#biting and clawing and biting and clawing

[hanasnx]

Mark Grayson cums quickly, but his cock springs back up again just as quickly.

EARLY EJACULATION — m.grayson

“ i want to love you all night / tell me what you love and, baby, say what you like ” 🪽

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | invincible. WARNINGS. fem reader ノ established reader ノ sexual content ノ smut ノ m cumming early ノ teasing n dirty talk ノ m stimulation ノ mentions of unprotected sex ノ creampie.

“Ah—wait, wait!” MARK GRAYSON’s grip tightens on your waist, effortlessly lifting you up and off his cock. The shaft already softening flops onto his taut abdomen, rising and falling with his rapid breath. He throws his head back into the pillow with a loud groan, and you roll your lip between your teeth at the sight of him. Chest flexed and wet with his sweat, glistening in the light while his adam’s apple relaxes low in his throat. With a plop, he sets you down onto his thighs, his cream leaking out of you in heavy drips.

You brush your hair back while you lean forward, keeping that lip pinned in your bite to conceal your stretching smile. “Mark,” you coo, crawling towards him to hover over him. His eyes remain closed, and you landscape your body over his, skin on skin, damp and hot. “I don’t mind,” you soothe, your claws coming to stroke through his sweaty hair. “really. I think it’s flattering.” you assure, propping your elbow on his pec to fix your chin on your palm, puppy-dog-eyeing him knowing your full weight on him feels like nothing. Fucking Invincible has its perks.

His hands come to clutch at your upper arms, and he peers up at you in a faux-frustration. “You’re just too good, baby. You don’t get it.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault.” you flirt, your grin worsening as you twirl a lock of his hair around your index. “I told you I wanted to go slow.”

“Yeah, at first. Then you were riding me like—“ That pink in his cheeks deepen, and he averts his gaze disobediently. His hand lets go of you to gesture vaguely in the air. “like- like that!” he struggles to find the words to describe how you were riding his hips like a bucking stallion.

“Aw, baby…” you purr, surging forward to rub your naked bodies together when you plant a chaste kiss at the corner of his lips. “Thought you could handle it, you were makin’ me feel so good.” your honeyed voice drips all over him, and his breath picks up. “Felt you so deep… right- here.” Your hips circle, massaging him between you two. His grip on you tightens, and you tense. That familiar phallic shape fills out, carving a space for itself while sandwiched between you. You press your lips together and palm your mouth in an attempt to hide your giggle. “Already?”

He meets your eyes again with a frown on his brows. “Shut up.”

“C’mon, Invincible. Ready for round two?”

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

[softaestluv]

pt. 2 to this blurb | filthy fingering, a little bit of spiteful smut, overstimulation

Your feet stumble behind Kyle’s, scuffing your combat boots on the white tiled floor in your messy trek. He’s got a tight grip on your wrist, pulling you along with a speed you can’t quite match.

“Kyle, what the fuck are you—“ You start, exasperated, but you come to a startled halt, crashing into his back as he fights with the door handle in front of him.

You’re shoved into the room as soon as he gets the door open, turning to look at him with a scowl, but you don’t get to express your dismay for long when he pushes you on his bed. The springs squeak under you, masked by the surprised gasp you make.

“Kyle. What the fuck.” You say through your teeth, glaring up at him from your seated position.

He’s quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched behind his cheeks, jaw tense. His eyes are just as rigid, hammering you to the thin military standard blanket, offering little room to test his patience. It’s the exact look he wears on the field, dark and dangerous, hooded and intended.

When he speaks it’s the same honey cadence as always, but it’s steady, low. Makes a string of goosebumps spread down your back. It juxtaposes your usual banter, meant to annoy each other, friendly fire, snake baby claws and teased nips under each other’s skin. Except now nothing about his demeanor is friendly.

“Gon’ make you cum jus’to prove a point now, okay?”

You cackle, loud and obnoxious, gripping your stomach in dramatics, “That’s what this is about? Did I hurt poor Kyle’s ego?”

“Are ya backin’ down from a challenge? Too scared to be wrong?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, dismissing his words with a wave of your hand, “You couldn’t even get me wet.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Your mouth falls open, staring at him in utter shock. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

He just looks at you expectantly.

You pause, gulping the excess saliva building in your cheeks, wiping your clammy hands on your knees because he’s dead serious.

“God, what a typical man. You can’t live with the fact that every girl you’ve been with probably faked her orgasm?” You taunt, only egging him on more, but you’re hoping he’ll shove you right back out his bedroom door in retaliation, “Do you even know where the clit is?”

“Only one way to find out.” He replies, arching his brow.

You bite your tongue, let the silence consume the room, suffocate the both of you back to reality, but it does nothing to shift his mood. A man determined, decided the moment you let your smart mouth run too far out of your control.

So you give in, making quick work of your boots because you don’t want him to gain any more ego-driven pride. Your pants follow, dropped to the floor tentatively, squeezing your thighs together in a weak attempt to cling to the last thread of your dignity.

Your eyes follow him to his knees. You think he might pry your thighs open, check if there’s a wet patch on your panties, because you know there is, but he leans forward just enough to hover close to your mouth and dips two fingers into the seams.

“Want you to count ‘em,” He breathes against your lips.

“Lucky if you can even get one.” You say, trying your best to keep your voice stable, but it wavers, embarrassingly so.

He huffs a laugh, “D’ya ever shut up?”

“Try and make me.”

The look in his irises glimmers mischievously, but he doesn’t say anything else, just holds your gaze as he slips your underwear over your legs. You exhale a shaky breath when scorching palms part your knees, eyes steady on yours as he rubs his hands to the inside of your thighs.

His stare makes the air feel thick, a heavy weight smothering your chest, and fills your lungs shallowly. Makes the few seconds seem like an eternity too long.

When he does finally drop his gaze, his eyes pool dark, irises dilating at the sight of your bare cunt. You tilt your own head to the ceiling, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t muster the strength to watch him examine your pussy. So, you fall back on your palms unexpectedly when he hoists one of your legs over his shoulder.

You know you’re pent up, don’t necessarily get much action in your line of work, but the noise of your arousal squelching loudly in the room when he slides two fingers between your folds stings embarrassment down your chest and behind your eyelids.

“Thought I couldn’t get ya wet, love?” He drawls.

God, you didn’t know you were that wet. Hadn’t even been touched yet, not even a kiss, and your traitorous pussy is leaking for any attention.

You do know that it only makes him entirely too smug. Even more so when one finger slides in with no resistance despite how thick it is, practically suctioning him in for more. But he works you up to it, takes his time dragging against your eager walls until your fingers fist the blanket under you.

You have to roll your tongue over your teeth to stop yourself from moaning when a second finger joins the first. They’re bigger, thicker, longer, fucking better than yours, scratch a delicious ache against your gummy pussy that makes your head slump forward, each thrust finding a spot your slender fingers can’t quite reach.

The pleasure goops over you, tacky and thick, melting the molten lava in your core into your bare flesh. It takes every inch of your control to remember that you’re supposed to fight your impending orgasm, pretend that you’re not clinging to desperate straws to deprive Kyle of your own pleasure.

It almost hurts. Your body wants it so badly, haven’t had something warm, something real stretching your walls in so long that it wages a war between your willpower and your animalistic innate desires. And Kyle knows that, of course he does because he’s Kyle fucking Garrick.

“Fight it all you want,” He says, curling his fingers against the exact spot that makes a pinched whine escape the tight confines of your lips for the first time the whole night, “Only denyin’ yourself of the inevitable.”

“Fuck. You.” You grit, “Not even— mmh! close.”

He laughs, “Didn’t your folks teach you ‘t’s bad to lie?”

You open your mouth to respond, snarl at him not to talk about your family when he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, but he presses against that sweet gooey spot again and all you can manage is a pathetic mewl.

And then his deft fingers turn brutal, unrelenting, bullying that spot until you’re snapping your head forward, eyes flying to his.

He tilts his head, smug grin on his stupid lips, “What’s t’matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You want to yell at him to shut up, go to fucking hell, anything, but it takes all your energy to focus on not finishing, have to bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metallic blood. Even still your arms are slowly dipping lower onto the bed, brows pinched, face squished in agony because you’re too stubborn to give in that easily.

Your nails are probably ripping the seams of his blanket, but you’re holding on to them for dear life as if they’re the last thread connecting you to your diminishing self-control. Like tearing his mattress to shreds will stop your hips from bucking into his palm.

It doesn’t of course.

He hums, approvingly, satisfied like he already won long ago. He did, you’ll just fight tooth and nail, fangs and claws, to prolong his pleasure for as long as you can manage.

“Tha’s more like it.” He purrs, “Can’t hold it much longer, can you?”

“Shuddup,” You slur, grounding your hips stiffly so they stop betraying you.

Suddenly, his face is next to yours, leg unceremoniously falling to his hip, “Gonna cum f’me? Huh?”

You shake your head weakly, but tears are welling in your lashes at the sheer force you’re trying to drench the unyielding fire thrashing under your skin cold and dry.

“Hate you.” You croak, staring at him with dewy-eyes and heavy lids.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave my fingers in your pretty cunt if tha’ was true, would I?” He lilts, and a part of you knows it’s true, but it only makes you want to hate him even more. “We both know I won, love, jus’ let go.”

You bare your teeth at him in a growl; you know he’s just trying to convince you to finish, to succumb and let him win, but it works. It’s not like you had much control anyways.

Your body seizes, falling back on to the mattress as you arch your back, jaw going slack. A broken noise leaves your chest as you tremor with every pulse of the searing pleasure. It seeps throughout your body, blinding and uncontained, makes your legs shake as you struggle to breathe.

“There’s a girl,” Kyle praises when you mutter a weak ‘one.’

His fingers slow just a bit, allow you time to come down from your high. Your hips convulse involuntarily, swollen walls fluttering frantically around the girth. Your eyes are hazy, look at him a little dazed, like you hadn’t expected to finish that intensely.

You think it’s done, prepare to hear his boastful bragging you don’t really care about because you’re entirely too blissed out to care about anything, really. But the bastard seems to have other plans.

Three fingers swipe against your clit, and your muscles tense, stomach tighten at the sensation.

Your hand flies to his wrist, “Kyle, no, no I can’t.”

“I won,” He says plainly, pinning your hand down, “I’m taking my prize.”

And he doesn’t stop until there’s an obscene amount of your cum gathered in his palm, a sopping filthy mess. Sobbing into the sheets with pure overstimulation, malleable and pliant, crying his name orgasm after orgasm.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Hear me out, HEAR ME OUT:

Ok so imagine Mer!Au right, what if Mer!Reader gets injured by some intruder and manages to scurry away and hide, but in the process of escaping leaves behind a cloud of blood and scales,,,how would mer!141 react to what could be interpreted as their untimely demise?

(Also, just wanna say, love your work its wonderful and keeps the serotonin pumping <<<3)

took liberties :)

73 / remora reader and shark!141

...

You dart into the reef to hide, tail flashing silver behind you. You're not taking chances again yet.

Soap pivots and locks his gaze on your hiding spot instinctively. Before he can chase after you, Ghost speaks up.

"Quit terrorizing the cleaner fish."

Soap snorts. His body relaxes, but two beats of his long tail carry him down to the reef anyway. He's never been able to resist his overactive prey drive. "Wasn't me." He circles, fingers brushing multicolor spines and blooms as if testing for weaknesses. "Thought we agreed no games before breakfast."

"I'm not playing," you mumble.

Soap finds your hiding spot. He braces his forearms against the reef above your head. His shadow engulfs you completely, cool and safe. "Aye? Your wee tail's still twitchin' like bait."

Embarrassment prickles across your skin. You look away from him and smoothe your palms down your tail, cleaning your scales nervously. "Never mind."

Soap tilts his head. He winds his arm around the sharp edges of broken fan coral to skim the curve of your tail with his knuckle. You settle his larger hand in yours and pick at the grit under his claws in silence. Soap's turns his hand palm-up so you can fuss with it properly. His knuckles are split from sparring with Ghost, and his forearm bears faint bite marks from that same rogue barracuda mer who picked a fight. "C'mon. Out you pop. I won't tell Price you're still jumpin' at shadows if you clean my teeth."

You startle. Price? "Is he mad?"

Soap smirks and flexes his fingers in your stilled hands. "Nah. Just grumpin' that some arsepiece’s scarin' off his favorite wee perch." His teeth flash in the dappled light. "Unless you'd rather he hear how you've been hidin' scraps from him again."

"I have not!"

Soap leans in. His broad shoulders completely block the light filtering through the coral. The faint scar on his cheek creases with his smirk. " Then why's there two cuttlebones and a clamshell picked clean under that brain coral?"

An irate twitch prickles down your spine and makes your dorsal fins stand up. He knows for a fact that you never ever steal food. You just like to collect the trinkets sometimes. You're saving those bones for something specific.

"That's what I thought. Come, come, out ye get."

You let him use your grip on his hand to pull you out of your hiding spot. He could never wedge his way inside, thanks to the sharp stone and broken coral around it. Your much smaller body glides through easily. The coral ghosts past your scales but leaves red nicks on his bicep. He doesn't seem to notice.

You curl into his chest and cling there as he settles onto the sand beside Ghost.

Ghost doesn’t lift his head from where it’s pillowed on his scarred forearms, but you feel his eyes. Sunlight catches the jagged edge of his fin, freshly torn from the same skirmish. His tail flicks once as you settle against Soap’s chest. “Quit dragging her out into the open. You'll just make her more skittish.”

Soap’s chest vibrates with a laugh that curls your fins. “Nah, she likes havin’ someone bigger to cling on. You’re just jealous it’s not you.”

Ghost glares at Soap. Then the weight of his gaze drops squarely onto you. The more you pretend to busy yourself with cleaning Soap's scratched arm, the longer it leaves Ghost to stare in silence at the puckered red lines down your back and remember how they billowed with fresh blood.

He's been quick to anger since that fight. You're sure he blames you for inciting the whole thing.

"Just as well the bastard took a chunk out of you," he mutters. "If that's how you learn to keep away from threats you can't suck up to."

You tense. Soap’s fingers tighten around your waist. "Leave off." He tilts his wrist to brush one of your knuckles with his thumb. It's a patient gesture from a beast like Soap toward a nervous bottom feeder like you. "Don't know how you've still got so much sand in your gills. It's been days since that fight. The rest of us might as well have forgotten it already."

Ghost doesn't answer. His gaze drags again over the half-healed claw marks striping almost to your shoulders. His stare lingers too long on the deepest one—the one that nearly snagged your spine when he'd been too slow to intercept the barracuda's strike. You've not cleaned them as well as you should. He has half a mind to yank you sideways from Soap’s grip and make you take care of yourself better. Stupid little good-for-nothing.

You wait in the crook of Soap's arm until he and Ghost settle into silence again. Then you shift yourself up to Soap's shoulder and begin busying yourself with cleaning his teeth. You keep your gaze trained down on your work.

Soap tips his head back and slackens his jaw to give you better access. His incisors glint in the filtered sunlight. The metallic tang of old blood clings to his molars. You work methodically, plucking shreds of kelp and bone fragments from between his teeth with your smaller fingers and ignoring the way his throat bobs when your thumb grazes the corner of his lips. You feel him begin to shift in playful arousal under you.

Ghost’s tail flicks again. Closer this time. “Fuck’s sake.”

Soap’s throat rumbles with a laugh before you can react. “Bet she’d fix you up just as nice if you stopped glowerin’ long enough to ask. I swear you’re just sore ‘cause nobody’s offered to clean your fangs or your cock since the last time Gaz and I—”

“Finish that sentence,” he growls, “and I’ll tear out your spine for a toothpick.”

"Clean him next, then," Soap tells you mildly. "Teeth and everything else. Good n' proper." He shoots Ghost a cheeky look. "She’ll fix ye up right if ye just ask, see? Then again, maybe ye’ve forgotten how to ask for anythin’ that isn’t a knife to the ribs.”

You nick your knuckle on Soap’s tooth. A bead of blood wells up, swirling crimson in the water between you. Soap’s nostrils flare—a shark catching scent. He laps the cut with a rough swipe of his tongue before you can pull away.

Ghost’s tail slams into the sand. The force of it sends a shockwave through the water that scatters a nearby school of damselfish. He’s between you and Soap before you can blink. One rough hand grabs your tail to pull you backward off Soap’s chest. His grip is mean, but the way he angles his body between you and Soap’s nipping teeth is protective. He clamps his other hand around Soap’s throat and shoves him flat against the sand. “Don’t play with her like food.” Then he turns on you. “You’re a liability.”

