightens.

Then your heel catches on the floor, and suddenly, you’re tilting back, balance slipping—

But they’re already moving, already got an arm wrapped around you, holding you steady before you can even process the fall.

They click their tongue, half-laughing, half-scolding, pulling you flush against them like you belong there.

"Clumsy," they chide, and you can hear the grin in their voice, the way it stretches, smug and sharp. Their fingers trace slow circles against your lower back, dipping just under the hem of your shirt. "Y’like bein’ held this close, huh? Don’t even gotta ask—jus’ throw y’self at me next time, sweetheart."

Your face feels like it’s on fire. The warmth creeps down your neck, settling deep in your chest, and you hate—hate—how easy it is for them to get you like this.

"I—shut up," you grumble, voice barely above a whisper, but it comes out embarrassingly shaky. You’re still pressed against them, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of their breathing, and god, their hand hasn’t moved from your back.

They hum, tilting their head, eyes scanning your face like they’re drinking in every little reaction. "Angel, y’okay?" The nickname comes soft, almost reverent, but there’s something else in their tone, something knowing. They’re enjoying this—your flustered little stammers, the way you can’t meet their gaze for too long without feeling like you’ll combust.

"I—I’m fine." You try to sound steady, but it’s hard when their fingers drag slow, featherlight up your spine. A barely-there touch, but enough to send another shiver rolling through you.

"Mm." They don’t sound convinced. If anything, they sound amused. "S’that so?" A pause, and then—"Y’look real cute like this, y’know."

You whimper. Actually whimper.

And they hear it.

Their grin stretches, slow and lazy, all dimples and sharp teeth. "That a little sound y’jus’ made? Cute."

"Shut up," you try again, swatting at their chest, but they just catch your wrist, bring it up between the two of you. Their fingers curl around it, thumb smoothing along your pulse.

"Y’really nervous, huh?" Their voice drops, honey-smooth, coaxing. Their grip is loose, easy to pull away from, but you don’t. You can’t. Not when they’re looking at you like that.

"...No," you mumble, and it’s a horrible lie.

They chuckle, and before you can think, before you can even breathe, they bring your wrist to their lips, pressing the softest kiss against the inside of it.

"You’re adorable," they murmur against your skin, and it’s unfair, unfair how easily those words send your heart into a frenzy. "Y’don’t gotta be shy with me, angel."

You’re going to combust.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before REDACTED tilts your chin up, their lips grazing yours again—slow, deliberate, teasing. They’re watching you, gauging every little twitch, every sharp inhale, every way your body reacts to them like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“D’you want more?” Their voice is low, a lazy drawl against your mouth. “Y’gotta tell me, angel.”

Your fingers clutch at their sleeves, grounding yourself. The way they speak—it’s like they already know the answer, but they want to hear it. Want to pull it from you.

You swallow, heat curling in your stomach. “Yeah.”

A quiet hum vibrates against your lips before they press another kiss there, just as slow, just as consuming. Their fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your waist in a touch that barely lingers but leaves fire in its wake.

“That feel good?” They murmur between kisses, voice dropping an octave. “Tell me where.”

You almost forget how to breathe, arching just slightly into their touch. Their hands are so big, so warm, and when they drag their teeth along your lower lip, you can’t stop the way your fingers tighten in their clothes.

They chuckle, the sound deep and pleased. “Y’can’t even think straight, huh? S’cute.”

Your face burns hotter, and you bury it against their shoulder for a second, trying to compose yourself. But they’re not having that. Their hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, their lips brushing your ear.

“I don’t think y’can take all of me, angel.” Their voice is velvety, teasing, full of that patient kind of amusement that only makes it worse. “You’re practically stuffed full already.”

A whimper catches in your throat, and their hand tilts your head back, forcing you to look at them.

“Mm. Look at you.” Their thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and their eyes flicker down to where your lips are definitely a little wet from their kisses. Their smirk turns downright sinful. “You’re droolin’. Feels that good, huh?”

You can barely get a word out before their lips are back on yours, deeper this time, and—god—they’re not letting you go anytime soon.

REDACTED's mouth is still warm on yours, their breath mixing with yours in a way that makes your head feel light, like you’re toeing the edge of something sharp. Their hands don’t leave you—not yet, anyway. A thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip, a palm firm against your lower back. Secure. Unmovable. Like if they let go, you’d slip away. Like they don’t want that.

But your brain is drowning, so you do what you do best: open your mouth and let words spill out like you aren’t just trying to distract yourself from the way they have you pinned.

“…You have a motorcycle.”

A beat. Then, a slow blink.

“…Yeah.” Their voice is still low, still rough, like they haven’t quite left the moment behind. But their brow lifts, bemused, like they’re trying to understand how this is what you’re thinking about right now. “What about it?”

“I wanna see it.”

They stare at you. Like you just asked them to pull the moon out of the sky and hand it to you on a silver platter. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them look so…confused.

“It’s just a bike.”

“It’s your bike.”

Another pause. You watch the way their mouth twitches, some unreadable thought flickering behind their eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of ridin’ it, are ya?”

You scoff, dramatic. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little.”

You gasp. They smirk. The moment is broken—mostly. Their hands are still on you, after all. Their voice still has that drawl, like they’re tasting every word before they let it leave their mouth.

“Fine,” you huff, shoving at their chest (not that it moves them).

“…Alright,” they say finally, giving you one last kiss—slow, lingering—before pulling back. “Let’s go.”

REDACTED takes your hand like it’s second nature, like they don’t even think about it—just interlaces their fingers with yours and leads you through the mess of their garage.

It’s a wasteland. A graveyard for things they once cared about and then didn’t.

You see the car first, buried under dust, the tires slightly deflated. You remember when they bought it—thought they drove one, figured they might need it for you. But you should’ve known. A car was too…normal. Too practical.

The motorcycle, though—that fits them like a second skin.

Sleek black, polished even though they barely take it out. It suits them in a way the car never could. The sharp edges of it match the sharp edges of their jaw. The deep black mirrors the ink on their arms, the piercings that gleam under dim garage lights. And then there’s their eyes—blue, cutting through the dark like high beams. Jesus.

“I knew you’d be into it,” they murmur, watching you take it all in. There’s that teasing lilt in their voice again. The one that says they know what you’re thinking.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers twitch at your sides. You wanna feel it.

So you try to climb it.

And immediately almost fall on your ass.

REDACTED catches you like they knew you’d do that too.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, angel,” they laugh, hands firm at your waist, pulling you up like you weigh nothing.

“I got it!” you insist, except you don’t because this thing is heavy as hell, and you don’t know the first thing about handling a bike like this.

“Uh-huh,” they hum, clearly not believing you at all, but still helping you settle onto the seat anyway. Their hands linger at your hips, warm, grounding. They lean in, just a little, just enough for their breath to brush against your cheek.

“Y’look real sweet up there,” they murmur, lips just barely grazing your ear. “Too sweet.”

You swallow. Your heart does something weird in your chest.

“…Are you gonna show me how to ride it or just stand there flirting?”

They grin, slow and sharp. “Can’t do both?”

REDACTED chuckles, low and warm, like they heard the sound you just made—like they felt it vibrate against their chest.

They climb on behind you, and suddenly, you’re caged in. Their legs bracket yours, their arms reach past your sides, hands covering yours on the handlebars. You feel the weight of them, solid and unshakable, and then—

Their hands slide to your waist. Adjusting. Correcting. But fuck, they don’t have to be this slow about it.

“S’posed to sit like this,” they murmur, pressing you back against them, firm, like they know you feel everything. Their breath is warm at your ear, their lips barely brushing skin as they lean in to reach the ignition.

The bike rumbles to life. You feel it first in your fingertips, then up your arms, then—oh. It sinks into your thighs, a steady hum between your legs, and you swallow down the noise that threatens to escape.

REDACTED notices. Of course they notice.

“You feel that?” they murmur, voice all honeyed amusement. Their grip on your hands tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “S’nice, huh?”

You nod, maybe too quickly, because their laughter comes slow and smug against

You turn. Maybe too fast, maybe too eager, but REDACTED doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they welcome it—because the moment you do, their hands are already there, steadying you, holding you like they knew you’d come to them.

And then—

Their lips.

Soft. So much softer than you expected, given everything else about them—the weight of their body, the roughness of their hands, the way they talk, lazy and deep, like they’ve got all the time in the world. But this? This is different. This is gentle.

Like they’re savoring it. Like you’re something to be tasted slow, something they don’t want to rush.

Your back meets the sleek body of the motorcycle, and they follow, leaning in, caging you in, their weight pressing into you in all the right ways. You feel them—all of them—towering over you, surrounding you, drowning you in their warmth.

And then their fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face just right, deepening the kiss, making you feel it, and fuck—

They break away first. Just barely. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Y’taste sweet,” they murmur, thumb brushing slow over your lower lip. Their eyes are half-lidded, like they’re already thinking about going back in. “Knew you would.”

You’re breathless. Maybe a little dazed. Maybe a little—

Their lips ghost over yours, teasing, like they want to make you beg for it. Like they want to hear you say it, admit how badly you want them. Their hands? Firm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles against your skin, like they’re mapping you out, like they’re memorizing the feel of you under their touch.

“Y’should see yourself,” they murmur, voice like a lazy drawl, all heat and hunger and patience that makes your skin burn. “Spread out on my bike like this. Look so fuckin’ pretty.”

The way they say it—like they own you, like they’re claiming you—it sends something hot curling low in your stomach.

Then their hands slide up, up, teasing under your shirt, knuckles dragging against bare skin, slow enough to make you shiver. “Feel good, angel?” They dip lower, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants, like they’re waiting for permission.

And then—fuck—their teeth. They nip at your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark. You feel the way they smile against your skin, feel the way they hum in satisfaction, like they love marking you up.

“Want my hands on you?” A little squeeze at your hips. “Y’gotta tell me where.”

Their fingers press in slow, teasing, just barely skimming where you need them most. It’s intentional, the way they hold back, the way they make you feel every inch of the wait.

“Fuck,” you breathe, hips twitching, chasing the contact, but they don’t give in. Not yet.

They chuckle, low and dark, a sound that sinks into your skin. “So impatient,” they murmur, dragging their knuckles up your inner thigh, agonizingly slow. “Y’been thinking about this, huh? How long?”