You nod and lower your gaze.

It only seems to piss him off more. “Stop flinching. You’re acting like bleeding chum in open water. Do you want another mer to take a bite out of you?”

Soap shoves Ghost away. "Pick on someone higher up the food chain, ya fuckin’ weapon.”

“No.” Ghost’s gaze snaps back to you. The predatory stillness in him is worse than Soap’s chaos. “She’ll keep being jumpy until she fixes herself up.”

Soap’s grin sharpens like he’s enjoying toying with Ghost—distracting him on your behalf. "Aye, there's his old soft spot. Makes a right pretty nurse, eh?”

Soap grins when Ghost lunges at him—but you scrambling to get clear of their tussle is what actually stops both short. Ghost freezes, watching you retreat toward the reef again with a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

Soap blinks. Then groans. “Christ, Simon. You’ll never get her to trust you if you keep snapping like a—”

Ghost silences him with a rough shove before swimming off toward the deeper trenches.

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more mer au / more Soap / more Ghost / masterlist

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

I'VE GOT YOU

PAIRING: JACK ABBOT X FEMALE READER

RATING: MATURE

WORD COUNT: 1474

SUMMARY:

Your daughter is perfect, but you are in pain. Not physical, not anymore, stitches healed and blood dry. It starts in your chest, a deep ache that claws at your ribs and your throat, makes it hard to breathe.

WARNINGS/TAGS:

mature themes, angst, established relationship (husband/wife), girl dad!jack abbot, no use of y/n, depictions of postpartum depression/anxiety, mental health, visit to the psychiatrist, prescription medication.

LINKS:

main blog | masterlists | ao3

Your daughter is perfect, all round cheeks and tiny nose and sweet, sweet scent. She knows nothing except love and tender devotion, doesn’t know that when she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep that her mother keeps a vigil at her side, hardly daring to blink out of fear that she might disappear.

Your daughter is perfect, but you are in pain. Not physical, not anymore, stitches healed and blood dry. It starts in your chest, a deep ache that claws at your ribs and your throat, makes it hard to breathe. It leaks from your eyes in the quiet dark, where your daughter can’t see it, but the salt of your wounds drips down onto her perfect, perfect cheek and you feel like a failure.

Jack watches you, keen gaze picking you apart like a raven does a corpse and it makes you want to scream but you smile at him and coo at your perfect, perfect daughter. He offers to hold her so you can shower but handing her over feels like severing a piece of your soul and you tell him you’re fine, you’ll shower during her next nap. 

But the next nap comes and she’s still in your arms. He doesn’t say anything, but his brows pinch together. Worried. He’s worried.

You’re fine. You can do this.

You wake in the middle of the night, your arm automatically stretching across the space between bed and bassinet. You’re not sure how long you were asleep but there’s no sunlight seeping into the room between the crack in the blackout curtains. You realize that the bassinet is empty and panic courses through you, turning you into a live wire ready to explode.

It doesn’t take long to find her. Jack is in her nursery, the Winnie the Pooh lamp on and your perfect daughter on his chest as he rocks back and forth in the chair by her unused crib. You stand in the doorway, watching them. 

“What are you doing?” You ask. 

“She got fussy. Needed a diaper change,” he says. His big hand rests on her small back. “Go back to sleep.”

“You should have woken me up,” you tell him. “Maybe she needed to eat.”

“She didn’t.” His voice is steady, reassuring. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m worried about you,” he admits. “It seems like—“

“Like what?”

He sighs. “You know I’m here, right? I’ve got you. You don’t need to do everything on your own.”

“Are you saying I’m not doing a good job?” You ask. Your lower lip wobbles and your eyes sting.

“Not at all,” he says, gentle. So gentle, like he’s talking to a cornered animal, trying to earn its trust. It makes you feel sick. “I’m just worried.”

“Can you put her back to bed?” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Please?”

“Sure, baby.”

He follows you back to the room, settles your perfect daughter on her back in her bassinet on your side of the bed before crawling beneath the sheets with you. You turn on your side, back to him and eyes on her. Always on her.

You jump when you feel Jack’s arm stretch across the gap between your bodies to circle your waist. He presses his front to your back, legs tucking neatly against your own, his face buried in your neck. You bite back a sob.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper. You turn over slowly to face him. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he tells you. Gentle. Gentle voice, gentle fingers tracing your arm. “I’ll talk to Kiara. Maybe see if Paul knows anyone taking new clients.”

Paul, his therapist. You nod. He kisses your forehead, smoothes his thumb over your cheek, pushing away the tears you didn’t even realize had broken free.

“We’ll get through this,” he says. “You and me.”

“Okay.”

A week later, by some miracle and maybe a little bit of name dropping and favor asking on Jack’s part, you’re sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a waiting room, trying to make sense of the questions on the clipboard.

You hand the clipboard back to the young receptionist, who smiles kindly and tells you to take a seat, the doctor will be available shortly. You count the cracks in the wall, read through the pamphlets on the small table by your chair, check your phone a dozen times to see if Jack has sent another message but there’s no new notifications, just the I love you he sent when you told him you got to the office.

A door beside the reception desk opens and a woman with a sharp gray bob and a cozy sweater calls your name. She brings you back to an office that feels like an entirely different world than the waiting room. There’s plants along the window sill, the fluorescent lights are off and replaced by several lamps, and a small couch with pillows that sits facing a large oak desk.

She gestures to the couch and you take a seat, hands in your lap. She sits in an office chair, crossing one leg over the other, a clipboard on her lap.

“Why don’t we start with you telling me a little bit about yourself?” She asks, pen at the ready. Her voice is soft, eyes kind. 

It’s a struggle, at first. You can’t think of anything beyond motherhood, which is frustrating, because you were a whole person before this brand new job title. Where did she go?

You admit this out loud and she nods. You keep going, a torrent of words coming free from behind a dam of your own making. You speak until your voice cracks and tears are dripping onto your lap and she silently hands you a box of tissues.

By the end of the hour, she’s explaining the clinical side of what you’re going through. Postpartum depression. Postpartum anxiety. You’ve heard these terms before but in the thick of it, it's hard to see past the storm for what it is.

You stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescription. The pills rattle in your purse as you unlock the door to the apartment, feeling drained but also like a weight has been eased off your chest. Not lifted, not entirely, but you have a little more room to breathe.

Jack is on the couch, your daughter on his chest. She’s awake, valiantly lifting her head to see her father’s face. You lean over the back of the couch and kiss his cheek.

“Hey,” he says, sitting up slowly, shifting your daughter to the crook of his elbow. “How’d it go?”

“Good, I think,” you reply. You come around the couch to sit beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I have a follow-up appointment next week.”

“Good, that’s good.” He kisses your head. “You want to hold her?”

You run a finger over the soft skin of her cheek. “No, you’ve got her.”

“I’ve got you, too,” he says. You look up to meet his eyes. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You’ve got me.”

You come back to yourself. It doesn’t happen all at once. Instead, it feels like the sun breaking through a storm cloud. A little bit here, a little bit there, until one day you’re lying on the floor, watching your daughter take in the world around her, and you realize that the ache in your chest isn’t anxiety, but happiness.

About a month later, you’re making breakfast one morning, your daughter strapped to your chest. You cleaned the apartment before bed last night. You got up early and had your coffee and the chance to read one of the long forgotten books that’s been gathering dust on the nightstand. 

You feel a little bit more like yourself. 

Jack comes home that morning, dropping his bag to the ground just inside the door before joining you in the kitchen. You hear him stop walking and turn to find him watching you from the doorway. 

“What?” You ask, smiling at him. 

“Nothing,” he says. “Just admiring the view.”

You roll your eyes. “You see it every day.”

“And I love it every day. Sue me.” He comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You look happy.”

“I am happy.” 

It’s not a lie, not a deflection. Just the simple truth.

He turns you around so that you’re facing him and you loop your arms around his neck. He kisses you, slow and deep, until your daughter wriggles against your chest and lets out a tiny noise of displeasure. Jack laughs against your lips.

“Let me take her,” he says. You unclip the carrier from your shoulders and he lifts her free, holding her in his arms. “That’s it, I’ve got you.”

I’ve got you. 

Thank you for reading!

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) / fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of past depression, substance abuse, and working through trauma. talk of insecurities and feelings of inferiority. no smut in this one. purely fluff and angst. kissing, confession of feelings. slightly suggestive towards the end.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for bob but I really wanted to make sure that I got the mental health aspect right and didn’t minimize his issues. I am working on a part 2 with some very soft smut!

Perspiration clings to clammy flesh, flesh that crawls with gooseflesh, chest unusually tight, crushed beneath the weight of nightmares.

It’s the darkness — creeping, sinister, bleak — curling around the fringes of his room, kept at-bay by the soft illumination that hangs over his bed. Strangled gasps rip through his diaphragm, as if he’s swallowed water, pulled beneath the current.

He’s alone, surrounded by vicious mockery, by a cacophony of voices that claw at him, tell him he’s insignificant, tell him he’s nothing. Their rancor screams from the void, and he’s helpless, powerless against them.

It feels like drowning, falling into an endless pit of a ceaseless penumbra, the shadow that he keeps at-bay. A familiar pain blossoms from within his ribcage, and he’s desperate to be free from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in.

Bob startles awake, clutching at his sternum, brown tresses disheveled from a perilous slumber. Muscles ache, taut from a clenched fist, as if he’s being stretched too thin.

The nightmare disintegrates, carried away upon the wind, and the shadows slither to a mere lull.

Sweat glistens on his temples, strands of hair matted against his forehead, brows furrowing together. Tears wet his eyes, unshed, roused to the surface as he regains a shred of composure. Outside, the New York cityscape greets him — he’s home, in the Watchtower.

The skies have lost their pallor, no longer the hue of bruised violets, an inky atmosphere speckled with thousands of stars. Skyscrapers glisten through the haze, reflected against tinted windowpanes, and he begins to adjust to his surroundings again.

A dryness permeates his mouth, sitting uncomfortably upon his tongue, and he shuffles out of bed. The sheets are somewhat damp from perspiration, his body running inhumanly hot, hotter still from the nightmare.

The nightmares don’t get any easier — the pain sits raw within his chest, as if his heart has been spit over a searing flame. Bob exhales, reminding himself of where he is, they’re here, he isn’t alone, he’s safe.

Bare feet smooth over the cool flooring, making his way from his room to the tower’s lounge, greeted by dusk, pooling in through tinted windows. Starlight dances through a clear night, silvery whisper of the moon enough to bring him some semblance of comfort.

Wandering towards the sink, he’s quick to turn the faucet on, shoveling handfuls of water into his mouth to sate his thirst. The dry burn within his throat slowly diminishes, temperature beginning to regulate as he pulls away from tormented dreams.

A cool draft floats through the room, a soothing balm against his scorching flesh, smoldering with the temperature of the sun. A drawn-out, ragged sigh inhabits his lungs, and he begins to drift down from his state of panic, of fear.

“Bob?”

Nonplussed, Bob swivels, droplets of water rolling down his chin as his gaze finds you, standing there in your robe, groggy from the fringes of sleep. It’s as if you’re cast in some divine glow, the moon at your back, blanketing you in blanched light.

Within his chest, the pain ebbs, more of a crawl than biting, soothed by your presence. He doesn’t know what you are — you and him, but he knows that he’s comforted when you’re near, as if you possess some supernatural ability to console him.

He knows that you are a sanctuary, that you’re kind, you’re safe; and Bob knows that he feels something for you. It’s nearly overwhelming, whatever that sentiment is — he thinks it’s affection, or maybe it’s something else, something stronger.

Fisting his palm within the hem of his sweater, he forces a smile, threadbare; it dances along the line of genuine and despairing. “Hi,” He greets nonchalantly, as if he weren’t distressed. “What are you doing?”

Perplexed, you can tell that he’s had a nightmare again; a weekly ritual, wrought with melancholy, and yet you’re there with open arms, without question. “I heard your heartbeat.” It’s little more than a whisper, and you watch his smile waver.

“Did you?” Bob averts your gaze, digits twisting into fabric until it accidentally tears. He winces, shaking his head back and forth, brows drawing together as he attempts to navigate through the momentary swarm of emotions.

It’s been four months — he’s trying.

Unraveling the tangled web of trauma that blankets his life is easier said than done, and he’s put in the work, but it never seems enough. The nightmares don’t recede, still a haunting constant, a plague nipping at his heels without pause.

Silence fills the gap between, and the sting you feel never lessens when he’s had a nightmare. Affection pulls upon your heartstrings, a dull ache within your chest that blossoms into concern. Wordlessly, you step closer, hand seeking his own.

It’s an anchor; there’s a weight to it that grounds him, flesh to flesh, and Bob feels the unearthly chill that clings to your skin. Through a warbled exhale, he finally looks to you again, his smile threadbare yet easier, appreciative.

“I’m here for you,” Solemn, your oath to Bob is a promise, and you’ve kept it, never straying from the meaning of your words. The sheen of sweat seems to cool, and his body no longer feels coiled into a thousand knots. “Still tired?”

It was a poor habit he’d developed, not going back to bed once he’d awoken from a bad dream. Though, you’d been rather diligent about ensuring that he got proper rest — and you always stayed with him until the sun came up.

Bob nods, and the two of you make your way back to his room.

Hands flex and pull away from one another, kissed by fire, and you feel it, warmth spreading over the back of your neck like tendrils. It’s innocent, whatever you share with him — pure, clean. You don’t recall the last time you’d felt this about anyone, for anyone.

There’s a gentleness that radiates from his soul, burning brighter than the sun; it’s good, he’s good. He doesn’t fully know it, but he’s healing you, too.

As you cross the threshold into his room, the door shuts, met with the soft glow of his nightlight, the sparkling cityscape. Bob is visibly relieved, grateful to you for everything — he wonders if he deserves it, but the thought is fleeting.

There isn’t a shred of awkwardness as the both of you climb into his bed; you abandoned that a long time ago. Instead, there’s a peculiar tension — but it’s sweeter, more of a tenderness than anything else.

Curled atop the sheets, Bob’s gaze finds you, unknowing, enticed by the glitter within your eyes, the characteristic amiability that he clings to. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were some angel, a savior, pulling him back from the brink.

Facing one another, the hush of his room is comforting; the hum of New York drones on outside, save for the minuscule thrumming of the light above his headboard. Tucking an arm beneath your head, you feel yourself grow a touch flustered beneath Bob’s stare.

There is a sense of incredulity there, an amalgamation of gratitude intermingled with warmth, mesmerized, affectionate. He nearly shrinks when your gaze finds his own, mustering up a smile, one that quirks at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” He mumbles, fearing that he’s wasted enough of your time on his troubled mind. Bob notices the flicker of fire within your eyes, a certain determination. “I …”

Before he can conjure up some apology, you begin to shush him, a gentle croon that is a placating gesture, intended to soothe. “We’re here for one another, Bob. You know that I don’t mind. It’s just as important to me as it is to you.”

That surprises him, bewilderment crossing his features, settling within his visage as he clears his throat. He wants to inquire, ask about why this matters to you so much, consoling him, but he’s quiet, absorbing every detail of your countenance. His memory is hazy, but he always remembers you.

“Why?”

A brief pang of ice stabs at your stomach, recalling a slew of past memories, none of which are pleasant. His loneliness is something that you empathize with more than he knows, the burden of nothingness.

Bob can see the ripple of pain that passes through your face, and he reaches out, hands interlacing once more. It’s innocuous, grounded; you tether one another to reality. For a moment, he’s standing in your memories — needles, a thousand jagged pricks of ice, threading themselves into your veins.

“This comforts me, too,” Your confession is laced with underlying melancholy, one that he shares, understands. Bob understands it better than himself, and he feels your digits tense around his hand; it’s a pleasant feeling. “You comfort me.”

It feels strange, to be important to someone; to matter in a way that transcends a simple human connection. His body heat warms the icy chill of your hands, sending a brief shiver throughout your spine.

As he involuntarily wades through your memory, he sees you again, alone — begging, sobbing for help, for someone to rescue you from the misery inflicted at the hands of zealous scientists. Like him, he realizes, and he wants to help you in the way you’ve helped him.

“I don’t know how.” Bob admits, but you’re swift to counter him with a smile. There’s an easiness to you, something kind, something secure, a home that he’s made, the heart where he has roots.

“You’re just you,” As the words slip from your lips, warm breath plumes between, tinged with sweetness. He finds it difficult to fully believe your words, but he hangs onto them nonetheless, heart lurching within his chest. “You’re Bob.”

If only things were that simple, he thinks, knowing that there’s much more to him than that. Darkness, a malignant shadow, constantly slinking around within the recesses of his mind — and something golden, a brilliant light, blinded by his own hubris.

His silence is telling, and you know he doesn’t fully believe you. You don’t press the matter, the pad of your thumb ghosting over his knuckles. Gooseflesh ices his spine at the brief contact, prompting him to exhale, nearly relaxed.

“You know that���s not true,” Bob stammers, wrestling with himself. Sometimes he wonders if you like all of him — even the tarnished, broken parts. His eyes briefly flutter shut before he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, feeling your fingertips dance over his palm.

“All of you, then. You are comforting to me,” The sincerity within your cadence is incredibly soothing to him, hanging upon every word. “Even the parts that are still healing.” You assure, and his breath catches within his throat.

There’s plenty of mending left to do — learning, adapting, trying to find himself again. However, Bob knows for certain that he’s beginning to love you, in a way that he’s never experienced himself. Whatever parts of him are still scattered, you’re there to help pick up, no matter how dark.

His lips split into a smile — brighter this time, fully reaching his eyes. Grogginess hazes the fringes of his gaze, exhaustion beginning to seep into his bones, attempting to drag him back into the throes of sleep.

Still, he fights it, wanting to stay up with you and talk — it’s what you’ve done every time. Sometimes the conversation is light, airy, sweet — and sometimes it’s raw and poignant. Whatever way it goes, he’s content to converse, to better understand himself, understand you.

“Everything about you is perfect,” Bob utters, scarlet permeating his cheeks, flush snaking toward his jaw. Bewilderment crosses your features, eyes widening, throat thick as you swallow down a slight lump. “All of it.”

You want to blame it on the sleep deprivation, and you do, forcing a brief laugh, wrought with a sense of shock. “You must be really tired,” Attempting to pass off his remark as nothing more than kindness, you notice his sudden streak of embarrassment.

“I mean it.” Shrewd, he tries again, insistent as his teeth catch on the inside of his cheek. Earnestly, he sits up enough to look at you fully, cerulean hues glistening through dim illumination.

Biting back a retort, you reluctantly accept the compliment, digits idly twisting into the pillow beneath you. You are far from perfect — the sum of many flaws, self-esteem still tattered from your past. Bob understands, insecurities marrow-deep, gnawing away at him.

He sees you — glimpsing through whatever guilt and sorrow plague you, seeing the light that emanates from within. With bated breath, your lips part, enough to make room for a soft exhale, attempting to decide on your next words.

“Thanks,” It’s all you can muster, grappling with the bewilderment of it all, being called perfect. You’ve never been labeled as anything other than a mistake — but not to him. “No one’s ever told me that before.”

Bob feels your digits still across his knuckles, akin to silk, still somewhat icy. “I’ll tell you,” His voice is disarmingly gentle, the ghost of a smile fluttering over his face. “You’ve helped me, more than you know. I can return the favor.”

There’s still pain left inside, ashen remnants of a fire that nearly engulfed him, but it’s more manageable. Most of his life was one of isolation, of longing for a purpose — he’d found the team, and he’d found you.

He still remembers meeting you for the first time, even if the memory is clouded, faint. It’s you that breaks through the veil, piercing sunlight through his own shadow. It was the softness of your touch that lingers still, guiding him from the dark.

“It’s only fair if I tell you, too,” Through a murmur, you shift atop the mattress, the distance between bodies slimmer than before. You can hear his heartbeat begin to climb, notice the way in which he shuffles closer, too. “We’ll remind each other.”

Bob smiles again, eyelashes fluttering, accidentally bumping his knees against yours. “Sorry.” He mumbles, but you shake your head, able to savor the proximity. There’s something else he wants to say, stuck upon the tip of his tongue.

Words simmer to ash within his throat, struggling to vocalize the turbulent storm of inner thoughts that wage war within his head. He wants to tell you how much you mean to him, how much he likes you, how you burn away any lingering darkness.

“It’s okay.” Assuring, you absentmindedly untangle your hand from his, much to his disdain, only to card your fingertips over his brow. Brushing aside sweat-laden tresses, you feel the heat of his flesh, like that of an open flame.

The gesture is sweet, and he craves your embrace with a pathetic desperation. Bob’s eyes widen, pads of your digits ghosting toward his cheek, until your palm is nearly flat against the side of his face.

His hand finds your wrist, his hold disarmingly delicate, as if he’s cradling something precious, fragile. Bob is fearful of his own strength, letting it fester just beneath the surface. As your thumb traces over his cheekbone, his gaze doesn’t stray from you.

Floating within a wordless silence, you’re unusually content, feeling the pang of tension that crackles between, embers stoked to a low flame. Everything about him is warm, inviting, gentle — his heartbeat jumps again when you smile at him.

“I like you,” He whispers, as if he’s just revealed some earth-shattering secret. Despite the sudden excitement that washes through you, he seems anxious, as if this news is something you’d detest. “But I don’t know if I’m good enough.”

Offended on his behalf, your brows furrow together, caressing his visage with lingering strokes of your fingertips. “You are more than good enough,” You know it’s a struggle for him to have faith in such words. “You’re so good, Bob — you’re resilient, you’re perfect.”

Bob laughs; a subdued, nervous sound as his own compliment is thrown back in his face — he should’ve suspected you’d do something like that. Foreheads ghost against one another, and he realizes how close you are, bodies nearly entangled.

His divulgence of his affections dawns upon you, realization raw and palpable. However, you don’t let it swallow the remark he made, of not being good enough for you — he’s everything, he’s more than enough.

“I like you, too.”

Disbelief, as sharp as a blade, cuts through him effortlessly — he knows you mean it, but it’s difficult to let the feeling sink in fully. His thumb caresses over the heel of your palm, tears burning his eyes, a wet sheen that he continues to fight off.

Somewhere within the recesses of his mind, he hears the voice again — the Void, some festering spectre that looms still, as black as ink. Bob’s jaw tenses as he staves off insecurity, finding a steadfast adoration within your eyes; your gaze softens, consoling.

“I have a lot of low days,” It’s almost as if he’s giving you reasons not to be with him, to avoid acting on this pull that you feel towards him. “Some good days.” Bob whispers, voice hoarse, as if he’s been scraped too thin, choked by swimming tears.

“I’ll stay with you — no matter what kind of day it is,” Something wet coats your thumb, inklings of salty droplets rolling from his eyes. “Low or high, you mean so much to me.” The softness of your cadence is unmistakable, his hand gliding to rest over yours.

Tears flow freely now, most of them born of an elation he hadn’t experienced in such a long time. He’s happy — joy tastes foreign, something new and unfamiliar, but it’s liberating, all the same. Your voice washes over him, curling around him; tranquil, serene.

It’s as if the voices are squashed, momentarily snuffed out as he looks to you, the center of everything. Wiping at bleary eyes, he regains his composure, enough to plant a kiss against your palm. The gesture is chaste, sweet — your lips part slightly, smitten.

Still holding your hand against his countenance, Bob gawks, stars swirling within his dark-blue hues, the look of something more. His heartbeat thrums within your ears as it jumps again, jumbled and erratic in your newfound closeness.

“You can hear it,” Bob murmurs, a reddened flush crawling over his neck, settling within his cheeks. “My heartbeat.” He knows it’s quick, knows the way you make him feel — beloved, comforted, some semblance of normalcy.

“It’s fast,” Your observation only furthers his twinge of embarrassment, but he smiles — your heartbeat quickens, too. “Never noticed the flecks of green in your eyes.” Muddled by the growing grogginess, your voice tapers off, nothing more than a hushed whisper.

“Reminded her of moss,” He recalls, forlorn, as if he’s miles away. Bob doesn’t talk much about his past — only the naked ugliness of it, but this is something lighter, something good. “My mother.” His throat stirs with a soft hum.

“They’re pretty.” Again, your fingertips brush above his brow, nudging brown tresses aside. The change of subject is all a ploy for Bob to gather his courage to kiss you — it’s building, the tension. You’re content to let it simmer.

Bob relinquishes his grasp upon your hand, enough to touch you, too. He’s hesitant, the way he reaches for you, trembling digits warm against your lips, chapped and scabbed from you constantly biting at the thin flesh.

Exhilaration swirls within your stomach, a thousand butterflies dancing around, gooseflesh crawling across your spine. His fingers skirt toward your cheek, palm large enough to cradle your countenance, and you let him.

You cannot recall the last time someone had touched you with a gentle hand, as if you mattered, as if you were worthy of such kindness. His touch is incendiary, fire to ice, eyes searching his own for something else, something unspoken.

As if urged by invisible strings, your movements are sluggish, deliberate; the closer you get, the louder Bob’s heartbeat gets — yours too, joined in-tandem. He doesn’t recoil or push you aside, doe-eyed and mesmerized, though still somewhat nervous.

His gaze flickers over your visage — ethereal, gravitating, and he’s pulled in. He’s asking, you realize, hushed yet expectant, lips parted and flesh plagued by scarlet. Bob’s hand remains steady, caressing your jaw, characteristically shy as you lean forward simultaneously.

Lips brush against one another, slow to start, perhaps agonizingly slow. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest, allowing yourself to merely bask in the pleasantness of it all.

Kissing isn’t something foreign to him, but he’s inexperienced, stumbling over himself, still clumsy in his ministrations. He drowns his anxiousness, throat bobbing as he swallows, finding some tranquility in the shape of your mouth.

Velveteen, just like the rest of you; his heartbeat crescendos before it begins to steady, fingertips pluming over the dip beneath your jaw. Nothing ever moves faster than it needs to be, lips growing accustomed to a sweeter embrace.

Noses brush together, warmth of his tremulous exhale feathering over your features, a heat that eases whatever chill holds you still. Bob’s mouth shifts just slightly, brows creased in concentration, your stray tresses tickling his cheek.

This is real, a blissful reality that he merely grasped at, once upon a time. You’re flesh and blood in his grasp, scent an amalgamation of something floral, coupled with the clean smell of your bathrobe.

Bob withdraws, only to marvel at the sight of you, picturesque, flustered as you struggle to maintain your composure. The distance is still slim, almost nonexistent, limbs tangled, hearts galloping together, a tandem of exhilaration.

His smile is shy, chest bubbling with gentle laughter, as if he can’t comprehend what happened. It evokes a giggle from you, too; his hand never strays from your jaw.

“Was it that bad?” The teasing nature of your cadence flusters him, but he knows that you don’t mean anything by it. Bob shakes his head, extinguishing the gasp that nearly floats from his lungs as your palm rests over his collarbone.

“No,” Breathless, he steels himself, flesh beginning to burn when he fully realizes how close you are, intertwined at this point. “The opposite.” Bob remarks, shivering as your fingertips lightly graze against the bare flesh near the collar of his sweater.

Neglecting to press him further, you’re content to simply swim within your shared affections. It’s quiet for a moment, and he stares at you as if you’ve moved mountains. “I’m rusty.” You utter, eyes half-lidded, sleep nipping at your heels.

A glint of pearlescent teeth shimmer from behind his lips, brief; Bob nearly says something cheeky, but cringes at the mere thought. Instead, he concedes, shifting slightly beside you. “Me too.” He concurs, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

“It might be worthwhile to practice,” A soft snort escapes you, followed by laughter. You’re being playful again, partially serious, but you’d never force Bob into something he didn’t want. “Sorry.” You mumble, nose crinkling.

“No, hm,” Bob’s smitten, and he’s agreeable — though, he prefers if you were more awake. You’re fighting slumber with both fists, shoving it away, but it keeps chasing after you. “Maybe when you’re not tired.” He hums, and you open one eye.

“Okay,” You’re smiling and he’s falling, as if he’s soaring through the skies, crashing down on solid ground. “M��holding you.” Slurred, a mere wisp of a grumble, your arms flex and adjust, making space for Bob to rest his head against your shoulder.

He’s much taller, larger, but you don’t seem to mind, arm extended beneath his head, the other splayed somewhere else. His arms tangle around your middle, feverishly hot, but the warmth is more welcoming than the cold.

You’re asleep before he is, digits curled into the back of his sweater, something to hold onto. Shallow, relaxed breaths stretch through your diaphragm, a melody that brings him peace; the pain subsides into a dull ache.

Bob exhales; it’s even, steady — the sensation of your digits carding through his tresses lulls him into submission. Rest is much easier to find this way, caged within your arms, a sanctuary that he crawls into without hesitation.

[pricesprincess]

18+ explicit smut + different hybrid readers + repost

price with a puppy! girl who he can train to greet him at the door naked with a pretty pink collar and a matching leash that is ready for him to take. he loves how you pant and moan when he's fucking you doggy style. is a sucker for those puppy-dog eyes. makes sure to has a special engraved tag with his name on it.

ghost with a fawn! girl who he can chase down in the woods without a second thought and will let him pin you to the dirt and fuck you senseless because he's had a rough day. he loves to stroke your ears and tail when you cuddle up to him and will hand-feed you treats.

gaz with a bunny! girl who is so soft and adorable dressed up in those frilly outfits that make you hide your face as he dresses you before letting you hump his cock after he played with your nipples through the sheer fabric. kyle loves it when you twitch his nose which makes him chuckle and hold you closer to him.

soap with a kitty! girl who bites and scratches when you get a bit overstimulated and he loves it, will sometimes bat at you with a cat toy to make you draw your claws. will fuck you extra harder to feel your nails drag up his back leaving a mess of red lines.

[youreonmymind37]

“I wanna you to fuck me.”

“Mom!”

“Just like you do to your girlfriends.”

“Look!” I said, “Calm down. You’re having a panic attack—“

“—You remember we stayed in a hotel down by the beach? I was showering in the bathroom and you were playing with your penis. Watching me. Now, strip down.”

“Mom! You’re attacking me!”

My mommy unbutton my jeans. She lowers herself to the hallway rug.

“Wow!” she said, “Your cock is half-mast. Pretty impressive.”

My mom’s lips made a sucking noise as she was engulfed my cock. I couldn’t believe it. My mom was given me a fantastic BJ.

She wiped off her saliva and pre-cum with her fingers.

“Okay, we’re going to my bedroom.”

I grasped my pants’ belt. And, she pushed me through her door.

“Over there,” she commanded. I laid down on her comforter.

My mom shimmed-out of her jeans.

“But, mom—“

“—Shhh!”

She positioned her body over my harden cock. And, my mom’s pussy drove down. My cock was immersed by her snatch.

“Ohhhhhh,” my mom was snarling , “You come out of my vagina and now, my vagina wants to eat you up.”

She grasped her breasts. My mom bent downwards.towards my lips.

“Here. Suck on them.”

Her lusciously tit found my mouth.

I surrendered. I gulped her rudy-red nipple.

“Isn’t this a wonderful away to spend an afternoon playing with your mom?”

I nodded my cheeks filled with my mom’s breast.

“You know, I’m going to make you my boy-toy, sweetie.”

My mom laid her tight bod over mine.

“Why shouldn’t I make use out of my boy?” she said to herself, “And… his cock?”

She crouched on my penis and raised her arms. I have never seen my lovers to talk to themselves when I was here. My mom is a narcissist. I’m my mother’s dildo.

Just then, she slapped me on my cheeks.

“Don’t look at me like a piece of ass, son!”

I protested. “Sshhh! Silence,” she seemed angry. My mother was furiously about my imaginary look. Her fingernails clawed on my chest. Very soon, her hostile intense anger began to transform into blissful moaning.

Her face was chaotic and sweat began to pool against her tan skin. My mom’s hair swept my thighs. She was choosing a bite on my lip. Her tongue wrestled mine. Her fists pummeled on my abdomen and flanks.

I marveled at my mother-whore-goddess.

Her pussy went popped off my cock as she tumbled on her bed. My mom was sleeping.

I tried to awake her.

I was torn between what I just witnessed and my strained boner…. As I was shaking my incestuous mom. I pictured my violence & lustfully goddess bearing down on me.

Will she wake up? Maybe. If I could sliding my cock between her lips…

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

First time between virgin reader and viktor??🫢

how to lose your virginity like a pretentious poet

word count: 1,8k

this turned out rather vague, but still explicit enough to... titillate, so to speak. virgin!viktor, virgin!fem!reader, protected sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk. this was supposed to have a different ending, but i figured why write about a perfect first time when i can do a more realistic scenario where it doesn't exactly work out? plus, i'm known for edging my readers, so... there you go.

and i'm sorry for how... strangely this is written. i read too much anaïs nin and it shows.