Their words feel like a game—like they already know the answer but want to hear you say it anyway. You swallow hard, your breath uneven as you try to focus, try not to let them see how wrecked you already are.

Their lips return to your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse, while their hand—fuck, their hand—finally moves where you need it, fingers pressing firm and knowing. A sharp gasp leaves you, your head tilting back against the bike, exposing more of your throat to their teeth, their tongue.

“That’s it,” they murmur against your skin, voice thick with satisfaction. “Take what y’need, angel.”

And then they press in deeper, their touch turning slow and deliberate, coaxing out every little sound they can pull from you. Their other hand drags up your side, pushing beneath your shirt, fingers spreading wide as if they want to feel every inch of you.

It’s overwhelming—the heat of their body against yours, the steady rhythm of their touch, the way they watch you, like they want to memorize every reaction, every shudder.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” they rasp, pressing their forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips. “Could keep you like this all day.”

And from the way they’re touching you—like they have no intention of stopping—you’re starting to think they mean it.

You're not sure when you started shaking. Maybe it was the moment they first pressed you down against their bike, the cold metal sharp against the heat pooling in your stomach. Maybe it was when their lips barely grazed yours, teasing, promising, making you desperate. Or maybe—fuck—maybe it was when their hands started to roam, those strong, practiced fingers dragging slow over your skin like they were memorizing every inch of you.

And now? Now you’re undone.

They’ve got you caged in, their body flush against yours, their hands firm but patient as they press against your stomach, fingers spreading wide, palms warm as they pull you closer like they don’t want a single inch of space between you. Their breath is heavy against your lips, teasing, tempting, but they don’t kiss you yet. Not properly. They’re waiting. Watching.

They love watching.

“Y’know how fuckin’ pretty you are?” they murmur, dragging their fingers lower, pressing into the soft dip of your stomach, just enough to make you feel the possessive weight of their hands. “Could spend all night just lookin’ at you like this.”

Their words make something tighten low in your gut, an embarrassing whimper slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Their smirk sharpens, dangerous, and their hands move—one sliding down to squeeze your thigh, the other trailing up to your wrist, fingers brushing against your palm before lacing with yours.

Yeah. They love your hands too.

You feel the press of their lips against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, their tongue flicking out just slightly before they sink their teeth into the sensitive skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark.

“Mine,” they murmur, voice a little rough, a little distracted, as if the word just slipped out without them meaning to say it.

Fuck.

Your breath stutters as they lean in, their teeth dragging over your throat, nipping at the skin before soothing it with their tongue. They don’t stop there. They trail lower, their mouth finding your collarbone, then your chest, their hands still mapping you out, still pressing and teasing, like they want to touch everywhere at once.

Their grip tightens on your thigh as they spread you wider, their other hand still locked with yours, fingers squeezing tight. Their lips move lower, kissing a slow path down your stomach, mouthing at the sensitive skin, sucking, leaving marks, branding you as theirs.

"Y'feel so good," they breathe against your skin, voice thick with something raw, something real. "So soft. So perfect."

Their breath fans over your stomach, and they press another open-mouthed kiss there, their tongue flicking out to taste before their teeth sink in, leaving another mark—deeper this time. You shudder, a helpless moan slipping out, and they groan at the sound, their grip on your thigh tightening.

And then—fuck—then you feel it.

The cool metal of their piercing drags against your skin as they mouth lower, teasing, biting, before pressing their hips flush against yours, letting you feel everything. The sharp contrast of heat and steel makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in theirs, and they smirk, pleased with your reaction.

“You like that?” they ask, voice pure sin, hips rolling just slightly to let you feel the full weight of their arousal against you. “Y’like feelin’ how fuckin’ hard you make me?”

You whimper, head tilting back against the bike, but they don’t let you escape. Their grip on your hand tightens, grounding you, making sure you stay right here with them.

“Tell me,” they murmur against your stomach, lips brushing over each mark they’ve left, soothing, worshiping. “Wanna hear you say it, angel.”

Your breath shudders, your free hand moving to tangle in their hair, tugging just enough to make them groan. “EH- REDACTED? I love it.”

Their reaction is immediate. Their hips press against you again, firmer this time, more deliberate, letting you feel the piercing drag against you as they grind down slow, savoring it. Their mouth trails up, capturing your lips in a deep, heated kiss, their tongue teasing past your lips, taking, tasting, claiming.

“Good,” they breathe between kisses, pressing their forehead to yours, panting against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel. Just lemme take care of you.”

Got it. Buckle up.

The metal of the bike is cold against your burning skin, but you barely register it over the heat of him. [REDACTED] has you spread over his lap, thighs trembling where they bracket his, hands gripping the handlebars behind you for balance. You can feel him, hot and thick, stretching you open inch by inch—again. Your legs are shaking, overstimulated from how long he’s been toying with you, but he just won’t stop.

“Y’make the most lewd fuckin’ sounds.."

His voice is a slow, honey-thick drawl against your ear, and then—fuck

You try to turn your head away, but his free hand is already gripping your jaw, keeping you locked in place.

“Nuh-uh, angel."

He pulls you down hard against his lap, forcing every inch of him deep inside you, dragging that metal along your walls just like before. The sound you let out is shameless, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him.

“There it is,” he murmurs, smug as sin, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Knew I could make y’sing like that again.”

His hips roll slow, lazy, dragging out every second of your torment. You can feel every piercing along his cock, the cool bite of metal making you jolt, overstimulated and desperate, but he’s barely even paying attention to you—like he’s just using your body for his own pleasure.

“Look at how fuckin’ good y’look on my cock,” he drawls, watching your reflection in the mirror across the garage, watching your lips part and your lashes flutter as he thrusts up again. “You were practically droolin’ before. Y’must love bein’ stuffed full, huh?”

You whimper, but that’s not enough for him.

“Go on. Say it.”

He punctuates the command with a sharp snap of his hips, grinding you down so deep you feel him press against that perfect spot inside you, and your head thumps back against his shoulder.

“I—I love it,” you gasp, back arching, thighs squeezing around his waist.

His chuckle is low and dangerous, and then his mouth is on you—kissing, sucking, nipping at the base of your neck as he starts rolling his hips in earnest.

“My angel always does such a good job,” he purrs, barely above a whisper. His hands trail down your thighs, squeezing, teasing, spreading you open just a little wider. “Y’already know that, don’t you?” His fingers dip between your legs, pressing just where you need it most. “’Course y’do. Can feel you squeezin’ around me right now.”

Your fingers dig into his arms, nails leaving little half-moon imprints in his skin as you rock against him, chasing your high, but he tsks, stopping all movement entirely.

“Ah-ah. Not yet.”

You whimper, hips stuttering in desperation, but he just smirks.

“Be patient, angel.” His hands slide back up to your chest, pinching, teasing, making you whine. “Y’can cum when I say so.”

And if you start rutting against him for friction, panting and desperate, he just chuckles, smug and infuriating.

“Look at you. Y’just can’t help yourself, huh?” His breath is hot against your ear, teasing, taunting. “S’alright. S’what I made you for, ain't it?”

And when you finally fall apart—when you finally shudder and break, crying out his name as your whole body trembles—he groans, dragging you down hard against his cock, pushing himself as deep as he can go.

“Fuck,” he rasps, breathless for the first time all night. His hands slide up, one tangling in your hair as the other grips your hip, keeping you locked in place, making sure you feel everything. “Y’took me so fuckin’ well.”

His lips press against the curve of your jaw, almost tender, before he murmurs, “Y’did so good for me, angel. So, I’ll let you pick.”

His fingers trail down your stomach, teasing, possessive.

His words curl around your brain like smoke, thick and intoxicating, clouding out anything but him. Your breath stutters—just enough hesitation for his smirk to sharpen.

“Aw, angel.” His voice is a slow, rolling drawl, lazy and smug. “Y’can’t even pick, huh?”

His fingers drag along your stomach, teasing, possessive. The motion sends a shiver straight down your spine, your overstimulated body twitching in his grip. You’re still stuffed full of him, stretched wide and trembling, but he waits. Like he enjoys watching you struggle to speak, to even think through the haze he’s wrapped you in.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your temple, deceptively soft. “Which d’ya want more?”

Your mouth opens, but all that escapes is a shaky breath. His fingers flex against your hip, gripping, kneading—waiting. And then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips.

The noise that leaves you is barely human.

“Fuck—”

The sound of his chuckle is all teeth.

“There it is.”

His hand slides up your throat, tilting your chin so he can watch you—your dazed eyes, your parted lips, the way your body twitches at every lazy, deliberate grind of his hips. His gaze is half-lidded, burning, drinking in every inch of you.

“Feels good, don’t it?” His voice is syrup-thick, dragging down your spine like a physical thing. “Being stretched open like this, takin’ everything I give you…”

You swallow, barely nodding—too lost in the heat, the weight, the slow, devastating drag of him inside you. And he sees it.

His grip tightens.

“Y’can’t even fuckin’ talk, can you?”

You shake your head, eyes slipping shut, body keening against him. He hums, low and satisfied, kissing just below your ear.

“Don’t worry, angel.” Another slow thrust, dragging against that perfect spot inside you, making your whole body jolt. “I’ll decide for you.”

He shifts, pressing deep, locking you against him—and stays there, buried to the hilt, his breath warm against your neck.

“Be good,” he murmurs. “And take it.”

And then—heat. Possession. His arms tighten, his breath shudders, and you feel him let go—deep, slow, branding you from the inside out.

He groans against your skin, dragging his teeth along your pulse, and fuck—he doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull out, just keeps you there, completely filled, his cock still throbbing inside you.

“Guess we gotta keep goin’ till.."

His fingers trail down, smearing sweat across your skin, touching and teasing as he shifts beneath you—still hard, still inside.

And from the way his smirk curls against your jaw, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, kneading, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Your whole body shudders as he grinds against you, still buried deep, his cock twitching with every shaky breath you take.

“Fuck, angel,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “Takin’ me so well—so fuckin’ deep—”

His hips roll, pressing just a little further, like he’s testing how much more you can take. The stretch is already too much, your body trembling against him, but the way he stays inside, stuffed to the hilt, makes you feel—

“Bet y’d look so good like this all the time.”

Your breath stutters.

He hums against your skin, slow and teasing. “All full of me. Carryin’ my cum inside that pretty little hole, leakin’ down your thighs…”

His fingers dip lower, just barely brushing over the mess he’s already made of you. A whimper slips out, and his smirk sharpens.