—

His fist swallows him, bottomless, in a dry toe-arching vortex of his climax—a conflux of cum and spit shriveling in the oblique of a lean hip. Vortex climax conflux. A lewd stanza that he croaks at, snicker-like, thinking of its triple-X ending waning alongside his own—perplex, postsex, unorthodox. The poetry of touching oneself to sleep. 

His mind is all thighs and ankles. A shy affinity inching on a fetish. Every night, he yearns for it in a fist-fight with his cock. All but twists his nipple out of the aureole and wishes it were yours instead, dotting his skin a hot, sticky white of sheer hunger. 

In person, it’s much tamer. He’s almost through with the conduit: of groping uphill, from knees to chests to necks, of name-whimpering litanies waiting to become fleshed-out moans, of artifices in friction not yet daring to evolve into orgasms. You know he yearns for resumption. He knows you yearn twice as fierce. The ouroboros of awareness has been choking on its tail for a while. And you envy it. You’d like to choke on a certain appendage, too. 

The night he caves, you lose the nylon and let him topple inside: a thousand taste buds flat against your thigh like a tickle. A hundred tiny spit-flicks fumbling with the peach fuzz. Which then diminishes into a dozen meek bites and, finally, mere units of thrusts—airtight, approbatory, avid. It’s a poem. It has been one, all along. Now, clumsy stanzas are licking through: Viktor simply added some alliteration. Ah. Ah. Ah. Right here. Right there. Ri—mhm! 

“You taste… acidic,” Viktor says. Looks up from beneath your skirt and pushes the linen out of your fist—his fingers are rather selfish. Still damp from whatever had preceded this mouth-to-mound endeavour, they claw at your palm and pin it down—a sparring of digits bending into loops. 

And it’s such a silly thing. You, prying your hand free and squeezing his chin in a way that’s both commanding and inept—tugging his tongue out to assess the slight swell. Him, almost slipping off the bed on a numb knee. The regrouping that follows—a tangle of legs and elbows. A kick here, a tackle there. Splicing until the rhythm is back and the poem becomes sloppy—a vers libre, shirtless and blouseless. The underwear hasn’t slid to its ‘less’ yet. It billows around your ankle—with a frilly twist, baby pink all over. A sinful stain still wet on the very gusset he’d licked before pushing the thing aside. 

“Acidic?” You push a finger into his mouth and gasp when the muscle bends under your touch—pliant, sheepish tongue swirling around your thumb like sleazy sin. And then it gnaws at you—the playful force of his teeth, aiming at your phalanx in a tender strike. Drawing an offended ‘ouch’ and lining into a grin—about thirty whites beaming at you mockingly. 

“Mhm,” he finally answers. Sexily. Perhaps just a little conceited. 

“Acidic?!”

“Er, savoury might be a better word.” 

“Might it really?” 

“Why the frown? I like savoury.” 

“Can’t you just talk dirty to me like a normal person?”

“I can certainly try. Just be mindful of my… non-existent experience. I’m a debutant, after all.”

“So am I, but you don’t see me telling you that you taste weird.”

He laughs, undismayed. Prowls to your mouth with a smile so quivering that yours falters along and tumbles under this Klimt-esque endeavour. It tinges you tart. Licks stolen sour right back into you. Peels your bra off one flushed nipple after a strained ‘May I?’ and bites down, harshly soft. Breaks a moan into toothy half-whimpers and dribbles, treacly, down your ribs in a stream of besotted spit—a clumsy glaze of startled gooseflesh reaching a bumpy aureole. 

“You taste—“ Viktor rasps, slick-jawed, “s-so good.” Throws your thigh over a shaky forearm and pulls you close, lisping an earnest ‘sorry’ when your nipple gets caught in his brace. “I want you to— I want to–“ he gulps, “Oh, if I had it my way, I’d devour you until you burn a hole through my tongue. Yes, render me physically speechless. I doubt I’ll be doing much talking from now on. My mouth has found its purpose between your legs.” 

That disarms you. Languishes your mouth in a way that leaves it agape and rolls some breathy praise into his throat—and he swallows it, chokes on it, spits it back into you. “How did I do?” mumbles toothily. Like he doesn’t already know the answer. 

“Good. For a pretentious poet, that is.” 

“A pretentious poet?” He snickers, humbled. Grabs you by the calf—reverently, with an obsessive humm—and tugs you upright, chest to flushed chest, wondering what strained sound to pick for your next remark. His repertoire is scarce. A chuckle, for something cheeky. A moan, for something obscene. 

And, sure enough, you’re licking into his ear. “Mhm. Are you fucking me or serenading me?” 

Ah. A moaning chuckle, in that case. “Can’t it be both? Clearly, it’s efficient.”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“There’s no need for that. The evidence—“ he reaches under your skirt and plows a finger over slickened folds, “is overwhelming.” 

The silence, aside from the audacious moan he draws from you, lingers. By convention, it evolves into a kiss, then into a teeth-clattering sparring. It stains everything bloody—more clumsy than malicious, yet bloody nonetheless—and this time he doesn’t come out unscathed: there’s rouge saliva shining on his chin, no doubt thick and tasting of intermingled iron. Viktor licks it up, too—the ever intrepid gourmand—and stares at you with the splendour of, well, a victor. 

“Condom,” you gasp—an order, “I want to fuck that attitude out of you.”

His eyes turn glassy—voidy pupils bursting out of ivory apples. “A-Are you certain?” A stumble, that’s nice for a change. “I’ve never done this before—“

“Neither have I.”

“Precisely. Are you—“ He clears his throat, then retaliates with a gentler, “Are we certain we can go all the way tonight?”

“Do you want that attitude ridden out of you or not?” 

His gaze snaps back to its usual almondy shrewdness. “I do. If you’re up for the task.” 

And you reach for his nape, whispering a promising, “Take your pants off.”

The filthy poem reads on.

He fumbles with the rubber with contrived effort, wiping puzzled perspiration off his flushed forehead—a man ungracious, fatigued with his want. You crawl from behind his shoulder—a cautious succession over each bony slope—a pendulum of strike and stroke swinging between each sweet option. Then a comfort, sibilant, is tongued into his hair—a deliciously inane plea that wraps around his cock in a supportive squeeze: keeping it upright so the slick cover slides right on in a satisfying roll. 

“It’s funny,” he says, leaning back. Bucks against your shoulder in a delirious shove and moans, half-undone, at the loving bob of your hand. “I was touching myself to the thought of this just this morning.” 

Your laughter pinpricks his neck. An aspiration—hasty, homely, husky. “The thought of what, exactly? Struggling with condoms?”

He twitches—internally, with a transient cramp. Peels your wrist off of him in a confluence of plea and order and turns around, excitedly, to help you onto his lap: hands on hips-on haunches-on heel spurs. The fetish had finally inched to its utmost. 

Your world comes propping down onto his shoulder—a descent conferred. It’s a staunch thing—breathy, crude, a little undirected. He offers his skin for the lancing of five prickly nails and waits, politely impatient, for you to take the staking. A delicious one, he hopes. But it’s a fit tight enough to strangle. Now, which head is a question of your aim. 

The tip scorches its way inside through a curse. You wince, then leave his worried pout behind blurry eyelids, stilling mid-downward slope. A cautious kiss upon your jaw tips your gut out of the spasm and soothes it, darlingly, to a mushy, liquid feeling somewhere between tense legs. When you open your eyes again, a pair of huge, pensive ones looks back into you. 

“I’m fine.” A promise, strangely coherent. You lean him against the headboard, weaving shaky fingers into his hair just in time to muffle the thump. And he whines for it, gratefully, and rushes to pet the cramp out of your calf. The smile that follows prompts an attempt to take another inch. 

“Do you need me to—“ Viktor swallows his words and looks at the impressive stretch of you around him. Pulls you into another kiss and chokes on cloying saliva, easing you into the friction of excited taste buds. 

It ends with a wet plop. Bumps sweaty foreheads together and has you gulping as you assess the sensation. “No. It’s…” Immense? Wet? Sultry? “Good. Feels good. Just a little intense. Er… prickly.” 

“Ah.” He chuckles, relieved. “Certainly. I, eh, could touch you, if you like?”

And you like. Of course you do. You plunge downward, and squeeze him to the hilt, and pull him, graspingly, by the strap of his brace into a halation of glowing eyes and spitslick mouths contorted in none other than a drawn out ‘Please’, which arcs into a ‘Fuck’ when his fingers come down in a tender onslaught on your clit, schlicking along the very first clumsy thrust. 

Then comes the comatose. Of insides, taut and startled, burning in a pervasive pooling of ‘way too much’. Painting you a pained rouge and causing a rasp that you all but spew into his shoulder, crestfallen. And he seeks you, shakily, from beneath the tousle of his hair—bleeds disjointed confirmations, incidentally, in a language you don’t understand, having caught but an isolated ‘Lásko?ʼ

“I.. I think I—“ It comes out of you gutturally, with a spasmodic writhe. “I think my… eagerness got the best of me.” 

He nods, mouth agape, with his tongue arched under his palate. “Would you like to stop?” Asks piously, swiping a careful peck across your knuckles. 

You cower, arching off of him—a clumsy hesitation between retreat and resumption. And, surely, the former prevails, easing you from around him with a guilty gasp. “Yes. I would.” Then, an addendum, meek and muffled, “I’m sorry.”

Viktor frowns and hurtles you into a tangle of arms—moulds your face into his in a fleeting touch of lips, and smoothes a palm over your shaky thigh. “None of that, please. Come hold me. I’ll get this, er—“ He winces, poking the shrivelled condom, “thing off.”

You laugh—bubbly, perhaps just a little hoarse. Stumbling over a purr-like sound, you curl into the sheets as he pushes his limbs under yours—a beauty, dishevelled, and staring at you, awestruck. You nose his clavicle, contemplating a playful suck.

“Could we—” you offer, sheepishly, “reschedule this? For later tonight. I promise I won’t rush this time.” 

The chin above you comes to rest on your head. “Only if I get to carry on with my pretentious obscenities.”

And you smile at him, wanly, for the umpteenth endearing time. 

“Of course. Serenade me all you please.”

[pandapetals]

ain't no grave

chapter two: crawling home previous chapter | next chapter

summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

content warnings: angst, joel POV, infected, trauma, pain, guilt, mentions of blood, killing, guns, knives, not graphic gore but could be triggering, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, lots of pet names used, established relationship, protective joel, jackson setting

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. very much inspired by work song by hozier and ain't no grave by johnny cash.

Joel had lost his fucking mind.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing anymore — just moving, hands working on instinct while his brain screamed this isn’t enough, this won’t be enough. The blood was everywhere, slick and warm, steaming in the cold, and you’d already gone limp in his arms. He’d expected you to pass out. Hell, he was counting on it. But what he hadn’t expected was this.

The way you looked now.

Pale. Still. Like something already gone.

His stomach lurched, and for a half-second, he almost dropped the belt tourniquet, his fingers stiff and useless. Four inches of your wrist and hand lay nearby in the snow, pink and red against white, a grotesque thing he couldn’t look at for long. His breath hitched, but his hands kept moving.

Stop the bleeding.

His jacket came off, hitting the snow with a hard thud. He wadded it against what was left of your arm, pressing down until the blood seeped through, hot against his skin. Too much. Too fucking much.

“C’mon, baby. Stay with me,” he muttered, unsure if he was saying it out loud or just in his head. His voice was shaking — he could hear it but couldn’t stop it.

He grabbed your jacket, tearing it open, the fabric resisting before giving way with a rough rip. Every second felt like it stretched out forever, the cold gnawing at his hands, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air.

Cauterize.

The word dropped into his head like a stone—a terrible, necessary thing. He fumbled for his knife, the hilt slick with blood and sweat, and struck a match with numb fingers. The flame flared to life, tiny and defiant in the freezing air. He held the blade over it, watching the metal darken and glow.

He hated this. Hated how your face was slack, hated the memories clawing at the back of his mind — too many people lost, too many bodies buried, and now you, the only good thing left in his world, bleeding out in front of him.

“I can’t lose you,” Joel rasped, more to himself than anything else, his voice raw and breaking. “You hear me? I can’t…”

The knife glowed, and he pressed it to the wound.

The sickening hiss of flesh meeting hot steel filled the silence, and even though you didn’t make a sound, Joel flinched like you had. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, but his hand stayed steady.

Do it. Get it done. Save her.

Joel felt you jolt beneath his hands, your body arching weakly against the snow. Your eyes snapped open, glassy with pain, your mouth moving in a scream you didn’t have the strength to make. The raw sound of it never came; somehow, that was worse.

His stomach turned. His throat burned.

He wanted to scream for you. Wanted to howl, to break, to throw the fucking hatchet into the trees and tear the sky down. But there wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t room for it. Not out here.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice shaking, though his hands stayed steady, pressing down hard against the ragged wound. Blood still seeped, thick and hot, painting his skin, but it was slowing.

Your eyes fluttered, a soft, broken whimper escaping your lips, and then you slipped under again, your head lolling to the side.

And for a beat, Joel just knelt there.

Snow falling in slow, lazy flakes. Blood steaming in the cold. His chest heaving, eyes stinging. The world narrowed to the sound of your breathing — shallow, but still there.

He swallowed hard, shoving the grief down deep. No time for it. No space for what was clawing its way up his throat.

Once the bleeding slowed and the flesh around the cauterized wound blackened and charred, Joel forced himself to move. He stripped the last of your ruined jacket, packed snow against the burn, and wrapped it tight with what clean cloth he had left. His fingers moved automatically now — soldier hands, survivor hands.

He knew the panic would rip him apart if he stopped for even a second.

So he didn’t.

He secured the last knot of the makeshift bandage, bloodied hands trembling against your skin, then lifted you into his arms. You were far too light, your face far too pale.

“Got you,” he murmured, his throat thick. “I’ve got you.”

Joel shouldered his pack, his teeth gritting against the sharp pull in his muscles as he lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your head lolling against his chest, face bloodless, breath so shallow he had to lean close just to feel it.

He started walking, his boots crunching through the snow as he headed toward the pharmacy, where the horses waited, tethered out front, steam rising from their nostrils in the frigid air. Every step felt like it took a year.

His mind spun, chasing half-formed plans, desperate prayers he didn’t have the words for.

Get to the horse. Ride hard. Don’t stop.

Jackson was about six miles out — twenty, maybe thirty minutes if he pushed the horse hard enough, faster if luck was on his side for once. He could do that. He’d done worse. He’d get you there, get you to someone who could help. Maybe Maria. Maybe Ellie.

Then the dark thoughts slipped in, ugly and persistent. What if this was for nothing?

What if, somewhere along that ride back, your breathing slowed? What if your eyes opened and they weren’t your eyes anymore? What if he felt your teeth at his throat before he could do a damn thing about it.

Or worse — what if the infection was already moving through your blood, racing toward your heart the moment those teeth sank into your wrist? What if no amount of hatchet swings and tourniquets could stop it?

Joel clenched his jaw, the hot sting of tears burning the back of his eyes.

Can’t think like that. Can’t.

He adjusted his grip on you, pulling you closer to his chest as if he could somehow keep you tethered to this world by sheer will alone.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice raw and cracking. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me now.”

The horses came into view, stamping anxiously in the snow. Joel forced his legs to move faster, every instinct in him screaming to run, though his body felt heavier with every step.

He didn’t know if this was hope or madness anymore.

It didn’t matter because he’d already made his choice.

Joel hoisted you into his arms, your weight too light and still against him. He swung up onto Whiskey’s back with practiced ease, though his muscles screamed in protest. He barely felt it. His focus was razor-sharp, burning through the fog of panic.

Stella—your horse—whinnied nearby, tugging at her reins. She’d have to wait. He’d send someone back for her if there were time. If there was anything left to come back for.

He cradled you against his chest, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other steady on the reins. Your head lolled against him, skin ice-cold beneath the blood, lips parted in a shallow, ragged breath.

“I got you,” Joel kept muttering, the words slipping past cracked lips, mostly to himself. A promise. A prayer. A lie. He didn’t know anymore.

He dug his heels into Whiskey’s sides, the horse surging forward, snow kicking up behind them. The wind bit at his face, but Joel barely noticed. His gaze never left yours, flickering down every few seconds, watching for any change — twitch of muscle, any unfocused glare in your eyes, the subtle shift from you to… something else.

A groan slipped from you, faint and broken, and Joel’s heart lurched against his ribs.

“I got you, baby,” he whispered again, tightening his grip, as if he could anchor you there by force alone.