“Mm. Maybe I should make sure it sticks.”

You don’t even have time to process before his hands are gripping your hips tight, tilting you just right—before he thrusts up in one slow, filthy motion, grinding deep, making sure every drop of his cum stays right where he put it.

Your whole body jolts, overstimulated and trembling, but he just grins.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your jaw, pressing lazy kisses to your flushed skin. “Think I wanna see you full of me all the fuckin’ time.”

He rolls his hips again, still slow, still teasing, but his breath is coming rougher now, his grip tightening.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low purr against your ear. “Let me fuck you open every night, make sure you’re stuffed full—”

His fingers trail down your stomach, possessive, like he can already see it, like he wants to see it.

“Y’gonna let me breed you, angel?”

Your whole body clenches around him, and his groan is pure sin.

“…Yeah,” he breathes, voice all heat and hunger. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he moves.

Slow, deep, pushing you down to take him as he fucks his cum further inside, groaning at the way you twitch and shake, overstimulated but still so needy. His hands roam, pressing you close, dragging his nails down your sides like he’s marking his claim.

“Gonna fill you up every fuckin’ time,” he murmurs, lips trailing over your pulse, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Till y’can’t even think of anyone else.”

"But, I- only think of you all the time.."

His grip tightens instantly. The second those shaky little words leave your lips, he stills—buried deep inside you, chest rising and falling against your back, hands locked around your waist like he needs to hold you there.

“…Say that again.”

His voice is lower now, rougher. Almost dangerous in how sweet it sounds—like he’s barely holding himself back.

You swallow, thighs trembling where they bracket his. “I—” Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deep, like he’s savoring the way you squeeze around him. “I only think of you—only you—all the time.”

That does it.

A sharp, ragged breath escapes him, his fingers digging into your skin. His control—his usual lazy drawl, that smug, taunting dominance—cracks.

“…Fuck.”

And then he moves.

Not slow this time. Not teasing.

This is needy.

Desperate.

Like you just shattered something inside him, and now he needs to prove it—to seal that claim inside you, make sure you never even consider anyone else.

His pace turns messy, all deep, rolling thrusts and ragged groans against your ear. He’s so worked up, so fucking sweetly possessive, whispering between every shaky breath:

“Mine.”

“You’re mine.”

“No one else gets you like this.”

“Fuck—no one else even knows you like this—”

His hands roam, clutching, nails scraping your thighs, your hips, your stomach, like he wants to mark you with every touch. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your shoulder, pressed to the shell of your ear, murmuring between ragged gasps:

“You’re made for me.”

“Fuck—feel that? So deep inside you, fuckin’ claiming you—”

And then he loses it.

He slams into you, grip tightening, burying himself as deep as he can go—and he breaks, moaning into your skin as he spills inside, body shuddering with the force of it.

But even after he’s spent, even when his breath evens out, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, keeping you full, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles against your neck, still murmuring in that soft, wrecked voice:

“No one else.”

“Only me.”

“You promise, angel?”

And when you nod—when you whisper, "Only you, always,"—he sighs, pressing a kiss against your pulse.

“…That’s my good fuckin’ angel.”

His breath shudders against your skin, lips tracing the curve of your jaw as he stays inside you, keeping you locked against his chest, filled, owned. His hands, still trembling from the aftershocks, roam your body—soft now, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

And then, in a voice so quiet, so wrecked it barely sounds like him, he murmurs:

“We belong to each other, don’t we…?”

His grip tightens, pulling you closer, like he needs to hear you say it—needs you to confirm what he already knows.

You nod, dazed and pliant against him. “Y-yeah…”

But that’s not enough.

He tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes in the dim light of the garage—dazed, dark, utterly consumed by you.

“Mind,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your temple.

“Body,” another kiss, lower now, lingering against your cheek.

“Soul,” a gentle bite against your pulse, like he’s branding the words into you.

Then, lower—his hands sliding down your stomach, possessive and warm, pressing against the soft swell where he knows he’s still buried deep inside.

“…Everything.”

He groans, grinds against you just to feel it again, to make you squirm in his lap. His voice turns desperate, aching as he breathes against your ear:

“Your hole—fuck—your whole self—”

He kisses you then, messy and hungry, like he wants to swallow you whole, drag you even deeper into him until there’s nothing left between you.

He’s obsessed with watching you. The way your eyes flutter, the way your breath catches, the way your body reacts to every little thing he does. It’s intoxicating. Addictive. He needs to see it—needs to know exactly what makes you shudder, whimper, beg for more.

That’s why his favorite positions always keep you close. Always let him watch.

Missionary, but with your wrists pinned above your head, fingers entwined as he rolls his hips slow, deliberate, drawing out every little noise you make. He’ll whisper filthy things against your lips, drinking in every reaction, every quiver, every desperate squeeze around him.

Lotus, with you straddling his lap, chests pressed together, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He loves the way you tremble in his hold, loves how deep he can go like this, how your body reacts so perfectly to every slow, deliberate thrust. Loves when you bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting down to muffle the sounds—he always grins when you do, his voice a husky tease in your ear:

"Y'don’t gotta hide from me, angel. Wanna hear every fuckin’ sound y’make."

And when you do let go, when you whimper his name in that breathless, wrecked voice—that’s when he loses it.

It’s never just about the act for him—it’s about you. About making you feel so thoroughly ruined that you never want to be anywhere else but here, tangled up with him, hands clasped, bodies moving as one.

His voice is a breathy, wrecked whisper against your lips:

“Look at me, angel. Wanna see your face when you fall apart for me.”

The second the words left your lips, the moment that trembling, breathless "I love you, [REDACTED]—" spilled from your mouth, everything changed.

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, chest heaving against yours like you’d just knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, just a second, he didn’t move—just stared, eyes blown wide, lips parted, the slow realization of what you said crashing over him.

Then he broke.

A shuddered breath, a groan, and suddenly his arms were around you, crushing you against him, face buried in your neck. His body trembled—he trembled. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, and then—fuck—he was whimpering, voice cracking as he choked out,

“Say it again.”

His hands tightened—one gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go, the other threading through your hair, pulling just enough to make you arch against him. His lips pressed to your skin, open-mouthed and desperate, his breath hot as he begged,

“Say it again, angel. Please.”

Your fingers curled against his back, nails digging into his skin, and you gasped as he rolled his hips deep, so deep it sent white-hot pleasure curling through your core. And even though you could barely breathe, barely think, you still gave him what he wanted.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I—I love you, I love you, I love y—ahh—”

He snapped.

A sharp, choked sound spilled from his throat—half-groan, half-sob—and then he was fucking you like he was trying to ruin you, like he wanted to carve your words into his soul. He didn’t care about pace, didn’t care about teasing, didn’t care about anything except chasing that feeling, that overwhelming, all-consuming rush of belonging that had his vision going hazy.

“You—fuck, you love me—” His voice cracked, rough, wrecked, like he couldn’t even believe it. “You—you really—ah—”

You felt something wet against your shoulder, and that’s when you realized—he was crying. His body shuddered with every thrust, every ragged breath, every desperate whimper he tried to swallow down. His fingers laced with yours, squeezing tight, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“I love you,” he rasped, voice breaking as he slammed himself deeper, dragging you closer, closer, closer. “Love you, love you, fuck—I need you—”

And then he ruined you.

The sheer desperation in his voice, the overwhelming emotion in the way he held you, the way his body trembled with each ragged thrust—it sent you over the edge so hard you screamed. Pleasure crashed over you in an electric wave, body convulsing against his, vision going white, mind shattering as he fucked you through it, chasing his own high.

The moment you tightened around him, he broke completely, moaning your name like a prayer as he buried himself deep, shaking, gasping, tears hot against your skin as he came hard, filling you with everything he had—everything he was.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just tangled bodies, heaving chests, skin slick with sweat, breathless, wrecked.

He held you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to your damp skin, hands tracing soothing patterns down your back. And when his breathing finally evened out, when his heartbeat slowed, he exhaled shakily, voice hoarse when he mumbled:

“Gonna make you say it every time, y’know that?”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he nuzzled into your neck, voice still thick with tears, still so incredibly soft.

“Need t’hear it. Need t’feel it.”

Then, with a slow, teasing roll of his hips, he hummed,

“Think y’can say it one more time for me, angel?”

He came for the last time...

His cum is thick, dripping slow and warm from between your legs, and [REDACTED] watches with a lazy, satisfied smirk, eyes half-lidded as he traces a slow, possessive hand down your stomach.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb dragging through the mess he made before pushing some of it back inside. “S’like your body don’t wanna let me go.”

His voice is deep, wrecked, still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s barely moved, still pressed against you, still inside you, his cock twitching at the way you whimper from oversensitivity. And even though you can feel him softening, you know he’s not quite done with you yet.

Because when he finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, he groans at the sight of his release leaking out of you, thick and white, dripping down your thighs. His fingers spread you open just a little, just to watch, to admire the way his cum still clings to your hole, and he lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle.

“Bet y’didn’t know that was one of my favorite sights,” he drawls, smug and easy, but there’s a hunger beneath it, something darker and deeper that makes his breath hitch. His fingers tease at your entrance, gathering up what’s spilling out before pushing it back in.

“Gotta keep you nice ‘n full, angel.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, but he just leans down, kissing your temple with something achingly tender.

“S’my favorite way to mark you,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your jaw, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Better than hickeys. Better than bruises. ‘Cause even if no one else can see it…” His breath fans warm over your lips.

“You’ll know it’s there.”

His hand lingers for just a second longer before he finally sighs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before rolling

"Stay put," he orders, voice soft, indulgent, like he's speaking to something fragile.

You hear the rustling of fabric, the quiet drip of water, and then—warmth. A damp towel glides over your skin, gentle and slow, as he wipes away the evidence of everything he just did to you. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body all over again. And when he finally deems you clean enough, he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, tilting your face toward him.

“Y’good?”

His voice is quiet now, searching, scanning your features for any hint of discomfort. And when you nod—when you lean into his touch, pressing a sleepy kiss to his palm—his lips twitch into something almost fond.

“Mm. Good.”

Your whole body feels like it’s floating—boneless, weightless—except for the ache between your legs and the warmth still pooling deep inside you. You're barely clinging to consciousness, vision hazy, skin flushed, legs utterly useless after how hard he wrecked you. The bike’s cold metal bites against your overheated skin, but you barely notice—too busy trembling in his lap, still impaled on his cock, still dripping with him.