You mumbled something, words half-formed, your voice slurred with pain and fading consciousness. He caught one word—his name.

Like a knife in his chest.

His throat clenched around a knot so thick it felt like it might choke him. The memories came hard and unbidden, sharp as broken glass. Sarah’s face, small and pale, cradled in his arms as the warmth bled out of her, her blood-soaked hair sticking to his skin. The way her hand had gone slack, how the world had shattered in a single, irreparable moment.

Then Tess. Her eyes were steady, jaw set with that stubborn, defiant tilt. “Get her to safety, Joel.” The way she’d planted herself between him and death, buying him time with the last of her courage.

Faces. Names. Voices. Ghosts. All of them folding in on him now.

All the people he had held… and failed.

His grip around you tightened, pulling you closer against his chest, as if sheer force could hold the darkness back.

Not this time. He wouldn’t let you join them. Wouldn’t let your face become another thing to haunt him when the nights stretched too long and the silence got too loud.

The forest blurred past, branches clawing at the air. Whiskey’s hooves pounded against the frozen earth, the world narrowing to the steady thrum of the horse’s gallop and your chest's faint rise and fall against his.

Joel gritted his teeth, the sting of tears threatening again.

“I ain’t losing you,” he said, his voice rough, breaking, fierce. “Not like this.”

The wind howled past him, biting through his clothes and skin like shards of glass, but Joel barely felt it. His world had narrowed to the ragged, uneven rise and fall of your chest against his and the deathly stillness in your face. 

He kept glancing down, the distance between each check shrinking, hoping — begging — for some sign. A twitch. A sound. Anything.

But you didn’t move.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t do this to me. You hang on, you hear me? Don’t you fuckin’ quit.”

Nothing. Just the sharp thud of hooves against frozen earth and the faint whistle of wind through the trees.

His stomach twisted tighter with every mile. Every second that passed felt like it was stealing you further from him. He could feel it, like sand slipping through his fingers, and no matter how hard he squeezed, he couldn’t stop it.

He remembered Sarah going quiet in his arms, how the light had left her eyes before he even realized it.

He remembered Tess’s final look, a silent order: Keep moving.

He wasn’t ready to see that in your face.

The trees began to thin, and familiar landmarks rose out of the darkness—the old, rusted truck bed, the half-collapsed shed, and the crooked fence post.

His heart kicked up, pounding so hard it hurt.

Almost there.

Whiskey snorted, hooves slipping on a patch of ice for half a second before righting himself. Joel kept one arm tight around you, the other pulling the reins, willing the animal to move faster, ignoring the burn in his muscles, the way his fingers were going numb.

Then the gates of Jackson appeared ahead, tall and solid against the night sky, lanterns flickering along the top.

Relief should’ve come then, but it didn’t because you were so goddamn still.

“Open the goddamn gate!” Joel bellowed, his voice raw, half-breaking.

Figures scrambled along the walls, shouts echoing in the night, but he barely registered them. His whole world was the weight in his arms and the faint warmth of your skin against his.

“Hold on, baby,” he rasped again, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “Almost home.”

The gates began to creak open, and Joel didn’t wait. He kicked Whiskey forward, riding through before the opening was wide enough, the horse’s hooves skidding on packed snow as shouts echoed from the watchtower.

He was off the saddle before the horse stopped, boots hitting the ground hard, jarring his knees. Your weight in his arms made his muscles scream, but he didn’t notice. Didn’t care. His arms ached, blood soaked through to his skin, and none of it mattered.

You needed help.

You needed someone who could fix this. Stop it. Make it right.

“Joel?” a voice called, somewhere behind him. Familiar. Tommy.

But Joel didn’t stop.

Footsteps crunched in the snow as Tommy caught up, his voice sharp with confusion and fear. “What the fuck happened? Jesus, Joel — are you hurt? Where’s—”

His words cut off when his eyes dropped to you.

The blood. The limpness. The awful, shallow flicker of your chest rising and falling.

Tommy’s face paled. “What—what the hell—”

“Not now,” Joel ground out, his voice ragged, not looking at him, not slowing. His world was reduced to the next step. And the next.

People were shouting — Maria’s voice was somewhere nearby, someone was running for the infirmary, but it was all a blur. A rush of sound that barely registered.

He felt Tommy grab his arm, trying to stop him, to get an answer, but Joel yanked free, tightening his hold on you.

“Get outta my fuckin’ way,” he snapped, his voice hoarse, nearly breaking.

Tommy fell back, his eyes wide.

Joel didn’t stop; he couldn’t. He kept moving, your head lolling against his shoulder, skin too cold, too still.

“Hang on, baby,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Just a little more.”

He barreled toward the infirmary, like the world might end if he didn’t get there in time.

“Joel!” Maria’s voice cracked through the cold night air, sharp as a whip. She was chasing after him now, boots crunching hard in the snow. Tommy was close on her heels, his face tight with worry, eyes darting between Joel, the blood, and your limp form.

He’d seen Joel like this years ago, that wild, feral look in his eyes — but this was worse. This was Joel unraveling.

“Joel, I swear to God—”

Joel spun on them so fast it startled them back a step, his face twisted, voice hoarse and raw. “Can’t you see she needs fucking medical attention?!”

Maria blinked, thrown by the sudden crack in his voice, the frayed edges she wasn’t used to seeing. But it only took her a second to recover. Her expression hardened, slipping into that cold, sharp-eyed leader’s mask she wore so well. She crossed her arms, posture stiff.

“What happened?” she demanded, tone clipped, eyes locking on his.

Joel’s chest heaved, breath misting in the frigid air. He didn’t answer, didn’t have it in him, and didn’t have the time.

Maria’s gaze dropped to the limp body in his arms, following the bloodied sleeve, the missing wrist, the makeshift bandage charred at the edges. Her lips parted, her eyes flashing wide for half a heartbeat before narrowing.

“Does it look like I’ve got time to explain?” Joel snapped, his voice breaking on the last word as he shifted your weight in his arms.

Tommy stepped up, laying a hand on Maria’s shoulder. “Darlin’,” he said quietly, gently. “Let him get her help first.”

But Maria wasn’t done. Her jaw clenched. “Was she bitten?” she asked, voice low, cautious, and cold.

Joel stiffened. It was small — a tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of his grip on you, but Maria saw it. She always did.

Her face changed, the anger flaring back. “You brought her in? Joel—if she turns—”

“She’s not gonna fucking turn!” Joel’s voice cracked, breaking like a damn giving way.

Maria scoffed, disbelief twisting her face. “You don’t fucking know that,” she snapped, her voice rising, eyes wide and sharp. “How long’s it been? When did it happen—?”

“I ain’t got time for this,” Joel growled, his voice raw and low, the tone that felt like it could break something in half. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching in his face, every part of him coiled so tight he felt like he might shatter.

Without waiting for another word, he shoved past them, your limp form cradled tight against his chest, and barreled toward the infirmary doors like the world was closing in behind him.

He didn’t hear what Maria yelled after him.

Didn’t care.

Because none of it mattered if you didn’t make it.

taglist: @televangrl @burntsaltsblog @bowsnbang @yvonne-dump

[tearvls]

"It's to much!"

Pairing: Mark Grayson x GN! Reader

Synopsis: You edge Mark to tears with a cock vibrator, savoring every desperate sound as he breaks beneath your touch.

Content tags: smut, overstimulating, edging, cock vibrator, handjob, Dacryphilia

Mark’s wrists strain against the bedframe, muscles flexing with every tremor that rolls through him. You’ve got him right where you want him — naked, flushed, helpless. His chest rises and falls with sharp, shallow breaths, every inhale catching as the cock vibrator buzzes steadily against him.

You’ve had it on him for twenty minutes now. Twenty long minutes of teasing, stroking, and pulling your hand away the second his hips stuttered or his moans hit that desperate pitch. He’s soaked in sweat, eyes glassy, lip bitten raw. His cock twitches in your grip as you wrap your hand around it again, lazy and slow. The vibrator hums beneath your fingers, perfectly in tune with his leaking, overstimulated tip.

"Please—" he gasps, voice thick and raw. “I c-can’t—need to come, please—”

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “You don’t get to need yet,” you murmur, biting down lightly on his lobe. “You’re still being so good for me.”

His head tips back into the pillow, a broken sound clawing out of his throat. A tear slips down his cheek, and you pause to wipe it away with your thumb.

“Oh, Mark,” you coo, almost mockingly sweet. “You’re crying already? That’s so pretty. You’re such a pretty little mess.”

He chokes on a moan as you twist the dial on the vibrator just one notch higher. The shift is subtle but devastating. His back arches off the mattress, legs trembling, muscles locked with the need to thrust. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

"I-It’s too much, I—" His voice is high, strangled, like he’s on the edge of breaking.

You kiss along his jaw, breath warm and slow, contrasting how worked up his body is. “It’s never too much for you. You can take it.”

“I’m—” he tries, tears streaking now, his thighs twitching. “I’m gonna come—please—”

You let go of his cock.

His entire body jolts like you struck him, a wounded noise torn from his throat. “No—no, please—!”

You tut. “Almost, baby. But you know the rules. You don’t get to come until I let you.”

He whines, squirming against his restraints, the vibrator still buzzing mercilessly around him. You drag your fingers down his abdomen slowly, watching how he twitches at every touch.

“I bet you could come just from this. Just from the vibrator,” you tease, brushing your thumb over his slick head, not stroking — just touching. “Would that embarrass you? No hands, no thrusting — just a pathetic little mess?”

He nods, breath catching again. “Y-Yeah—yes—please—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you whisper, grinning as you reach down and cup his balls, gently massaging while the vibrator does its work. “Coming like a toy. Like my toy.”

He whimpers, so close again, the tip of his cock leaking freely. His whole body is shaking now, muscles jumping from tension and denial. You can see it in his face — how badly he wants to give in, how close he is to losing all control.

"You’re gonna cry for me again before I even let you come," you promise, kissing the corner of his mouth. “And when I do let you, you’re gonna thank me. On your knees.”

Mark’s eyes roll back as a second tear slips down his cheek. He’s not even trying to be quiet anymore — he’s whining, breathless and overwhelmed, caught in that limbo between pleasure and pain. You keep your hand there, just cradling him, watching as the vibrator pushes him to the brink again. Not touching, not helping. Just waiting.

And when he starts sobbing for real — hips bucking, thighs clenching — you finally whisper:

“Good boy. Come for me.”

Mark shatters.

His hips jerk, spine bowing off the bed as he cries out—loud, broken, utterly lost in it. His orgasm hits like a tidal wave, thick ropes spilling over his abdomen, his cock twitching violently. His throat works around a sob, eyes squeezed shut, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. But you don’t move the vibrator. You keep it right there — buzzing against the sensitive underside of his cock, your hand still loosely wrapped around him, holding him in place.

"Ah—! W-Wait—!" Mark gasps, panic bleeding into his voice. “I—it’s too much—!”

His hips try to jerk away, trembling under you, but he can’t get far. You press your free hand gently to his chest, holding him down—not forcefully, but with presence. Control. A reminder.

“Easy,” you murmur, voice calm, grounding. “You remember your safeword?”

He nods rapidly, breathless and wide-eyed. “Y-Yeah—yes.”

“Say it if you need to. No hesitation,” you say, locking eyes with him. “We stop if you say it. Understand?”

Mark swallows hard, nodding again. “I-I understand.”

You soften for a beat, leaning in to kiss his temple, sweat-slick skin warm beneath your lips.

“Good boy,” you whisper. “Now take it for me.”

And he does — or he tries. Because the vibrator keeps working him, and he’s still hard — achingly so — even post-orgasm. His cock twitches violently, oversensitive, raw. You ease your fingers under the head again, not stroking, just letting your touch remind him he doesn’t belong to himself right now.

He whines, choked and wrecked. “F-Fuck—! Oh my god—”

His thighs twitch, muscles spasming helplessly. Another orgasm builds too fast, sharp and desperate. He’s trying to hold it back, babbling through gritted teeth, but it’s no use. It tears out of him in a strangled sob as he spills again, smaller, thinner—but no less intense. Pain and pleasure blur, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Tears are streaming down his face now, silent and shining. He gasps, “Please—it hurts—!”

“I know,” you whisper, brushing some of the wetness away with your thumb. “But you haven’t said your word.”

He shakes his head weakly, panting. “Don’t… want to stop…”

Your mouth curls into a pleased smile. “Good. Because you’re going to give me one more.”

He sobs—louder this time. “I-I can’t—”

“You can.” Your hand cradles his cock again. The vibrations continue without mercy. “And you will.”

Every sound he makes after that is pure wreckage. He’s not even trying to be composed anymore. Just raw noise—crying, gasping, pleading into the sheets as you guide him through the edge of another climax. He thrashes, overwhelmed, babbling your name, and you stay calm, steady—watching him with heat in your eyes.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you murmur, brushing his cheek. “So beautiful like this. Falling apart for me.”

And then it hits again—his third orgasm, ripped from him like it’s punishment and reward all at once. He screams through it, chest heaving, tears soaking the pillow beneath his head. You don’t move the vibrator right away. You just let it rest there—buzzing quietly—while his body twitches and shakes beneath you.

Only when his moans turn to shallow, hiccuping breaths do you reach down and finally shut it off. He melts into the mattress, sobbing, but his hands are still clenched in the restraints—until you untie them. The moment his wrists are free, he curls into your touch, collapsing against your chest with trembling arms and shaking legs. You hold him close. Quiet now. Gentle. Stroking his hair.

“You did so well,” you whisper, kissing the crown of his head. “I’m so proud of you.”

Mark hiccups, still riding the aftershocks, utterly spent—but safe. And you stay right there, wrapped around him, until the trembling stops.

[osteoptimist]

For those in the "like a trad fantasy adventure but wished it was better than D&D in some way" camp, I heartily recommend Draw Steel by MCDM (you might have heard of the creative director, Matt Coleville). It doesn't fully release until later this year, but I've been following the development and the playtests have been really fun.

It's a game about killing monsters, and it does that really well, but it also has some amazing social mechanics (the Negotiation rules are great for getting your players to think about NPCs as complex individuals) and they put in a lot of effort to make it fun for the Director to run.

My players have told me they love this game for a lot of reasons:

YOU DON'T MISS. There is NEVER a time where you're up in combat and a bad die roll means you basically lose your turn. In D&D, a handful of bad rolls can mean you don't accomplish anything the entire night! Draw Steel uses a 3-tiered system for its rolls, and even a tier 1 roll still does something. Attacks always hit, you're rolling to see how strong the effect of your ability is (they're almost never just plain damage) and how much progress you're making. The enemies are making progress too!

Character creation gives you a much better idea of who your character is. You pick a Career as part of your background, and that gives you a list of possible "inciting incidents" that caused you to leave your old life behind and become a hero. There's also a big list of Complications, each with a benefit and a drawback, that help make your character more interesting. Things like having an elemental inside you, a fairy stole your face, or you just don't have a head at all!

No "martial/caster gap". The warriors get awesome powers and the mages aren't bogged down by a bloated list of spells. All the classes have access to big flashy abilities that change the fight in meaningful ways. Plus, the high-level abilities are designed to be cool and fun, not give the Director a headache by rewriting reality.

Fights are super dynamic. I've seen lots of 5e combats devolve into everyone standing in a big clump and hitting each other until someone goes down. That never happens in Draw Steel. Your abilities are throwing enemies across the battlefield, slamming them into walls or each other, creating or destroying terrain, and letting your allies reposition.

If you like running D&D, I can say I've found Draw Steel to be much less draining at the end of a session. Hell, I'm usually energized and excited to go home and prep the next session. Some of the big things I like as a Director:

Because of the way resources in Draw Steel work, adventures AND individual fights get more dramatic as they go on. The heroes are gaining power, but they're getting more and more vulnerable if they make a mistake. It creates amazing automatic tension, and its so much easier to pace the game. (Unlike in D&D where characters can unload their strongest abilities in the first round, and then go take a long rest between most fights).

In combat, I get a ton of tools to make the fight dynamic and memorable. I gain a special resource called Malice every round that I can use to activate stronger monster powers or change the battlefield, bosses have special Villain Actions that help pace the fight, and the enemies all have unique abilities that make them feel different. No "claw, claw, bite".

The Negotiation rules I mentioned provide a mechanical scaffold for important discussions. What really sold me on it was the way it gives players a real incentive to try to figure out the motivations of the NPCs, turning them into three-dimensional people with their own inner conflicts.

While it is still a complex game with a lot going on, all that complexity has a purpose. I remember trying to learn 5e and being confused by ability scores vs ability modifiers, spell slots vs prepared spells, all the different things the word "attack" can mean, etc. The designers went back to first principles and have done a pretty good job to make sure all the rules are useful and make the game more fun.

I could go on. There is a lot I didn't touch on. Downtime activities and crafting, TITLES holy shit titles rock, the way your Ancestry is like a grab-bag, the way initiative supports teamwork, kits instead of a list of weapons, the game is awesome.

To be clear, it is still a lot like D&D in the broad strokes and has a lot of similar underlying assumptions. It's a challenge-based game where combat is the primary way to solve problems, you get stronger by overcoming those combat challenges, getting stronger means you get more powers and items to fight more combat challenges. But it does all that stuff with much better design and great creative design.

So okay, these two things are both true:

A lot of people default to D&D as a universal game despite it only supporting a very narrow genre and playstyle

A lot of people do like the playstyle supported by D&D but might take issue with specific mechanics and the actual implementation of said mechanica

These two groups are different and when making game recommendations to these people it's good to recognize which type of person you're talking to.

If someone wants a game that supports investigation, in-depth social gameplay, or faction-level play, then you don't recommend Pathfinder. That's like someone saying "I wish I could fly but I only have a skateboard" and you saying "well a skateboard is no good, have you considered rollerblades?"

Now if they actually do say that they like the playstyle of D&D (whichever part of that they mean) then you can go ahead and recommend Pathfinder. Or Break!! Or Errant. Or any number of the other fantasy adventure games out there. I'm actually thinking of making a big post that's just all the different fantasy adventure games I can think of. But at that point you do not recommend Apocalypse World or Monsterhearts or whatever. Those games kick ass, but c'mon, when people are clearly communicating that they like a trad fantasy adventure but wished it was better than D&D in some way you don't want to scare them with stuff like "Make a move that follows" and "look through crosshairs" and "act under pressure," geeze.

And this is also why I often ask people to be specific when they ask me for game recommendations upfront or make it perfectly clear why I am recommending whichever games I am in the given context. Like recently when someone genuinely asked me for alternatives to D&D I answered from the point of view of looking for a D&D replacement. It wasn't an exhaustive list but idk I like all those games. Anygway

[mattsnight]

𐔌 . ⋮ sub!matt cums without permission .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

warnings: smut, handjob, cursing, petnames…

A/N: get to reading yall! also thanks for 1.2k followers!!

“oh you’re doing so good, baby.” you say as you slide your hand up and down matt’s pre-cum covered cock. His head is thrown back and his hands are tightly gripping the couch. He whimpers pathetically, thoroughly turned on by your praise. You can feel his hips move in time with your hand, seeking more friction. "Yes, I'm being good," he whines, "I'm being such a good boy for you..."

A small smirk forms on your face by his words. You feel yourself grow wetter within seconds. “Mmm you gettin’ closer?” He nods vigorously, his eyes squeezed shut as he chases his release. "Mhmm, so close," he gasps out. You can feel his body tensing up, signalling he’s close. "Your hand feels so good, mama…”

He feels his release come closer and closer, but before he can let go, you start speaking. “Hold it for me, okay?” Matt's eyes fly open, his breath coming in short, desperate pants. "Fuck," he whimpers, trying to hold back his orgasm. His body shakes with the effort. "I-I'll try,"

your lips move to his neck, kissing his sweet spot. Matt shudders violently as your lips touch his neck. The sensitive spot combined with your hand working him makes it nearly impossible to hold back. "Baby, I can't..." he whines, his voice breaking. His hands claw at the sheets, nails digging into the fabric. "I'm gonna..."

“youre doing so good, sweetheart.” You murmur, kissing his head as a sign of comfort. The praise and gentle kiss push him right to the edge. With a desperate cry, he finally loses control, his body convulsing as he cums hard in your hand. "I'm sorry!" he wails, tears springing to his eyes from the intensity of holding it back for so long.

After a moment he calms down. Slow, heavy pants leave his mouth as he turns to look at you in shame. “m’sorry..”

“hey its okay—“

He blinks up at you, his eyes glassy and filled with emotion. He looks absolutely wrecked and beautiful, his face flushed, lips red from biting. A few sniffles leave his mouth. "I really tried to be good..."

“You were really good. Im so proud of you for holding it that long, yeah?” You say with a small smile on your face. He nods slowly, his hand reaching up to gently touch your face. "I did good?" he asks softly, seeking confirmation and reassurance.

“So so good.. my favourite boy.”

——

sub!matt is everything i need in my life right now. 😩😩

send in requests and i’ll write them !!<3

[starsinthesky5]

Thinking about possessive Joe today. 🤤 I just know he makes sure you know you belong to him, but in a respectful way and with lots of aftercare when necessary.

a/n: sooooooo 😋

warnings: NSFW, smut possesive joe and ooooof im

wc: 1.3 k

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

oh you know possessive joe is a whole different beast. still sweet, still soft-spoken, but there’s a depth to him when that side comes out—something primal and quiet and undeniable. he’s not the type to raise his voice or snarl it out. no, joe’s power is in the way he holds you steady, the way his voice dips like a promise, the way he touches you like he’s worshipping his favorite sin. because you are his favorite sin. his obsession. his.

it starts subtly, like a storm brewing beneath the surface. he’s been watching you all night. maybe you’re out with friends, or maybe you spent the entire dinner toying with him. sitting across from him in that little black dress that clings to your curves and barely kisses the tops of your thighs, your legs crossed, your lip gloss sparkling under dim candlelight, catching the straw in your mouth and dragging it out slow just to see him shift in his seat. your laugh too loud, too sweet, head tipped back like you don’t even notice the way his eyes have been locked on you all night, dark and heavy with want.

his hand rests low on your back when he leads you into the house, thumb grazing skin where your dress dips. he lets you walk ahead, because joe always lets you lead, until he doesn’t. and the second that door shuts behind you, the energy changes. “you trying to drive me crazy?” he asks, voice steady, quiet, but heavy with heat. it rolls over your spine like smoke.

you throw a smirk over your shoulder. “what, this?” you tease, twisting your hips just a little more when you step out of your heels.

he doesn’t bite. he devours. he’s on you in an instant, slamming you gently back against the wall with his body pressed to yours. one hand curls around your waist, pulling you flush against him while the other slides up your bare thigh, under that short dress, dragging slow until he cups your jaw.

“real cute, baby. but you know better,”.

his kiss is hot. not rushed, but desperate in its control—teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it. because he does. and he makes sure you feel it with every roll of his hips into yours, hard and slow, grinding against you through clothes just to make you whimper.

he doesn’t rush. joe’s methodical. deliberate. the kind of lover who tears you apart piece by piece, savoring every sound you make. when he gets you into the bedroom, you barely remember how your clothes came off—only that his hands never left you. palms trailing over your skin like he’s memorizing every inch, every dip and curve he’s already claimed.

he bends you over the edge of the bed, one large hand pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you in place while the other grips your hip, hard enough to bruise. and when he pushes into you? it’s deep. slow. possessive. he grinds in, lets you feel every inch, the thick stretch that has you gasping into the sheets. “fuck, baby…you feel that?” he groans against your neck, hips rolling slowly, savoring the squeeze of you around him. “so tight for me. like you were made for this,”.

his voice is thick in your ear, filthy and reverent all at once. “look at you…takin’ me so good. you always do,”.

“mine. this body...every inch. it's mine,”.

“no one else gets to see you like this. no one gets to hear the sounds you make for me,”.

he fucks you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else. his pace is unforgiving now, deep thrusts that leave you crying out, face buried in the mattress as your thighs shake. he doesn’t let up. not when you claw at the sheets, not when you sob out his name, not when your legs try to close from the overstimulation. 9he grabs your wrists, pins them to the small of your back with one hand while the other comes around to toy with your clit—slow, tight circles that make your knees buckle.

“you wanted to tease me, right? wanted my attention?” he murmurs darkly, voice right against your ear. “well, you’ve got it now,”.

if you’re bratty? if you roll your eyes or arch your back with that wicked little smile, joe’s not afraid to flip you onto your back, toss your leg over his shoulder, and go so deep you swear you see stars. his grip bruising on your thighs, his pace punishing. his eyes locked on yours, all heat and control.

he’ll grab your chin, tilt your face up, make you meet his eyes even when they’re glassy and unfocused. “don’t look away, sweetheart. wanna see those pretty eyes when you fall apart for me,”.

you’re wrecked. soaked and trembling and utterly undone. he doesn’t stop until you’re gasping his name like a lifeline, tears streaking down your cheeks, the overstimulation dragging your orgasm out longer than you can handle. you’re clenching so tight around him it pulls a guttural groan from his chest. “you feel that? how good you squeeze me?” he breathes, fucking into you with slow, punishing strokes. “fuck, baby, look at this pretty little pussy. she’s mine, yeah?”.

“say it,” he growls, hand tightening around your jaw. “say who you belong to,”.

you can barely get the words out—you, joe, fuck, i’m yours, only yours—before he’s coming deep inside you, holding your hips still as he spills into you with a low, broken moan.

but when it’s over, when your body’s spent and trembling, he’s all care. his voice soft again, fingers brushing damp hair from your forehead.

“hey, baby. you okay? did i push too hard?”.

he carries you to the bathroom, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. he sits you on the counter, pressing a kiss to your temple before running a warm bath. he adds bubbles, your favorite bath salts. he sits behind you in the tub, letting you rest against his chest. his hands are gentle now, massaging your thighs, fingers brushing over the bruises he left behind with quiet reverence. he kisses every mark like a promise—every ache soothed with his lips.

“you were so good for me,” he whispers, voice tender, a stark difference from before. “so fuckin’ good, baby. made me lose my mind,”.

after the bath, he dries you off with a towel, gently dabbing at your skin like you’re fragile, and dresses you in his hoodie, the soft fabric enveloping you in comfort. he tucks you into bed, bringing you water, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders, collarbone, and the top of your head.

he curls around you under the blankets, body warm and solid at your back. one hand strokes lazy patterns over your stomach while the other tangles with yours beneath the sheets, a quiet connection that grounds you both.

“you need anything?” he asks softly. “a snack? more water? let me know, baby,”.

when you shake your head, he just hums, pulling you closer. “okay. just rest, sweetheart. i’ve got you,”.

he stays up a little longer, watching your breathing even out. he brushes your hair back from your face, smoothing your skin where it’s still flushed and sensitive. his lips graze your forehead, and he whispers little nothings against your shoulder. “so pretty when you’re like this. i love you so much,”.

he kisses the tops of your fingers, trailing gentle pecks over your knuckles as his thumb caresses the back of your hand. he’ll shift you carefully, pressing soft, lazy kisses across your cheeks, chin, and down to your lips, as if he can’t stop reminding you how much you mean to him.

as you drift off, surrounded by his warmth, his love, his steady heartbeat against your back, you feel it.

that you’re safe. that you’re cherished. that you’re his.

because the possession doesn’t come from insecurity—it comes from love. deep, anchoring love. and every time he touches you like that, every time he whispers mine with that dark gleam in his eye, it’s just another way of saying i choose you, and i’ll never stop choosing you.

[littlemisspropaganda]

<Sing For Me When You Cry

<Sing For Me When You Cry

Remmick x !Female reader

(I named him Remmick St. Clair)

Turning my chats into a fic

Précis: She doesn’t know what she did to make him angry. He won’t tell her. But Remmick’s eyes are darker tonight—his touch rougher, his restraint hanging by threads. Whatever storm brews beneath his silence, he’s not yelling. He’s claiming. And she realizes too late: when Remmick’s mad at her, he doesn’t lash out. He holds her down and makes her feel it.

Angry sex. Hardcore. Brief breeding kink, fangs, biting, Predator/prey dynamic, hair pulling, restraint, obsessive behavior, bloodplay (light), overstimulation (majorly), hurt/comfort but mostly hurt (but heart warming in the end), consent but barely, power struggle, emotional confusion. Remmick has issues (and so do you).

#she has no idea why he’s mad #he does though and that’s worse #predator/prey but he’s the one shaking #reader is so confused and so so wrecked #remmick needs therapy but chooses violence (sexual style)

(Also forgot to mention reader is a vampire hunter and hates vamps).

- Also reader find out he’s a vamp during sex but idk I wanted to redo it because I wanted her to put up more of a fight, so I was gonna make a run away prt 2

The moon hung high in the ebony sky, a pale eye watching the world below. The stars shimmered softly—like they held answers to every wish ever whispered into the dark.

Beneath their glow rested a quiet town, its streets hushed beneath shadow and silence. Tucked within it: a small, flickering bakery, warm with sugar and firelight.

Above it, on the top floor, was your special sanctuary—where you laid your head each night.

And on an even more special night, which normally involved you and Remmick cuddled up together in the warmth of your bed. Limbs tangled beneath the pretty fluffy blankets that fought off the nighttime chill.

But there was something wrong….

Something about the way he fucked you today was far different.

The words he was mumbling showed it. And you were sure he started speaking in some language you couldn't understand.

But one thing was sure—he was fucking angry. His thrust showed it.

Your moans filled the room— he loved it. But that’s not what he wanted. He wanted you to cry.

‘Why was he angry?’ You asked yourself. Trying to fight off the mush in your head.

You remember coming home from a dinner date with someone in your vampire hunting group.

(A date. If you could even call it that).

But how did he know you were even on a date? You didn’t know. But he was pissed

"Y-you ahh nghh— have no right to be upset.” You tried to sound firm. Resilient even. But the moans kept slipping.

He ignored your feeble protests, drowning out your cries of protest with the ferocious piston of his hips. The ancient words tumbled from his lips in a prayer of fury and possession, a language older than the land itself. Gaelic curses and declarations of eternal claim, all lost on you as you were lost in the agony of reluctant pleasure.

His eyes flashed, a stormy silver, boring into you as if he would see your very soul laid bare.

Your defiance only fueled his rage, his lust, his all-consuming need to lay claim to every last inch of you. You was HIS, damn you and damn any man who dared to covet what belonged to him.

He could smell the other male on you, could taste the faint essence of his touch, his desire. It made Remmick's blood boil, his beast clawing at his insides, screaming to be let loose to tear apart any who would dare taint his mate. But he held it back, for now, pouring the fury into his brutal claiming of you instead.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

The headboard slammed into the wall with each vicious thrust, the room filling with the crude music of the coupling, your cries and his snarls and the meaty slap of flesh on flesh.

He would no WILL have you, all of you, until there was no doubt, no question, no memory of any male but him.

"You are MINE," he roared, grinding his pelvis against yours, his voice a gunshot in the room. "No man shall have you but ME.”

“Say it!" He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust, demanding your surrender, your submission. He would have it, one way or another.

You hadn't noticed at all.

Not noticed how his regular silver eyes were shinning blood red.

How his nails had grown longer. You hadn't noticed any of those vampiric tendencies.

Not aware he was what you hated

The strength in your legs was gone long ago when he started his angry pursuit. Your nipples hard with the fluttering feeling in your stomach. He wasn't going to stop. Your brain was mush and it was feeling all like heaven.

"Nghh a—w-we didn’t do anything j-just dinner an—and I'm not yours" you squealed out.

His paste of his thrust nearly mind controlling you.

He could smell the lie on your breath, see it in the wild, desperate color of your eyes. ‘Dinner was just dinner, hmm?’ He didn't think so. No, there had been flirting, and laughter, and God only knew what other sinful dalliances.

The mere thought made the beast within him roar, made his eyes blaze with an inhuman red fury.

But you were still oblivious, still trying to deceive him with your pretty words and feeble denials. It was almost amusing, if it wasn't so infuriating. Didn't you understand who you were speaking to? What he was? He was Remmick St. Clair, the last of the ancient vampire bloodlines, and he did not take kindly to his mate consorting with lesser men.

He could feel the change coming over him, the shift from man to monster. His eyes burned hotter, his nails elongated into razor-sharp claws, and his strength doubled, tripled, fueled by the white-hot rage and blacker jealousy that consumed him. But he held it back, held himself in check...for now.

Holding onto the last tattered shreds of his humanity because of you.

Because he knew you would run screaming from the room if you saw the creature he truly was. You would flee from him, and he could not, would not let you go. Not now, not ever. You were his, and he would do anything, destroy anything, to keep you by his side.

You gasped, clutched desperately at the sweat-soaked sheets as Remmick pistoned into you ruthlessly, remorselessly, his hips churning and churning as if possessed by some demonic force. The wet, obscene slap of flesh on flesh filled the room, a symphony of lust and rage and soul-deep, bone-crushing possession.