[REDACTED] presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, voice still thick and breathless as he rasps, “Look at that, angel…” His fingers trace slow, teasing circles over your stomach, dipping lower—just enough to feel the way his cum is seeping out of you, trailing down your thighs.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, like he can’t fucking believe it. His hand drags lower, gathering some of his release on his fingers, pressing it back in—slow, teasing, possessive. You jolt, over-sensitive and trembling, but he just smirks.

“Y’think you can walk?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Your limbs feel like jelly, muscles twitching in the aftermath of too many orgasms, and your hands are still gripping the handlebars behind you for dear life.

“Tch. ’Course y’can’t,” he murmurs, amusement curling in his voice.

And then, without warning, he lifts you.

A startled gasp tears from your lips as he scoops you up, arms firm and steady beneath your legs, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. His warmth envelops you, his scent thick in your lungs—leather, sweat, sex—and you can feel the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat where your head rests against him.

He carries you effortlessly, his grip firm yet careful, keeping you close. And fuck—there’s something so intimate about it. The way his fingers flex against your thighs, the way he presses a kiss to your temple without thinking, the way his breath hitches slightly when he adjusts you in his arms—like he just loves holding you like this.

His voice is softer now, a low, affectionate drawl as he hums,

“Think y’need a bath, angel.”

You barely have the strength to respond, just nodding weakly against his chest. He chuckles, shifting you higher in his arms, pressing you even closer.

“Don’t worry. I got you.”

His lips brush against your forehead, tender, lingering.

“I always got you.”

The bath had been too warm, too soothing, and between the exhaustion settling deep in your bones and the way [REDACTED] had kept tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh under the water, you'd nearly drifted off in his arms. He’d washed you—hands reverent, careful, like he was sculpting something delicate out of soap and steam—before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to the bedroom.

And then he’d leaned against the doorway, still damp from the bath, towel slung low on his hips, eyes dark

You'd barely had time to process before his hands were guiding you down, pressing you against the mattress, the cold air prickling against your freshly washed skin.

And fuck—he was so deep, stretching you all over again, hands gripping your hips as he fucked into you with slow, deep thrusts, dragging pleasure out of you until you were shaking beneath him, moaning into the sheets.

He’d taken his time—murmuring soft, possessive praise against your skin, watching the way your body took him, how it clung to him, milking him with every thrust until he finally spilled inside you again, filling you up just like before.

And even then, he hadn’t let you move.

He’d just stayed there for a moment, cock still buried deep, hands stroking down your sides as he hummed, pleased, murmuring something low and smug about "keeping you full for just a little longer."

And only when you whined—utterly wrecked and oversensitive—had he finally pulled out, chuckling at the way you shuddered, at the way his release dripped from you.

Now—

You’re in the kitchen, barely dressed, legs still unsteady as you focus on the dessert you’re making. [REDACTED] is behind you, clinging—all broad chest and heavy warmth, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles lazily into your neck.

“Y’ain’t gonna let me help?” he mumbles, voice still slow and drowsy with leftover satisfaction.

“You never help,” you tease, nudging him lightly. “You just stand there and hug me.”

A lazy smirk curls against your skin. “S’important job, angel. Gotta make sure you’re warm.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move to shake him off. If anything, you lean into him a little more, enjoying the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers flex gently against your stomach.

Then, without warning, you turn and press a kiss to his jaw.

His breath hitches.

Just a second. Just a tiny pause, barely noticeable—but you feel it.

And then he’s tilting your chin up, his gaze dark and unreadable as he leans in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried, indulgent, his tongue teasing against yours as he takes his time tasting you. His arms tighten around you, pressing you closer, like he never wants to let go.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he murmurs.

His fingers drift lower, toying with the hem of your clothes, dangerous in their intent.

"...Y'ever thought about letting me have dessert first?"

[REDACTED]’s breath catches. Their fingers twitch slightly in yours—scarred, burned, rough in all the ways that tell a story they’ve never spoken aloud.

You don’t press. You never do.

Instead, you lift their hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to each calloused knuckle.

Their face is unreadable—staring down at you, something flickering in their dark eyes, something raw, something fragile. Like they don’t know what to do with the warmth of your touch. Like it hurts.

And then, as you shift closer, your ring glints under the dim kitchen light. The matching band on their finger catches, too—two small, simple things, yet carrying the weight of a lifetime.

Childhood lovers. Meant to be.

Their grip tightens around your hand, just slightly. Just enough to tell you they’re holding on.

“…If you hadn’t taken his hand that day,” [REDACTED] murmurs, voice rough with something unreadable, “…would you have still said yes?”

Your heart aches at the memory.

That day, years ago—small hands reaching, fingers brushing, the quiet promise sealed with a ring—before Leon’s sneer cut through the moment, before cruel hands tore you away, before [REDACTED] had been left alone with nothing but the sting of rejection and the echo of their own heartbeat.

You squeeze their hand tighter. Hold it against your chest, where they can feel the steady rhythm beneath your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly. “Maybe my childhood self wouldn’t have understood love the way I do now.”

[REDACTED] swallows, jaw tightening.

“But…” You smile—small, warm, certain. “I’m happy that life gave me another chance with you.”

Something in them cracks.

They look at you—really look at you—eyes shining, throat working around words they can’t quite say. Their lips part, but no sound comes out, and then—then they just press forward, pressing their forehead against yours, squeezing your hand against their chest like they’re the one afraid you’ll disappear this time.

“…You love me?”

A whisper. A plea.

You cradle their face, thumb brushing over the dampness clinging to their lashes, and you whisper back—

“I love you, [REDACTED].”

And finally—finally—they let go.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of everything else.

[REDACTED] shudders—a small, barely-there breath that stutters in their throat, like they don’t know how to take in the weight of your words. Like they can’t believe they deserve them.

But you just hold them closer.

“Only you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to theirs. “The real you.”

Their fingers tighten around yours, almost desperate. You can feel it—the way their body tenses, the way their breath hitches, the way they struggle against something unseen.

“I’ll tell you this for the rest of my life,” you promise, voice steady, unwavering. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes. Just so you know.”

Their eyes flutter shut. Their lips part, like they want to say something, but no words come—just the smallest, strangled sound, like something breaking apart in their chest.

“You,” you whisper again, softer now. “The real you is the one I feel the happiest with.”

And that’s when they fall.

Not physically. Not in any way you can see.

But you feel it—the way their last defenses crumble, the way their breath shudders out of them, the way they just let go and sink into your arms, forehead still pressed to yours, fingers tangled with yours, body trembling as they clutch onto you like you’re the only thing keeping them together.

“…You’re not leaving,” they whisper, barely a sound.

“I’m not leaving.”

Their lips find yours—not desperate, not rough—just deep. Slow. Like they’re memorizing the way you feel.

You giggle at the way [REDACTED]’s eyes soften when you press the small cake piece to their lips. “C’mon, try it,” you coax, voice light, teasing. “I made it just for you.”

They huff, but there’s no real resistance—just a tiny, reluctant smirk as they take the bite from your fingers.

A pause. Then, their expression melts.

“…S’ good,” they murmur, lips still brushing against your fingertips. Their voice is softer than usual, almost boyish in its honesty. “Sweet… tastes like strawberries.”

You beam. “See! I told you you’d like it!”

Their gaze lingers on you—eyes half-lidded, warm, fond. And then, in one slow, deliberate movement, they lean in and press a kiss right to the tip of your nose.

It’s so soft, so unexpectedly sweet, that your breath catches.

And when they pull back, licking the last traces of cake from their lips, they hum lazily, “Mm. You’re sweeter, though.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

"Cheer up, angel," they say, voice dipping into that low, syrupy drawl. "Can’t have you lookin’ cuter than dessert itself.”

You’re definitely not blushing. Not even a little bit.

#14dwy ren #14dwy x reader #ren 14 days with you #14dwy #14 days with you #14 days with you redacted #14 days with you x reader #14 days with you ren x reader #14 days with you ren #14dwy redacted #14dwy redacted x reader #14dwy ren x reader #14 days with you redact

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dollsltt · 7 months ago

Text

MAMA, A BIRD BEHIND YOU.

⠀⠀ ᡣ𐭩 ⠀ ⠀⠀angel!reader x dean winchester

sum. just angel!reader having a staring problem, and perturbing dean’s sleep with it.

includes. fluff, pet names (duck, duckling, sweetheart), it’s my first drabble have mercy, english is not my first language.

Dean jolted awake, his heart felt like it wanted to jump out of his chest. He wasn't sure what had disturbed him so much —a nightmare, maybe, or that weird squeaking sound the bunker floor made from time to time— but something felt... off. He blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the drowsiness and blurriness in his eyes. Then he saw you.

You. Fuckin' duck. He thought.

You were standing perfectly still in the corner of the room, your hands clasped together in front of you, staring deeply at Dean.

"What the fuck-" Dean wanted to yell at you, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't used to it. It was maybe the fifth time this week you'd taken it upon yourself to wake him or Sam with your eerie, silent presence. "Duckling, what are you doing here?" he asked as he sat up in bed.

You stared at him for another few seconds, blinking slowly. "You were asleep."

"Yes, I know. It's what people do at night." He rubbed his face, trying to make sense of the situation, and maybe trying to talk some sense into you. "Why are you always just... standing there? Watching me like a damn freak?"

You tilted your head slightly, as though considering your words. "You looked peaceful."

Dean froze, caught between a sense of confusion and sheer disbelief. "You woke me up because I looked peaceful?"

"No," you corrected, your voice as calm as ever. "You woke up on your own. I was merely observing."

"Observing what, exactly?"

For brief moments, you hesitated. Your expression was hard to read, since you just kept staring at him, but that question seemed to have made you think.

"Humans are... fragile. They take on too much. They carry the weight of their sins even unconsciously. I was ensuring that you remained unharmed."

Dean stayed just like you for a few seconds; still and staring, blinking slowly as if the gears in his brain were being dusted off. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, trying to find the words.

"So you were angelically babysitting me?" he said, confused. How was he supposed to take that? Sure, it was... Cute, in a way. His chest tightened fondly at the thought of how much you cared for him, even if you showed it in such a weird way.

But still, it was fucking terrifying to be jumpscared by two shiny eyes staring at his soul in the middle of the night.

"Yes." you said, matter-of-factly, a tiny smile gracing your face, which only made Dean feel his chest tighten even more.

"Listen, sweetheart– I don't mind you watching me sleep, okay? Even if you look like a freak, I don't mind, but you should try to kick that habit. It's not very... uh, how do I say it? Human." Dean tried to explain it as simply as possible, but it was hard when you were looking at him with those big eyes, all wide and paying as much attention as if he were an exotic animal. "You scared five lifetimes out of me standing in that corner like an extra in horror movie. I'm just saying, others might react worse than me."

You blinked and looked down at your hands. "I didn't intend to frighten you. I'm simply drawn to your existence." You said softly. "If you would rather, I may go."

Dean shouldn't feel bad, but he did. It was like scolding a puppy for chewing on a shoe. He knew you were getting used to the Earth and how humans coexisted with each other, it wasn't entirely your fault you were a social misfit.

"Stay if you want," Dean flopped back onto his pillow with a groan, covering his face with his upper arm. "But I'd recommend you try doing other things while Sam and I asleep, believe me, anything is better than watching two idiots snore." He yawned.

Dean peeked out from behind his arm to watch you move toward the door, though you threw one last glance over your shoulder.

You hesitate, moving your lips as if you want to say something else. Finally, you nod. "Very well. Sleep well, Dean." Your gaze lingered for a moment, soft and curious, before vanishing down the hallway.

As soon as you left, Dean exhaled noisily. "Angels," he muttered, covering his head with the blanket. "Fucking weirdos."

a/n: hii hiii hello this is my first drabble, hope y’all like it :) i’m doing sam’s version soon cuz my boy deserves to be disturbed by the angel too

#🦢݁ kei’s writes!#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x angel!reader #supernatural #jensen ackles x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester one shot #spn one shot

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errruvande · 6 months ago

Text

Celebration

Pairing: Kang Daeho x reader

Summery: you had to celebrate the New Year in Seoul, for the first time in many years.

Triggers: PTSD, brief mention of blood

Author note: some random ass Korean names cause we need to call their made up friends somehow lmao

Word count: 2 882

It was yours and Daeho's first New Year celebration in Seoul, to the amusement of your friends, who were dying to celebrate it with you at least once in a lifetime. When the debts creeped in, fast and furious, you found it to be impossible to celebrate the holidays as you had been for a few years of your relationships. And both of yours families found it hard to have you in, after all of the rounds of debt collectors slamming their doors to scare them about your well-being. Your parents were equally scared and embarrassed.

Because of the debts, you could not afford to leave your apartments: parents would've not let you in their houses, and the renting prices even in the smallest villages were too high in that period for you to afford it.

When your friends found themselves too eager and excited about you staying in Seoul, telling you all of their plans for celebration, they were rapidly cut off.

"We will be staying at home all night." You said to your friend, studying the shelf in the store and trying to locate the red and yellow marks amongst the price-tags. You felt your friend pouting with your skin, the air between you two tensing.

"How can you stay home the whole New Year night?" She almost meowed at you in disbelief, putting a pack of mung beans in her cart. "What about the parties? We don't even have to pay to party, the streets themselves are partying! C'mon, you need to have some fun, it's New Year!"

"We'll be having fun at home!" The tone of your voice was unnecessarily harsh, you barked at at your friends without having the time to process your words, and had to look at her meekly. "I'm sorry for that..."

The noise of the supermarket went to the background while you were staring at the bean shelf, spinning around the memories of your only celebration in Seoul before you and Daeho started celebrating New Year in a countryside. Your hand twitched, squeezing the soft pack of fermented beans, as your face turned pale red and the unbothered firm line of your lips turned into a frown.

You shook your head and sighted, putting the beans in your small cart. "We won't be leaving the house, I'm sorry."

Your friends didn't know about Daeho's condition. He never told them and he asked you not to tell them too, he was too embarrassed of his panic attacks no matter how many times you tried to convince him that having them is not embarrassing and it absolutely do not makes him a lesser person. But you didn't need to be asked twice, so all of your friends just thought that both of you were respecting traditions and spending the holidays with your families.

Daeho popped out the living room, tinsels shining in his dark hair like glitter. The way he flew to you, jumping from the spot and sliding on the floor untill he bumped slightly into your body, laughing childishly, a few tinsels falling down his pretty face as he leaned in to give you a tender kiss through laughter. He picked up the bags and carried them to the kitchen, saying that whatever you'll make will be enough, cause he was with you and your presence alone will always be enough for him to celebrate anything.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!" You shut the door behind you, dumping the bags on the floor to take the clothes off. "It's not much, but I'd be able to make something for us to celebrate."

When he said he put his heart and soul into decorating your small apartment for the new year, he meant it. You didn't have a lot of new year's toys, tree balls and the lights, but he did what he could, grabbing a few (all that he could barely fit in his hands) spruce and pine branches from the little forest near your neighborhood and tried to make some arnaments, embodied it with red ribbons and threads. Daeho's hands were in glitter and glue, and now your face was shining too in the places he cupped your cheeks in to kiss you, when you walked into the chicken.

"One thing to go with the decorations!" Soft murmuring of his through your lips tenderized you and you mewled into his mouth pathetically, wrapping your hands around his shoulders tight enough to be able to press your entire body to his.

In one swift motion Daeho lifted you up, rewarding himself with your sweet laughter, and carried you to the tree you had in the living room.

"Take this." He tipped you lower over the little table, to the spot where the handmade star wrapped entirely in the shimmering red ribbon was lying on. You freed one hand from the hold onto Daeho's shoulder and took the star, smiling on the lights playing in the shimmers of the ribbon. "This spot is only for you, love."

He lifted you higher, making it easier for you to place the star on the tip of the tree. Once you put it securely, you felt the tear rolling down your cheek. Even in the hopeless situation like you had been in, Daeho still tried to find small things that would bring joy to both of you.

"You did a great job, sweetie." You looked down at him over the shoulder, sucking your lips in like a child seeing something pretty.

He pulled you down, twirling you around mid action, to see your face adorned with a beautiful smile he fell for a few years ago. You found his shoulders with your palms for balance, and when you felt the ground with your toes, you leaned forward, resting your head on Daeho's chest, the warmth of his body radiating through your cheek.

A few hours later, when a small festive dinner was made, the windows closed and sound proofed and the the zeros lined up on your clocks, you were ready to your own special fun time, when you heard the door knob threshing mad.

"On the New Year???" You tore yourself off Daeho's chest as you were lying on the couch, eyes round darting between Dae's tensed face and the door to your apartment. "Can't they let us be on a New freaking Year night?"

Daeho stood up, taking the first heavy thing he could put his hands on, and ran to the door, checking the guests though the peephole. You saw his posture relaxing as he opened the door lazily. It was your friends. Four of them. Jungheul and his wife Haeun, and Eunji with her new boyfriend you haven't had the chance to meet yet.

They piled into your house, their clothes white with the snow, laughing and talking loudly enough to give you both a mild headache.

"You guys are coming with us! It's not negotiable!" Jungheul wrapped his hands around Daeho and pulled him out of the apartment, asking his wife to bring his coat with her. The screams and arguing wasn't doing anything. The four of your friends were too stubborn and drunk to listen, Eunji's boyfriend threw you onto his shoulder and carried you out to the streets against your will, your screams and your fists beating his back a several times didn't help at all.

"Just stop it!" When he put you on the ground you smacked his chest hard enough for your own hand to hurt, but the guy just chuckled back, gutteral sound graving through you.

Daeho looked equally pissed off, but was too busy looking around frantically, his head turning left and right every time he heard a bunch of people laughing or screaming.

"Jesus, Daeho, it's just people having fun, what the fuck is wrong with you two?" Jungheul laughed merrily.

"There's nothing wrong with him!" You almost ganged up on him, but the sudden loud blowing sound caught all of you off guard. Your friends screamed joyfully and it seemed you were the only person seeing Daeho falling on the ground, face to the snow, his ears covered with his hands. His body tensed, as he was shaking uncontrollably, head bumping into the concrete road with the blowing sounds continuing from kids throwing off the firecrackers under other people's feet.

The one was lying just a few inches away from Daeho.

"Daeho!" You fell on the ground near him, cupping his head in your arms and trying to carefully lift it. "Dae, please, it's me!" When you were able to lift him into a seated position, he ducked his head down into his shoulders, hands still holding ears firmly. The last time he was shaking that bad was exactly the last time you've spent your New Year in Seoul.

With the firecrackers blowing around you, you had zero chances to calm him down. Daeho never lifted his gaze from the ground, his shoulders twitching on every blow, his feet sliding on the slippery concrete as he tried to cringe into the smallest of things, tugging his legs closer to his chest.

"What happened?" Your friends surrounded you, studying panicking Daeho as he was trembling. There was blood on his face from smacking it on the ground a few times, his lip was broken and the brow cut. "What it's like, a panic att-"

You didn't notice how fast you jumped on your feet, staring Jungheul right in the face, your eyes a pit with burning fire as you started yelling at him hysterically. "You either gonna help me or you can fuck off! I told you not to bring him here, but no, you know better!"

You collapsed back to Daeho, sliding your hands between his hands and face in a fruitless attempt to tear them off his ears. "Daeho, you need to listen to me, please."

Everybody went silent. You listen carefully for the noise that had died, the kids ran off to the next neighborhood carrying their firecrackers with them, only leaving the dust and smoked smell in the air behind.

"Dae, baby, they're gone, baby, please." You happened to tear one of his palm off his ear, clasping it in your palms and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing up untill Daeho noticed the pain in his fingers and looked at you. "They're gone, everything is fine."

His body still was stiff as a rock, every muscle tense and in agony. He wasn't fully back. You cupped his cheek, guiding his stare back at you.

"Dae, please, what do you see? Tell me what do you see?" You cocked your head on the side and dived down to his face.

"Y-you..." He breathed out barely audibly, after staring at your face for a few seconds. You nodded.

"Great, what else?"

"Eunji"

"Nice, what else?"

Daeho's lips were trembling with every breath, his eyes were moving erratically, trying to catch up on something, but his vision was blurred and his head hurting. "Street light, red car..." He hang his head loosely, staring down at his feet. "M-my boots."