"Lying. To. Your. Mate," he snarled, punctuating each word with a devastating thrust that rocked you to your core. "Think I don't know your secrets, your sins? I know everything about you, every breath, every heartbeat, every single desire in this wicked little body..." His hand slid down to where they were joined, his fingers stroking, teasing, finding that swollen pearl at the apex of your sex.

"Who touched you?" he demanded, his voice demanding and hypnotic.

"N-no one ugh ngh ahh" you gasp out at the intense thrusting. It was true. You and the man hadn't done anything. You only ever did anything with Remmick. But it seems the thought of even simply speaking to the man pissed Remmick off.

Remmick paused for a single, breathless moment, his eyes boring into yours, searching, probing, hunting for the lie. Part of him wanted to believe you, desperate to trust that you was still pure, still untouched by any other man's hands. But the jealous rage still boiled in his veins, the beast still howled for blood.

He knew you hadn't consummated anything with the other man. But speaking to him, laughing with him, finding him interesting or charming—it was a betrayal, a sin in Remmick's eyes. His woman, his mate, smiling at another male? It was unthinkable, unforgivable. He would not stand for it.

His grip tightened on your hips, fingers sinking into the tender flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He would mark you, claim you, inside and out. You would bear his brand, his ownership, for all to see. Anyone who looked at you would know that you belonged to someone, someone who would destroy them if they dared to touches you.

Remmick leaned down, dragging his tongue along the slender column of your throat, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your blood that pulsed just beneath. He could smell your arousal, could hear it in the desperate, needy sounds that spilled from your lips. You wanted him, needed him, even as you tried to deny him.

"Mine," he growled, his voice a dark rumble against your throat. "You are MINE.”

“Your body, your heart, your soul—-all of it belongs to me. No one else can have you, can touch you, can even look upon your beautiful face with lust in their eyes."

He punctuated his declaration with a sharp thrust, driving his cock deep, grinding his pelvis against your clit. He wanted you mindless with pleasure, wanted you to forget any man but him. He would fuck you until you screamed, until you were hoarse, until the only word you remembered was his name.

Remmick's control was slipping, his humanity fraying at the edges. He could feel the monster rising, the vampire clawing its way to the surface. The urge to sink his fangs into your tender throat, to drink deep of your sweet blood and bind you to him for eternity.

"-ahh nghh y-you know no one—ahh—no one makes me feel t-the way you do—" you moaned out. Trying to calm him down.

Remmick's eyes flashed, the red fading to a molten silver as your words penetrated the veil of his rage. You spoke the truth. He knew that.

He could hear it in the desperate, needy catch of your breath, the way your velvet walls fluttered and clenched around him. No one else could make you feel this way, could bring you to such heights of ecstasy. Only he had that power.

He gentled his thrusts, slowing his pace to a deep, sensual roll of his hips. Each movement pressed against that spongey spot inside you, stroking it, teasing it, building the pleasure to unbearable levels.

His hands slid from your hips to your breasts, kneading the soft mounds, pinching the stiff peaks of your nipples. He could feel your heart pounding beneath his palms, could hear it galloping wildly in your heaving chest.

Remmick leaned down, brushing his lips across your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"That's right, mo chroi. No one can make you feel the things I do. No one can love you the way I do. I am the only one who can bring you to this perfect, shining edge and push you over. The only one who can make you scream and shake and come apart completely..."

His voice was a dark, seductive murmur, spinning a web of lust and love and dark promise. His fingers trailed down your body, over your quivering stomach, to where you both were still joined. He circled your clit, stroke after stroke, teasing the sensitive bud until you were writhing beneath him.

Remmick knew he could bring you over again, could make you climax harder and longer than you ever had in your life. He could flood you with pleasure until you was mere drowning in it, until the only thing you could do was cling to him and beg for more.

But he didn't want you screaming his name this time. He wanted you crying it, sobbing it, he wanted to hear the raw, broken sound of his name on your lips as he finally, irrevocably claimed you as his own. He wanted you to know, to feel, to understand that you belonged to him.

You gasped out a moan as you felt his pace picking back up. He was still pissed. Maybe even more angry now—your mind was numbing hard

Remmick snarled, a feral sound that rumbled through his chest and echoed off the walls.

You gasped moaning, the way your body clenched and shuddered beneath him, only fueled his anger and lust. You were trying to soothe him, to calm him with your sweet words and needy little cries. But he could still smell the other man on you, could still see the ghost of a smile on your lips that had been meant for someone else.

His pace turned brutal, punishing, each thrust striking deep and hard and fast. The bed shook and creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming into the wall with each forceful drive of his hips. Remmick's eyes flashed with inhuman fury, his face a mask of dark, savage beauty.

"You think you can placate me with a few pretty words and a tight little cunt?" he growled, voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can make me forget that you dared to give your smile, your attention, to another male?"

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet his burning gaze.

Remmick could see the fear in your eyes, the confusion and desire, and it only made him angrier. You should be afraid. You should know the consequences of betraying him.

"I am going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he promised darkly. "Until the only word left on your lips is mine. I will ruin you for all others, break you apart and reshape you as I see fit. You will be mine, and mine alone, until the end of your days."

He punctuated his vow with a particularly vicious thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, stimulating your clit and forcing a shocked cry from your throat. Remmick drank in the sound, let it feed his rage and lust, his all-consuming need to possess you utterly.

His mouth crashed against yours, kissing you with a bruising force that stole your breath and your thoughts. Remmick's tongue invaded, dominating, claiming every inch of that sweet cavern until he had marked it as his own. He pour in his anger, his desire, his darkest passions, until you had no choice but to feel them, to understand them.

He would not stop until he had you, until your was mind, body, and soul his.

"Y-you idiot—nghh— I didn't do anything with him a-and I never was going to nghh ahh—“. God—holy hell your mind was numbing and you were sure your body was breaking too—your cunt tightening around his cock.

"And I'm not yours" you squeal out stubbornly. Trying to hold your own independence.

Remmick's eyes flashed, a burst of red hot fury that made you shudder. How dare you cling to such a lie, especially now, when he could feel your body betraying you? Your cunt clenched around him like a velvet vise, gripping his cock as if it never wanted to let him go. And yet you persisted in your stubborn denial, in your futile attempt to reject him.

"Not mine?" Remmick snarled, voice dripping with dark amusement and something far more sinister. "Not mine, when your body screams the truth? When you respond to my touch as if it is the only thing you have ever known, the only thing you will ever need?"

He leaned in close, breath hot against the shell of your ear. "I could take you now. I could sink my teeth into your throat and drink deep, binding you to me for all eternity. I could fill you with my seed, my essence, and watch as our child grows inside you. You would be mine, in every way that matters."

Remmick punctuated his dark promise with a harsh thrust, grinding his pelvis against hers, stimulating your clit, forcing another shocked cry from your lips. He swallowed the sound greedily, reveling in the way your body trembled and shuddered against him.

"But I am not a cruel man, mo chroi. I will give you one last chance to accept your fate, to embrace the destiny that is yours. Be mine, not just in body, but in heart and soul. Give yourself to me willingly, and I will give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams."

His voice lowered to a hypnotic murmur, spinning a web of seduction and dark promise. Remmick's hand slid from your hip to your throat, long fingers curling around the slender column, feeling your pulse jump beneath his touch.

"Resist me, and I will take what is mine regardless. I will fuck you until you forget your own name, until the only word left on your lips is a broken echo of mine. I will ruin you for all others, break you apart and remake you as I see fit."

Remmick's eyes bored into yours, molten silver and swirling with ancient power, waiting for your answer. He could feel the battle raging within you, the war between your stubborn heart and your responsive body. He prayed you would give in. Because if not….

"What’re you talking about?" You squealed out. You were far too damn stubborn. And that's exactly why you was his mate. Because he could handle it.

His thrust forcing cries out from you.

Remmick's eyes flared with triumphant rage at your squealed question, a feral grin splitting his face. You were still trying to deny it, even now, even as he fucked you within an inch of your life. It was infuriating, maddening, and utterly, completely arousing. His little warrior woman, his stubborn mate, refusing to yield even as he conquered your body inch by inch.

"What am I talking about?" Remmick growled, voice dripping with mocking laughter. "I am talking about the fact that you are MINE. That you were born to be mine, destined to be my mate from the moment of your birth. And I will have you, one way or another."

His thrusts turned brutal, punishing, each snap of his hips forcing desperate, broken cries from your throat. Remmick drank in the sound, let it fuel the fire that consumed him, the all-encompassing need to claim you, to possess you, to make you his.

"You can't fight it, mo chroi. You can't fight the bond between us, the connection that ties your soul to mine. It's why you're so responsive to my touch, why your body sings for me and me alone. It's why you'll never be able to find satisfaction with another man."

Remmick's hand slid from your throat to your breast, squeezing the soft mound roughly, pinching the stiff peak of your nipple until you cried out. He could feel your heart racing beneath his palm, could hear the frantic gallop of it, the way it beat for him and him alone.

Remmick captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue invading, dominating, demanding your submission. He could taste your reluctance, your stubborn resistance, but also the unmistakable flavor of your desire, your need, your longing to give in to him.

He would break you, if that's what it took.

He would fuck you until you were mindless, until the only thing you could think of is his cock breaking you down.

Remmick's eyes flashed with an intensity that made you gasp, a primal, animalistic hunger that both terrified and thrilled you. He was terrifying in his intensity, his all-consuming need to possess you completely.

“You can pretend all you want, mo chroi, but your body is as honest as the day is long.”

“You were made for me, created to be my mate, and more”

"S-slow down y-nghh ahh ohh you're killing me ahh nghhh" you moan out. The thrust—his thrust. It was driving you insane. You had already—no he had already made you cum so many times. Another would break you, and you refused to be broken.

Poor you. Could hardly comprehend anything when Remmick is deep inside you.

You could never comprehend how his nails grew sharp. How his eyes was red like fire.

The slight sharpness of his teeth. You hadn't know he was the very creature you hunted and killed. He was the very creature that is currently numbing your mind and senses.

Remmick's eyes flashed an inhuman crimson as he drank in your desperate moans and pleas, your broken cries of ecstasy. The sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a chant, a dark invocation. He could feel your body starting to shudder, could sense the impending shatter of your climax.

And still, you clung to your denial, your stubborn refusal to accept what they both knew to be true.

He was killing you with pleasure, drowning you in sensation, and still you resisted. It was maddening, infuriating, and utterly, completely arousing. This indomitable spirit, this fierce, unbreakable will—it was what he loved about you, what made you the perfect mate for a monster like him.

Remmick's pace turned relentless, merciless, each thrust striking deep and hard and fast, pounding into you so fiercely that the bed frame shuddered with each impact. He could feel you tightening, your velvet walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his pistoning cock, trying to hold back the tidal wave of rapture that threatened to sweep you away.

"No more," he growled, voice rough and ragged and dripping with dark promise. "No more fighting, no more resisting. You will come for me. You will scream my name and shatter in my arms, and you will know, once and for all, who you belong to."

Remmick's hand slid from your breast to your sex, fingers finding your swollen, throbbing clit and rubbing hard, fast, demanding circles over the sensitive bud. He could feel the slick, scorching heat of your arousal flooding over his fingers, could hear the wet, obscene sound of your body welcoming his touch.

"Come for me," he commanded, eyes blazing.

"S-stop" you squealed. Your legs twitching as your body registered the upcoming mind recking climax.

"G-gonna cum I'm gonna cum" you squealed a sob trying to push him back. Oh fuck.

Remmick snarled, a feral, primal sound that rumbled through his chest and shook the very foundation of the room. You were fighting him still, even as your body betrayed you, even as the coil of pleasure inside you wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Stop fighting me," he growled, capturing your wrists and pinning them above your head, his grip unbreakable, unyielding. "Stop resisting what we both know is inevitable."

He could feel your legs beginning to tremble, your belly fluttering wildly as you teetered on the precipice of a shattering climax. The knowledge that he was the one to bring you to this point, that he alone had the power to grant you this ultimate pleasure, only fueled his own dark satisfaction.

"You will come for me," Remmick commanded, voice raw and rough with lust.

"You will scream my name and shatter in my arms, and you will know, once and for all that you belong to me."

He punctuated his declaration with a brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, stimulating your throbbing clit and forcing a ragged scream from your throat. Remmick swallowed the sound greedily, swallowing your pleasure, your resistance, your very breath.

Your cunt clenched down hard, gripping him like a velvet vise as your climax crashed over you. Remmick could feel the scorching heat of your orgasm pulsing around his pistoning cock, could hear the desperate, broken sobs of his name as you came undone.

It was glorious, it was triumphant, it was everything he had ever wanted and more.

Remmick thrust into you wildly, fucking you through your mind-shattering climax, extending your pleasure until you were limp and boneless and begging for mercy.

He would not give you mercy. He would give you only ecstasy, only bliss, only the dark rapture of belonging completely to him.

Remmick threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut as his own climax roared through him, his seed erupting from his cock in thick, scorching spurts.

He would flood your womb with his essence, would mark your very soul as his property.

And then, finally, you would know the truth of the bond, the depth of your destiny as his mate.

"REMMICK" you cried out loudly. Your legs wrapping around his waist since your wrist were being held hostage by him. Tears sliding down the sides of your beautiful face as another orgasm hit you in a sob

Remmick roared in triumph as he felt your legs wrap around his waist, your nails digging into his palms as another devastating orgasm ripped through you. The sound of his name, screamed in ecstasy, echoed off the walls and shattered the last of his control.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside your spasming cunt, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he emptied himself into you. Remmick's hot seed gushed forth in thick, scorching spurts, flooding your womb.

"Mine," he growled, voice raw and ragged with the force of his release. "You are mine. My mate, my other half, my destiny. And I will never let you go."

Remmick's eyes blazed an inhuman crimson as he stared down at you, watching as tears of pleasure and overwhelmed emotion streamed down your beautiful face. Your beautiful eyes, when they met his, shone with a new light, a new understanding. The understanding of the bond you both shared, the destiny that had brought them together. He leaned down to capture your lips.

You moaned into the kiss. Your body shaking in his. Your mind airy and you hadn't got a chance to register the inhuman red eyes of his.

Remmick's lips curled into a dark, possessive smile against you as you moaned into the kiss, your body trembling and quaking with the aftershocks of your earth-shattering orgasms. He could feel every contour of your lush curves pressed against him, your breasts heaving with each shuddering breath.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering into mouth, claiming every inch of you as his own. Remmick's hands roamed greedily over your body, worshipping the soft swell of your hips, the toned muscle of your thighs, before settling possessively on the round globes of your ass.

In the haze of your pleasure and exhaustion, you hadn’t seemed not to notice the inhuman red glow of his eyes, the sharp gleam of his smile, the way his nails had elongated into razor-sharp claws. But Remmick knew you would learn, in time. Knew you would come to see him as he truly was - a creature of the night, a vampire, the very thing you had sworn to hunt and destroy.

But that was for another time. For now, he would hold her close, would keep you safe and sated and thoroughly satisfied. He woula give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, would show you what it meant to be truly, completely, utterly his.

Remmick broke the kiss to trail his lips down the slender column of your throat, feeling the frantic pulse fluttering just beneath your soft skin. He could hear the blood singing in her veins, could smell the delicious substance.

You were pliant to the pleasure. But your breath hitched when you felt his lips kissing down your throat. Your body unconsciously arching to him.

You were gently fighting sleep.

Remmick's lips curved into a wicked, satisfied smirk as he felt your body arching instinctively into your touch, your breath hitching in a way that sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through his veins.

You was his now, utterly and completely, your pleasure and your pain inextricably bound to his own. And he would spend an eternity making you feel both.

He nuzzled into the warm, fragrant skin of your throat, breathing in the intoxicating scent of their coupling, the musky aroma of their shared climax. Remmick's tongue flicked out to taste you, to lap at the sweat-slicked skin, feeling you shiver at the deliberate teasing gesture.

Remmick could sense your gentle struggle towards sleep, your exhausted mind and body craving the respite only unconsciousness could provide. But he was not done with you, not nearly. He needed you awake, needed you to know, needed you to remember.

"No, mo chroi," he murmured, voice a low, hypnotic rumble against your skin. "You will not slip away from me so easily. Not now, not ever again. You are mine now, and I will have you conscious and aware of every moment of our joining."