You smiled, caressing his cheek tenderly with your fingertips, as he was slowly coming back to senses. "What you can touch?"

"S-snow" Daeho's arm fell down on the ground, scrubbing the thin layer of snow, snow creaking under his fingers. You looked in his eyes, nodding, waiting for the next thing. He knew this "game" all too well and started searching for the next thing. "I-I can feel you..." Daeho covered your fingers still caressing his cheek with his palm and squeezed them. He look down at your arm and hooked the hairband that was wrapped around your wrists firmly with his finger.

Daeho kept telling what he could feel, what he could smell and hear, his breathing was calming and puls slowing. You could see his eyes clearly, they lost the pale curtains of tears and fear, his lips stopped quivering as he looked around on the last "thing", the one he could taste. "Blood." He winced after tracing his lips with his tounge and catching the blood from broken upper lip.

You sighted, not being able to stop your own tears from rolling down, sanken on the ground without any strength. "Daeho..." You squeled, leaning forward to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and loosing yourself in his chest.

Jungheul and Jiho, that was the name of Eunji's boyfriend as you heard her whispering it to him when Daeho was shaking on the ground, helped Dae to stand up, catching him under the armpits, and led him back to the apartments.

At home, you made Daeho chamomile tea to calm him down fully, sat him down and immediately started treating his cuts, when your friends broke the silence with the cracking, apologetic tone.

"So.. ehm, this is why you're never here on New Year?"

You instinctively looked at them and then at Daeho, waiting for his answer.

"They're already know..." A barely a whisper. He quivered, the words getting lost in the air between you.

"Okay." You breathed out inaudibly, caressing his chin as you pressed the cotton disk soaked in antiseptic to his brow. You glanced over your friends with a sight. "We're going to countryside every year, because there's peace and quiet. You know Daeho was a marine, right?" You felt him squeezing your leg as you were starting talking about his military accident, his nails digging into your tight. You cocked your brows, but he only nodded you to continue, gulping down the ball of nerves. "He had an accident on the battlefield, and now he can't stress the sound that resembles the gunfire. It's called post traumatic stress disorder. So yeah, this is why we're never here on New Year."

For a solid minute all of them were dumbfounded. They were shifting from one leg to another, only nervous breathing audible in the room.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Eunji squatted next to you so Daeho didn't need to look up at her. "You should've told us, Dae."

His jaw started trembling again and you saw tears welling up in his eyes as he tried to speak but failed, only drawing a sharp breath in.

"It's alright, love." You shifted closer to him, embracing him and pressing his body to yours, his nose resting in the crook of your neck. "It's okay." Stroking his hair from the crown of his head all the way down to his shoulders you felt him meeking into your embrace, relaxing his posture.

"He had rather bad experience with telling people about his condition..."

"I didn't want you to think that I'm not normal, that I'm a sych..." He blurred out with his face almost completely wet. Daeho lifted his shoulder to wipe the wettnes from his face and looked at Eunji empty-eyeded.

"We don't think so, Daeho." Jungheul came closer, placing his palm on Daeho's shoulder and squeezing it hard, reassuring. "Can we help with it? Somehow?"

"Maybe stop dragging him out on New Year's night?" You teased them, but you didn't expect Daeho to chuckle.

The way his gentle laughter echoed in the half empty kitchen put everyone at ease.

"It's alright guys, thank you." He wiped out the rest of the face, looking at everybody. "Now, I'm glad you know, but..." He overlooked everyone and shared a gaze with you, the corners of his mouth curled up just slightly. "Really, don't drag me out on the New Year night from now on."

When Daeho put everyone at ease and the loud laugh thundered throughout the kitchen, your friends shared a look and swiftly ran towards the door.

"Don't you dare to start fucking, cause we'll be back in like, 15 minutes!" One of them shouted, closing the door behind the group.

"Stop laughing, I didn't finish with that." You murmured, guiding Daeho's head at your direction and pressing another cotton disk to his lip, soaking up the fresh blood that started flowing out of the wound again, after Dae stretched his lips in a genuine smile.

Fifteen minutes later, like a clockwork, your friends burst into your apartment, Daeho and you still sitting in the kitchen in a precious silence.

"We don't have much either, but you know," Jungheul put the bags on the table, immediately opening one of them and taking the homemade food out. "A thread from everyone bluh bluh bluh, huh."

With them taking food out of their bags the small kitchen table of yours became stuffed, with no place to drop a coin to.

"You know, when we said we wanna celebrate this New Year with you, we meant it." Eunji said with such softness in her voice, Daeho breathed out inaudibly, his jaw left quivering and tears welling up in his warm brown eyes.

As soon as you finished helping with the table, you sat yourself down on one of Daeho's legs, letting your friends take the rest of the chairs, and put a small, tender kiss on his temple.

That was yours and Daeho's first New Year celebration in Seoul, amongst your friends. Behind the soundproof windows and doors closed shut, but yet with loud buzzing, roar of your friends singing, laughing and telling old embarrassing stories.

Maybe it's not your last New Year in Seoul.

#kang dae ho #kang daeho #kang dae ho x reader #kang daeho x reader #squid game x reader #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game fanfic #squid game fanfiction

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 11 months ago

Text

virgin sacrifice

a/n: you guys? hail satan.

summary: you didn’t think in your wildest dreams that Captain and Tennille’s best hits would be blasting over the camp’s speakers while you were running for your life from two nut job serial killers, ones who had already slain what looked like most of the other campers.

warnings: dark!steve harrington x reader x dark!eddie munson, dark content, noncon/dubcon, smut, summer camp au (they are all camp counsellors), slasher au, virgin!reader, very innocent!reader, final girl!reader, established relationship, violence, murder, weapons, blood, devil worship, predator/prey, bondage, knife kink, dirty talk, pussy inspection, oral, fingering, anal

word count: 1389

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

It was the summer of 1986, right before you were supposed to go off to college and start your real life. It was also the summer when you worked as a counsellor at Camp Nebula, the very summer you fell in love for the first time. The summer when the most popular guy for some reason took notice of you and started calling you his girl.

Now, he was a tad bit more experienced than you and wasn’t shy to show you in ways that you always snuffed out before they could grow into anything uncouth. That’s not how you’d been raised, to lose your virginity in a summer camp’s tool shed, however gobsmacked he made you feel, you just couldn’t take that step.

No one had ever looked at you the way that he did, truly listened to you when you spoke, and even stood up for you, like whenever the camp’s freak would say things to you vulgar enough to render you speechless, your knight in shining armour would step in and save the day.

It was the perfect summer.

Was.

Completely perfect right up till the murders began to happen.

You didn’t think in your wildest dreams that Captain and Tennille’s best hits would be blasting over the camp’s speakers while you were running for your life from two nut job serial killers, ones who had already slain what looked like most of the other campers.

Lungs burning, you sprinted through the dark camp, a flicking lamppost above illuminating the path you raced down, the ground littered with sharp pine needles.

When you made your way to the dining hall, the rotary phone inside, your plan of salvation, turned out to be just as dead as the summer friendships you’d thought would last a lifetime.

“There’s nowhere left for you to run, little lamb!” the petrifying roar from just outside the hall’s walls caused you to jump and scurry into the kitchen, though when you did, your gaze should have been directed in front of you and not over your shoulder as you swiftly crashed into a figure.

A blank mask stared down at you, one of the ones that the kids used for crafts, usually decorating them with an explosion of paint and beads.

Chuckling softly at the way you stumbled back, he playfully uttered, “boo!” raising his hands up to scare you, retroactively flashing you the blade fast in his grip. Half-obscured eyes stilled glued to you, the killer shouted over his shoulder, “found her!” and held the weapon outstretched to keep you where you were.

“Oh, good,” another masked murderer appeared as the back door was swung open, “well then let’s get this show on the road!”

“Please don’t kill me!” you cried as the one keeping you cornered grabbed you.

“Kill you?” one of them laughed, “oh honey, we’re gonna do so much more than just kill you,” before he got out a bundle of rope and gestured to his partner, “get her up on the table.”

Once they’d forced you down upon the cold steel surface and tied you up, they proceeded to reveal something to you that nearly caused your thumping heart to stop.

“…Steve?” you scarcely breathed as one of them plucked off his mask and tossed it onto a counter.

“Surprise,” your summer sweetheart flashed you a smile.

“But–… I’ve been looking for you everywhere all night, you–… you did this?”

“Well, don’t give him all the credit,” the other one peeled off his mask as well.

“Eddie?” you shuttered, “b-but you two hate each other.”

“That’s what we had to make you think so that no one would suspect a thing,” the long-haired rebel wiped some of the bloodstains on his blade clean on the hip of his jeans, “no one would ruin our plan.”

“Y-your plan?”

“Might as well tell her,” Eddie nudged his partner who shifted his grip on the axe heavy in his grasp, “since she has such a big part to play in it.”

“Oh, what the hell, why not,” Steve grinned and pulled over a rickety stool, “you see, there are things, wishes, that both me and Eddie have,” the man you thought you’d loved began to explain, “ambitions that, try as we might, we can’t achieve on our own. So, Eddie here found this old book, this tome, that explained a ritual that could grant us our deepest desires...” he uttered dreamily, “it was really quite simple when it came down to it… first 40 lives and then you.”

“…me?” your voice trembled, “why me? I’m not anyone special, I'm just–”

“Oh no, Y/n, you sweet, sweet dumb girl,” Steve chuckled darkly, “you are the final piece to the puzzle,” he stared directly into your soul, “our perfect little virgin sacrifice.”

Taking a step closer to your strapped-down form, Eddie’s stare danced down your frame, scrapes and dirt still tainting the uniform you’d freshly washed just this morning.

“But you know, the funny thing is, our lord and saviour down in hell has a funny and pretty ancient definition of what a virgin is,” he teasingly ran the flat side of his blade up the length of your leg, smiling as you squirmed, “sure, some things are off limits, but not a lot…,” the tip of his knife dipped under your shorts and sliced them in two. With the configuration that they had bound you in, everything was already embarrassingly on show, though even more so now that all of your clothes were cut off your frame. Completely mesmerised as the last shred left your form, Eddie uttered softly, “oh, this is gonna be so much fun.”

“What are you doing?” you struggled against the robes as Steve rose from his seat.

“It’s a real shame, baby,” his broad hands ran up your inner thigh, “I really did wanna pop your cherry myself, fuck I would have loved that, but I don’t deserve it as much as he does,” his thumbs, creeping up to either side of your core, extended out to wickedly spread you apart, “Satan may get to have your pussy,” you shuttered at the mortifyingly soppy sound that emanated as he briefly ran a finger though your folds, “but this little hole isn’t off limits,” his digit then swept down to draw a feathery circle over your rosebud.

“Nor this one,” Eddie’s hand found your cheeks in a pinch and forced your lips to pucker, “but we might have to do a bit of convincing in order to be able to play up here,” your body stiffened up as the cold edge of his blade then pressed against your throat, “no teeth, or else we won’t make you feel good, won’t give you a little treat before you help us contact the man downstairs.”

“How in the fuck do you think I’ll like any of this?” you spat back at him.

“Uh!” they both laughed and shared a glance before Eddie noted, “I think that might have been the first time I’ve ever heard little miss goody two shoes swear! That’s so cute!”

“Fuck you,” you wept, “you psycho–, oh!” a moan then ripped through your body and surprised you to the very core.

Glancing down between your legs, you saw that Steve was kissing you down there, his lips latched on to the little pearl that always seemed to throb in his presence.

“What was that about you not enjoying this?” his sloppy peck detached in an obscene pop, “because you sure are soaked for someone who doesn’t think it feels good to be played with… we’re gonna make you feel good, so good, your virgin ass couldn’t even fucking dream about it…” the sensation of Eddie’s palm snaked down to squeeze your tit, while Steve brought his broad thumb up to bully your glistening clit, grinning at how your untouched hole clenched around nothing for him, “just look at how fucking messy you are for us… fucking leaking all over the place…” a groan then escaped him as one of his digits dipped down to slowly sink into your tight ass, simply testing the waters before the pair of them utterly obliterated you, “fuck… you almost make me wanna keep you forever and just find a different virgin to take your place…”

#lea’s writing #steve harrington smut #eddie munson smut #dark!eddie munson #dark!steve harrington #dark!steve harrington smut #dark!eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #steddie x reader #dark!steddie #dark!fic #steddie smut #dark fic #dark!steddie x reader #steve harrington imagine #eddie munson imagine

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sniktbaby · 16 days ago

Text

earned it

summary: logan is a mafia boss and you're his obsession.

content: SMUT, mafia boss au, logan is filthy and possessive, age gap (reader is in her twenties!), tiniest hint of dub con (just to be safe!), rough sex, pet names (doll, darling), oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, fingering, biting, anal sex, dual penetration

word count: 3.8k

author's note: this is probably the freakiest, nastiest thing i have ever written, but that's the power of old man logan as a mafia boss, i guess. i also struggled with ending it so i'm sorry for the abrupt ending. i hope you guys like it!

Logan is the owner of Flora, a popular lounge in the outskirts of Las Vegas. The front of the establishment is classy - decorated with marble statues, chandelier lighting, and the finest aesthetics to appease to the rich upper class.

Downstairs is a completely different story. Underneath the exquisite lounge known as Flora is Diamonds, a shady strip club where all of the most notorious mobsters go to relax and unwind. Even then, Diamonds is only a front for the dangerous activities that go on in the back room – dealings of weapons, drugs, and other illegal paraphernalia. It isn’t uncommon for some lowlife to go into the back with Logan, with Logan being the only one to return, bloodstains smeared across his knuckles.

You are an aspiring singer. Logan employed you as a lounge singer for Flora, and it wasn’t long before he became obsessed with you. You’re young, bright, full of life and love and talent. He sits in his office most nights, rubbing his cock raw as he thinks about how tight and wet your pussy must be.

You are sitting in the dressing room, fixing up your makeup as you stare at yourself through the vanity mirror. You make sure your red lipstick is as bright as it can be, spread across your lips. You want to look perfect. Logan will be in the audience tonight and you want to impress him.

You stand, taking in the way your gold dress hugs your curves. You hope that tonight, Logan will make a move on you. You know you shouldn’t want him. Logan is old, dangerous, and honestly, a little scary, even by your standards. But when you lay in bed at night, vibrator in hand, it’s his name that comes with you.

Logan watches you through the cracked door. You look like a sin wrapped in gold – every curve of yours catching the light just right, like you were sculpted for the sole purpose of driving men mad. That little voice in the back of his head – the one that still remembers what it means to have a shred of decency – tells him that this isn’t right. You’re in your twenties, barely legal in his book, and he’s seen enough lifetimes to know better. Hell, he was sipping whiskey and smoking cigars while your momma was still learning how to walk. But he can’t help the way he aches for you.

You hum softly, giving yourself one last onceover in the mirror. You strike a pose and smirk at your reflection. “Alright,” you whisper, “tonight’s the night.”

Turning around, you jump when you notice Logan standing there, half-hidden behind the door. Your heart skips a beat. There’s something about the way he looks at you – like he’s trying not to devour you whole – and it sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“Logan…” You place a hand on your chest as if to steady your heartbeat. “You scared me.”

Your voice is like a shot of bourbon – warm, smooth, and dangerously sweet. He notices your pupils dilate, just a fraction. It’s not fear, though. Something else. Recognition. Want.

“The hell you doin’, doll?” he mutters, pushing the door open, letting you see all of him. His eyes drag down your body. “Talkin’ to yourself? That’s how crazy starts.”

He takes a step closer. Close enough to smell the vanilla scent on you, a sweetness he doesn’t deserve. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

The air feels heavier now, charged with something unspoken. You want to close the distance between you and press yourself against every hard plane of his body.

“I’m not crazy,” you reply. You lift your chin defiantly, meeting his gaze as heat pools low in your belly. “Just confident.” Your tongue darts out to moisten your bottom lip. “And tired of waiting for you to decide if I’m worth the risk.”

You take a bold step forward, closing the gap just enough that your bodies nearly touch. Your eyes flicker to his mouth. “So tell me…am I?”

You step into him, all soft curves and fire, and he swears the walls of this building could cave in and he wouldn't notice. Your words hit him straight in the gut – sharp, direct, and laced with something dangerously close to a challenge. A challenge he should walk away from.

But instead, he leans in, letting the warmth of your breath kiss his skin. So close. Too close. Your pulse thrums beneath your throat, fast like a hummingbird's wings. His isn’t much steadier.

“You don’t know what kinda man I am, doll.” His voice is rougher than he intends, gravel scraping against bone. One large hand rises to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyelids flutter shut for just a moment – as if savouring the feeling of his calloused fingertips on your skin. When you open them again, your gaze is molten, unwavering.

“I know exactly what kind of man you are, Logan.” Your voice is barely above a whisper now. You lean ever so slightly into his hand, your cheek warming beneath his palm. “I see the way you look at me. Like I’m something sacred. Like you don’t want to ruin me when I’m halfway gone for you already.” You swallow, boldness warring with vulnerability.

Logan’s thumb brushes along your cheekbone, slow and rough, like he’s trying to map your soul with just his touch. He shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t let himself fall into whatever this is. But Jesus, you feel good. “Y’talk like ya got me figured out,” he mutters. “But you don’t wanna know what’s underneath all this, doll. I’m poison. Bad news wrapped up in a suit and tie.”

Something in his voice – the pain, the warning – only pulls at you harder. You hate that he sees himself that way. Hate that he thinks you need protecting from him, like you’re made of glass and he’s the hammer.

Your hands rise slowly, trembling just a little, until they rest lightly on his broad chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt. “I don’t believe that.” Your voice is quiet but firm – not a trace of hesitation. Your eyes search his face like you’re looking for answers buried deep within him. “You might think you’re poison, but I’m sure I’ve tasted worse.”

His grip on your face tightens just a fraction – still careful, still reverent – but with the promise of something darker underneath. “Ya sure ‘bout that, doll?” he asks, voice low.

A thrill zips down your spine at the shift in his touch – the subtle promise of danger hidden beneath his dying restraint. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. If anything, you lean in more, pressing your palms flat against his chest as if grounding yourself in the storm that is Logan Howlett.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.” Your voice is lower now, sultry and serious all at once. Your eyes darken. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you disappear? The way people look at you when they think you’re not paying attention? I may not know everything, Logan…but I know it ain’t some angel running this place. And I don’t care.”

You tilt your head up, daring him to deny what you’re offering. Fire. Willingness. A woman who can see the Devil in him and wants to dance with him anyway.

He should tell you to get the hell on stage and stay off his radar before you get tangled up in shit you can’t wash off. But his body doesn’t listen. His instincts – fucked up, primal things – recoil at the thought of pushing you away.

Logan cages you against the wall, both hands braced on either side of your head. Trapping you in his space, in his scent, in the tension coiled tight between you. He tilts his head down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a rumble of warning and promise. “You really wanna play with fire, doll?”

Goosebumps erupt across your skin, every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks. You exhale sharply, your nails digging into the lapels of his jacket as if anchoring yourself to him. “Yes.” A single word, whispered like a prayer – or perhaps a dare. Your hips arch toward him, craving contact, friction, anything.

With a low growl, Logan crashes his lips against yours, claiming your mouth with a ferocity that should scare you. But you meet him with equal intensity, your lips parting to invite him deeper. Your tongues collide, battling for control in a desperate dance of passion and hunger.

One large hand fists in your hair, tugging to expose your neck to him. Logan trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone, relishing the taste of your skin and the sharp intake of your breath. His other hand travels south, gripping your hip tightly as he grinds his hard erection against you. He wants you to feel what you do to him.

A moan escapes your throat, fingers curling into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp as you pull him impossibly closer. You arch into him, silently begging for more. Each nip and suck sends a shock of pleasure straight between your thighs. You grind shamelessly against the bulge in his pants, seeking relief from the ache building inside of you. “Please…” you whimper.

You taste like sin and salvation rolled into one perfect package. Logan can’t get enough of you – the way you respond to his touch, the little sounds you make, the heat radiating off of your body. It’s intoxicating. Addictive.

He slips his hand under your dress, trailing his fingers up your inner thigh. Your skin is as soft as silk, body quivering beneath his touch. Higher and higher he goes, teasing, exploring, until he reaches the edge of your panties.

They’re damp. Fuck, you’re already so wet for him. He brushes his knuckles against your core, feeling you shudder in response. You gasp, your hips bucking against his hand. Your head falls back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as you surrender to the sensation. “Yes, please…” you breathe. You have never wanted anyone this badly, never burned for someone quite like this. It’s terrifying and thrilling.

Your reaction fuels Logan’s desire. He rips your panties to the side, plunging two thick fingers deep inside your tight, wet pussy. You’re so fucking ready for him, your walls clenching greedily around his digits. He pumps in and out, curling his fingers to hit that spot that makes you cry out. At the same time, he captures your mouth again, swallowing your moans as he works you towards release.

But it’s not enough. He needs more.

Breaking the kiss, Logan drops to his knees before you, hiking up your dress. The sight of your glimmering folds, peeking out through your soaked panties and swollen with arousal, nearly undoes him.

Panting heavily, you tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him in place as you gaze down at him. Your chest heaves with each ragged breath, hard nipples straining against the thin fabric of your dress. “Logan…”

He looks up at you, his eyes locking onto yours as he leans in, breathing in your scent. Musky, sweet, utterly intoxicating. Without breaking eye contact, he hooks a finger around the drenched fabric and runs his tongue along your slit, tasting you.

Your flavour explodes on his tongue – better than any drug, any liquor. Logan groans, burying his face between your thighs, licking and sucking like a man possessed. He wants to devour you, consume you. His hands grip your ass, pulling you closer. He focuses on your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it into his mouth.

Your head tips back against the wall, eyes rolling back as ecstasy crashes through you. Logan’s mouth is like magic, reducing you to a writhing, pleading mess. You’ve never felt anything like this – so intense, so consuming. Your fingers tighten in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core, threatening to snap at any moment. “Oh God, Logan! Don’t stop!” Your thighs tremble, muscles tensing as you teeter on the brink.

Logan can feel you getting closer. It’s an intoxicating rush, knowing he’s the one responsible for bringing you to this peak. He doubles down, his tongue working furiously against your clit as he slides two fingers inside you again.

Your moans become louder, more urgent, your body bucking against his mouth. And then, finally, you break, crying out as your legs give out. You collapse against the wall and Logan catches you, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you upright.

Slowly, the aftershocks subside. Opening heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at him, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. Even in the afterglow, desire still simmers in your gaze. “That was…incredible,” you murmur.

Logan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. Seeing you like this – flushed, wrecked, his – does something feral to him. His cock throbs painfully in his pants, demanding attention.

Standing slowly, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs tracing the high points of your cheeks. Your lips are swollen, lipstick smeared, mascara smudged. Beautiful.

“Ain’t done yet, darlin’,” he rasps, pressing a bruising kiss to your mouth. Before you can react, he spins you around. His hands glide down your sides, bunching the fabric of your dress around your waist.

A shiver runs down your spine as he turns you roughly, the cool wall pressing against your front while his scorching heat engulfs you from behind. The contrast makes you gasp. Anticipation thrums through your veins, liquid heat pooling between your thighs again despite having just come. His hands on your bare skin ignite fresh flames, and you press your hips back against him shamelessly.

You’re eager. Logan can’t blame you – his dick’s been hard since the first time he laid eyes on you.

One hand grips your hip possessively while the other yanks his belt open with practiced ease. Zipper down, boxers shoved to his thighs. His cock springs free, thick and angry-red with need. He spits into his palm, stroking himself before lining up with your entrance.

“This your first time takin’ it like this?” he growls into your ear. He hopes it is.

Your breath catches at the blunt question, cheeks flushing hotter as you feel the thick head of him nudging against your slick folds. It’s filthy, being spoken to like this – rough and possessive – and it makes your stomach flip.

“No,” you admit breathlessly, “but it’s my first time wanting it like this.”

You push back against him, glancing over your shoulder with darkened eyes. “So stop talking and fuck me already.”

Logan smirks at your smart mouth. It makes his dick throb harder. Instead of sliding inside like you both want, he presses the tip of his cock a little higher, teasing the tight ring of muscle there. You stiffen instantly, a surprised gasp slipping past those pretty lips.

“First time wantin’ it like this?” He grinds against your ass, voice dropping to a whisper. “Bet you’d scream real nice.”

Spitting onto the tips of his index and middle fingers, he rubs the wetness over your clenched hole, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Tell me yes, doll.” Demanding. Dark. Half-expecting you to slap him.

Your entire body tenses at the unexpected sensation, a shocked whimper escaping your parted lips. Heat floods your cheeks – both embarrassment and illicit excitement twisting together in your gut. You’d never done…that.

Yet the way the thick head of his cock presses against your most forbidden entrance sends an electric jolt straight to your core. Your nails scrape against the wall as you bite your lip, torn between fear and overwhelming curiosity.

“Yes,” you breathe after a charged pause. Then firmer, bolder – your inner brat surfacing, “But only if you quit teasing me, old man.”

A rough chuckle tears from his throat as he clamps a hand over your mouth, silencing any other smartass remarks you might have in store for him. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to leave bruises – marking you up properly so everyone will know who you belong to.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” Logan snarls against your ear, “and I’ll make sure you can’t sit tomorrow without thinkin’ of me.”

No more teasing. Spreading your cheeks, he pushes in slow – just the fat head at first, stretching you obscenely wide. You whine high in your throat, body clamping down on him. It feels like fucking heaven for him. “Scream all ya want, darlin’. Nobody’s comin’ to save you.”

Then he sinks to the hilt. The stretch burns – oh God, it burns – but the pain melts into something darker, sweeter as he fills you completely. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. Your body fights him at first, clenching before reluctantly yielding, adjusting to the brutal invasion.

And then…pleasure. White-hot and dizzying. Your toes curl, your back arches, and suddenly you’re pushing back against him, greedy for more. Tearing his hand from your mouth, you gasp, “Move…fucking move, Logan!”

Hearing you beg like that unleashes something primal in him. He withdraws almost completely, savouring the way your tight little hole tries to cling to him, then slams back in with a brutal thrust that rattles the photos framed on the wall. “That what you wanted, doll?” His voice is pure gravel. No gentleness left. Just animalistic need. Pulling out again, dragging you back onto his cock with enough force to make you squeal. Over and over, he sets a punishing rhythm that leaves you gasping.

Every choked-off noise you make goes straight to his dick. Every jerk of your body when he hits especially deep. Fuck, you take it so well – like you were made for this. For him.

Every savage thrust steals your breath. You’re unraveling fast, mind blank except for the overwhelming sensations – the slap of flesh, the sting of his grip, the sinful fullness stretching you beyond your limits.

Clawing at the wall, you meet each backwards rock with urgency. Whimpers spill freely, unfiltered and shameless. “You feel…ah!...so good…” Your words fracture as he angles deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

Watching you come apart like this – cheeks flushed, lips swollen, tight little ass milking his cock – is the closest thing to religion Logan has ever known. But it still isn’t enough. He needs to hear you scream louder.

Sliding a hand around your hip, he dips two wide fingers into your dripping pussy without slowing his pace. He curls them just right to hit that soft spot inside while his thumb finds your clit, strumming it rough and fast. “‘S that it, baby?” His voice is wrecked, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucks into you harder. “Need both holes filled? Takin’ my cock like a slut while I finger-fuck this pretty cunt?”

He adds a third finger, stretching you even wider.

The dual assault sends you spiraling, your body caught between exquisite agony and euphoria. Your legs threaten to give out entirely, shaking violently beneath you.

Your forehead presses hard into the wall, muffling your cries until you pull away to pant and moan openly – too far gone to care about who hears. You scream loud, spine bowing as white-hot bliss erupts from deep within your core. Your cunt convulses around his fingers and your ass tightens around his shaft. Head spinning, limbs trembling, riding the crest of your climax like a wildfire sweeping everything in its path.

Feeling you squeeze down on him like that – tight, hot, pulsing like a second heartbeat – it nearly drags his own release out of him. He grits his teeth, fighting the urge to blow his load. Logan isn’t done with you yet.

Pulling his fingers free, he replaces them with his palm, spanking your pussy once – twice – hard enough to make you yelp. “Who do you belong to?” he demands, voice guttural, almost feral. Still pounding into your ass relentlessly, his balls slapping loud against your flesh. “No one else touches this ass. No one else gets this tight little hole screamin’ for more. Say it, doll.”

The sharp smack stings like a burn, but it only adds fuel to the inferno raging inside you. Your nails claw at the wall again, your body moving with his rhythm. Each thrust buries him deeper, not just in your body but in your soul, branding you from the inside out.

A breathy sob escapes your lips, tangled somewhere between submission and surrender. “You,” you choke out, voice trembling and hoarse, “God, Logan…I’m yours. Only yours.”

That soft, stubborn little voice breaking just enough to admit you belong to him shatters the last of Logan’s self-control. His movements become even more brutal and unforgiving. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so he can bite down hard on the curve of your neck. Marking you. Claiming you. Leaving proof that every piece of you is his now.

His muscles tense, balls drawing up tight, and then white-hot ecstasy tears through him. He empties himself deep inside you, growling against your skin like a rabid animal. “Mine,” he grunts, dragging the word out like a curse and a blessing. “Fuckin’ mine.”

You let out a needy whimper. Your pulse races under his lips, your body clinging to his as if gravity itself depends on him staying exactly where he is.

When he finally stills inside you, warmth flooding your depths, you exhale shakily. Your lashes flutter closed for a moment, your lips parting on a breathless laugh, equal parts disbelief and satisfaction.

Logan doesn’t let go of you. He keeps your head tilted back, exposing your throat. He presses a kiss – as soft as he can manage – to the reddening mark he left on your neck. It will probably bruise nice, and the thought makes him smirk. A reminder for anyone dumb enough to look twice at what belongs to him.

“You laughin’ at me, darlin’?” His voice is quieter now, stripped of all that fury, but still carrying the weight of something dangerous. He nuzzles against your neck, inhaling deep – vanilla, sweat, sex, and you. Fucking paradise.

Your eyelids flicker. “Maybe,” you murmur, turning your face slightly to brush a tender kiss against his chin. It’s a bold move considering how volatile he can be, but you’re still riding your high, feeling reckless and unafraid. “Or maybe I’m just happy.”

Logan pulls out carefully, grimacing at the loss of your heat, and quickly fixes his clothes. Turning you around to face him, he cups your face in his hands, studying you closely. Looking for any signs of regret, finding none.

“Good,” he says. “Because you’re mine now, doll. And I take care of what’s mine.” Leaning in, he kisses you softly – a stark contrast to the chaos you just created. “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

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