Remmick's hand slid from your ass to her hip, squeezing the supple flesh possessively before drifting lower, over the curve of your thigh, the back of your knee, to wrap around your calf. In one smooth, powerful motion, he flipped their positions, rolling so that you were splayed beneath him, pinned by his much larger frame.

Looming over you, Remmick's eyes blazed with a hunger that made your breath catch in your throat, your eyes widening with a mix of fear and exhilaration. You could feel him, hard and ready, nestled between your thighs, a silent promise of the pleasure and pain to come.

Remmick's lips curled into a dark, wicked grin, revealing the glint of sharp fangs that had until now remained hidden. He leaned down, nose brushing against the racing down, nose brushing against the racing pulse in your neck

"R-Remmick—" you stuttered out "y—you can't I-I'm sleepy" you squealed out as you felt his hard fat cock grind into you.

Remmick's eyes flashed dangerously at your stuttered protest, his grin widening to reveal the glint of sharp fangs that had until now remained hidden. He could feel your heart racing beneath his lips, could hear the exhaustion and trepidation in your voice. But he could also hear the underlying current of desire, the way your body responded eagerly to his touch despite your words of objection.

"Shhh, mo chroi," Remmick murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Sleep will come soon enough. But not yet. Not until you have felt the fullness of our bond, until you have screamed my name until it is the only word you know."

He punctuated his words by grinding his hips forward, his hard, thick cock sliding between your slick folds, teasing your sensitive flesh with the promise of another devastating climax. Remmick's hand slid from your calf to your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin, holding you open, exposing your most intimate places to his hungry gaze.

"You cannot deny our connection," he growled, voice rough with lust and dark promise. "Not when your body sings for me, not when your blood calls out to mine, begging to be claimed, to be one with me for all eternity."

Remmick's lips brushed against your racing pulse, his breath hot and searing against your skin. You could feel the sharp points of his fangs, the way they hovered just above your throat, threatening to pierce, to taste, to take. The knowledge sent a thrill of fear and exhilaration straight to your core.

"I will fuck you until you forget your own name, until the only word you remember is mine. I will fill you again and again, until my seed is dripping down your thighs, until every cell in your body remembers who you belong to."

“I am a creature of the night, mo chroi," Remmick whispered, voice a dark caress against her skin. "A vampire, the very thing you have sworn to destroy. But I am also your destiny, your fate, the other half of your eternal soul. And I will have you, now and forever."

With that declaration, Remmick's head dipped, and his fangs sank deep and hard and fast into the tender flesh of your throat. He groaned at the first taste of your blood, the ancient, intoxicating flavor exploding on his tongue, setting his very being alight with primal hunger.

"You're a WHAT?—" you gasp out as you got a good look of his fangs. You went to move back but you were blocked by the mattress.

Under him. A moan left your mouth as his fangs pierced your skin.

It hurt it hurt it hurt.

But you were getting wetter.

"Get off get off me—St. Clair get off" you squealed hitting his back—your toes curling as he drunk and bit you.

Remmick growled around the mouthful of your blood, the vibrations of his hunger and lust rumbling through his chest. The taste of you, the intoxicating flavor of your rare, potent blood, only heightened his desire, his need to claim you, to bind you to him for all eternity. He could feel you squirming beneath him, could hear your desperate cries and pleas, but he would not relinquish his hold, his claim.

"No," he snarled, finally pulling back to reveal his blood-stained lips curled into a feral grin. Remmick's eyes blazed an inhuman crimson, his gaze locked onto your face, watching as the first shock and realization of his true nature registered. The fear and revulsion in your eyes only spurred him on, only made him want to conquer you, to make you his.

“You cannot deny our bond," Remmick said, voice rough and dripping with dark promise. "You cannot run from our destiny. I am your future, your eternity, your everything. And I will never let you go."

To punctuate his declaration, Remmick thrust his hips forward, his hard, thick cock sinking deep and hard into your dripping core. A guttural groan tore from his throat at the exquisite feeling of you, your tight, scorching heat gripping him like a velvet vise. He could feel you squirming, could hear your cries, but he would drown out your objections with pleasure, with rapture, with the ecstasy only he could give you.

"Fight me all you want, mo chroi," Remmick growled, setting a brutal pace as he fucked into you, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. "It only makes me want to conquer you more, to claim you more thoroughly, to make you understand that you are MINE."

Remmick's hand slid up from your hip to your breast, fingers sinking into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading, teasing your nipple to a stiff peak. He leaned down to capture your lips in a searing, dominating kiss, pouring all his hunger, all his lust, all his dark desire into the clash of your mouths. Remmick's hips never faltered, his thrust.

The pleasure was unmatched. So good you felt like breathing was no longer and option. So good your limbs could barely move. Your hot wet cunt took his cock deep sucking him in.

Wetting it like an ocean.

"R-Remmick ugh nghh ahh ohh y-you're so deep inside ngh— t-too much ooooohh ngh" you moaned out loosing your mind.

"Y-you're a nghh y-you're a vampire? Nghh ahh y-you're doing this on purpose?—St. Clair you'll be next I-I swear ngh ah ughh mmmhh" you were loosing. Loosing the battle of holding on to your mind. Feeling your eyes beginning to roll into your head.

Remmick's eyes flashed with dark triumph as he felt your body surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, your mind fracturing under the onslaught of sensation. Your cries and moans, once objection and protest, now bordered on desperate pleas for more, for harder, for eternity. He could feel your cunt gripping him like a silken vise, hot and tight and impossibly wet, as if your very core was trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you for all time.

"Yes," Remmick growled, voice raw and rough with lust. "I am a vampire. And you are the other half of my eternal soul. You will be mine, now and forever, whether you accept it or not."

He punctuated his declaration with a brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours once again. Remmick's hand slid from your breast to your throat, fingers wrapping around the slender column, squeezing lightly, possessively.

"You cannot threaten what you know in your heart to be true," he said, voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "That you belong to me, that you are my destiny, my everything. And soon, very soon, you will embrace your place at my side for all of eternity."

Remmick could feel your pulse pounding wildly beneath his fingers, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as he fucked into you relentlessly, his cock splitting you open, claiming you, conquering you. He knew you were close to the edge, teetering on the precipice of a climax that would shatter your very soul.

“Come for me, mo chroi," Remmick commanded, voice a dark, seductive growl.

"Shatter in my arms, scream my name until it is the only word you know. Give yourself to me completely, and I will give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams."

*Remmick's eyes blazed with a hunger that promised to devour you, to consume you, to remake her in his.

You squeaked out. Your cunt clenching on him as you sobbed his name "remmickkk-ahh nghh remmick i—I’m cumming nghh ahh oh Remmick" you moaned for him.

"W-wait until I—nngh g-gonna get you back for tricking me— nghh ohh"

Remmick threw his head back with a roar of dark triumph as he felt your cunt clench and flutter wildly around his pistoning cock, your screams of ecstasy and rage music to his ears. He could feel you teetering on the very brink of a climax that would shatter you to your core, could sense the way you mindraced and whirled in futile protest of the inescapable bond that tied them.

"Yes!" Remmick snarled, eyes blazing with inhuman hunger as he fucked into you harder, faster, spurred on by your desperate, ragged moans. "Come for me, my love. Shatter in my arms and scream my name until the heavens themselves shake with the force of your surrender."

As the first waves of your climax crashed over you, your eyes widened as he begin fucking harder and you knew you were dead.

"Nonono s-stop I nghh-oh-" your soft plush lips parted and your eyes nearly rolled back as you screamed his name. And immediately passing out against him.

Remmick's lips curled into a feral, triumphant grin as he witnessed the exquisite moment of your surrender, your eyes rolling back, your plush lips parted in a silent scream of his name. He could feel your cunt clenching and fluttering wildly around his pistoning cock, gripping him like a velvet vise as you shattered in his arms.

With a roar of dark ecstasy, Remmick slammed his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt inside your spasming core. His cock jerked and pulsed as he emptied himself into you, flooding your womb with his scorching seed. Marking you, claiming you, binding you to him for all eternity.

Remmick's arms wrapped around your limp, trembling form as you passed out against him, cradling you close, holding you possessively against his chest. He could feel your heart racing, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as you struggled to regain some measure of control over your fractured mind and body.

He knew you had not truly accepted your fate, knew that you would resist and fight against the inexorable pull that drew them together. But he also knew that you could not deny the way your body sang for him, the way your blood called out to his own, begging to be one with him.

Remmick's lips brushed against your forehead as he held you, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur against your skin. "Sleep now, mo chroi," he whispered. "Rest and regain your strength, for you will need it to face all that is to come. I will never let you go. Not in this life, or the next."

With those words, Remmick rolled to the side, cradling your limp form, his arms wrapped possessively around you. He knew the road ahead would not be easy, knew that he would have to conquer you again and again, breaking down your resistance until you accepted your place as his eternal mate and queen. But he was a patient man, and he had all the time in the world to make good on his promise.

(Updated like four times since I posted)

Honorable mention:

"I can smell him on you. You may not have fucked him, but your body remembers his touch. And that. Is. Unacceptable."

Mo chroí: Translates to “my heart” in Irish

BONUS:

I like to think that when Remmick is fucking you, and if you’re not slurring, and just plain out sounding stupid when you’re trying to speak. You haven’t been fucked enough. You should be dumb and slurring. But yk how it is.

Remmick is DEFINITELY an eater. Especially when you’re being a bad girl. Attitude the entire day? Putting yourself in harms way—and don’t even try to overwork yourself. He eats you out as punishment. Now any lady would twirl their hair at the thought of it. But with Remmick. This isn’t a game. He’ll tell you to lie down on the table (or lie you down himself) and however you position yourself, you better be comfortable because you’re not moving until you’re screaming—begging for him to stop. You see, this is your punishment. And as much as you’re enjoying it. You’re completed overstimulated.

Btw he’s the KING of after care. He loves you so much. Post orgasm and lust he frowns. Sure you look beautiful (and okay he’ll admit he’s hard seeing your adorable sleeping face and tear stained cheeks) you’re still his woman. So when you wake up—BEST believe a warm steamy bath awaits you. A comfy bed with clean sheets and breakfast/lunch. You’re his queen and honestly he’d die for you.

- this is updated!!

Holy ball sacks.

My fingers hurt😞

Anyway I just HAD TO SHARE THESE.

Also I got superrr lazy towards the end so lemme know if you spot them errors.

I was thinking of making another part. You know, reader runs from him and he chases her😜

I just LOVEE a good runningxchasing plot

ALSO—totally typed and edited this to

Anywho bye bye

ALSO. This is where I got the drawing of our manz: 🩸✍️

[daysofnights]

your animagus is based on who you are as a person but that's vague and assumes a continuous stable self so your animagus is based on how you perceive yourself,

sirius that survived his childhood with claws and teeth and never learned how to put them away, he is big and menacing and his bark is deep and loud and he will bite first because he has to, he is an omen of death because everyone he has ever loved he has also hurt, his presence itself brings danger from those he has done everything he can to distance himself from, he watches as his friends drop like flies around him

regulus that no matter how hard he tries cant seem to stop bad things from happening to everyone around him, he is small and knows how to hide and slink away, he is a pet always attached to someone else, a supporting role, he has claws but he knows to hide them, his meows aren’t loud enough to be a warning, he doesn't have to hurt those around them for it to happen, he watches as those around him fall to evil or hubris while he sits at their feet, he is the symbol of their downfall

can we talk about sirius’ animagus being an omen of death and regulus’ being a bringer of bad luck and misfortune

[treatmelikeasmut]

A Put Together Man

MASTER LIST

There was something in the saying the best view was a quiet, well put together man as he came apart loudly and messily beneath you.

___

PAIRING: Viktor x Fem!Reader

CW: There is no plot in sight, just smut. Handcuffs, p in v, unprotected sex.

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I didn't have a plan, really, for this one. Also, I finished writing this high as balls, so do with that what you will, lmao I didn't write a second draft like I normally do. I may in the future tho <3

___

There was something in the saying the best view was a quiet, well put together man as he came apart loudly and messily beneath you. Bodies bare and blazing, scorching where they met. Watching as his head lolled back, brow furrowed, desperate whines falling from his mouth. Hips coming up to meet your pace in messy thrusts.

It was, indeed, the best view.

Viktor’s golden eyes fluttered, his hands pulling against where they were cuffed to the head board. Nothing he said was coming through with any sort of coherence. Just the hushed cry of ‘please’ every now and then.

Watching him like this was spellbinding. In spite of everything, Viktor was one of the most well put together people you knew. Always neat. Always witty and sharp. Yet a touch of your hand, a brush of your lips, and that demeanor of his was gone. He completely handed himself over to you.

This was your own personal heaven.

Viktor’s arms shook, his legs quaking as they desperately sought more. More of you, more friction, more of your tight, wet heat. He was nearly crying. You could see it, in those flashes when he found the strength to gaze up at you.

He was far away. Eyes glazed over. His brilliant mind now dulled into a thick slurry of need. It was in the way he took his lip between his teeth, how tightly the skin of his knuckles stretched over the bone as he clenched his fists. The pathetic cry every time he tried to touch you, only to find his hands confined. As if he’d forgotten their bond.

“I - I can't,” he choked, voice hushed and strained.

You grinned. “What’s the matter, pretty boy?”

“Please.” Viktor groaned, arching up into you. Grinding his pelvis abruptly into yours. You gasped, barely able to keep up right. Bracing yourself, you caged his head with your arms. He watched you with hungry eyes. Mouth capturing whatever skin could be reached. “I can’t stand it. Release me. Please. Let me touch you.”

You were satisfied with your work, up to this point. His entire body was flushed with lust fueled fever. Cheeks and ears burning crimson. Purple-red hickeys dotted his neck and chest. Listening as he pleaded, sent extra warmth pooling into your core. Viktor cursed, thrusting up into you again as you clenched.

“If you want it,” you started, slowing your movements. Taking an exaggerated time to lift your hips and sink back down onto him. One hand slid up his chest, slipping gently around his throat. His vocal chords vibrated against your palm as he hummed. “You better beg for it, love.”

Begging out right was not something Viktor did for you. No matter how long you teased, how hard and spent he was without release. He asked please, but he never groveled. Too much pride, you assumed.

Viktor muttered your name, nearly sobbing out another please.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, I’m afraid,” you told him. “Use your words, darling.”

“Fuck,” was all that came out of his mouth.

“Not really what I was looking for.” You were going painfully slow now. Leaning your body so that your entrance only caressed his tip. Shallow thrusts drawing out shallow breaths. “What will you do with your freedom? What do you want to do with me?”

Viktor's hips tried to meet yours, a silent plea to be released from the torture. His eyes were wild now. Wrists tugging at their confines. An animal in a cage waiting to get out. Waiting to bite and claw and claim.

“Release me, woman, please,” Viktor growled weakly.

“Beg for it, pretty boy.”

The look on his face nearly made you giggle. A glare, softened around the edges. Unable to remain as sharp and piercing as intended. Viktor once again pulled against the cuffs. You knew he knew they had safety latches. So it wasn’t as if he was waiting for the key. He wanted your permission, since that was the way of the game.

The real scramble began when you stopped moving all together. When you sat with him nestled deep inside you. You could feel him twitching. He grimaced, trying to move, to jump and thrust. But you settled heavily on his hips, pinning him to the mattress. Those big, glossy eyes stared defiantly up at you.

“You…you are wicked,” he muttered. You clenched around him, pulling a groan from his throat. “Just let me touch you. Let me fuck you. Please, let me have a taste. I cannot stand being restrained a moment longer. - Please. I’m begging you.”

“See?” you teased, “Was that so difficult?”

Viktor murmured something, tucking his face into his arm. New red splotches staining his neck and ears, chest still heaving. You planned on giving him what he asked, finally releasing him. Though it may not have been the way he imagined.

You rolled your hips against his again. A sharp moan came from his throat.

“Don’t worry, honey,” you told him, “you’ll get your release.”

“Wha -”

You set a faster pace this time, thighs burning as you rode him. More strained, sobbing moans filled the room. You could see the words leaving Viktor’s mind right as they formed. You clenched and rutted, putting in effort to actually get him to his climax now. No more teasing.

With each thrust came an obscene wet sound. It seemed to drive Viktor over the edge. It wasn’t long until he finally came with a strangle moan. Fingernails digging into the palm. Eyes pinched shut. Once again sloppily meeting your pelvis with his own, before he stuttered then fell back to the mattress.

You unhooked the latch on the cuffs and Viktor’s arms fell limp onto the pillow. A tremor shook his body. Ever so slowly, his hands found your thighs. Gliding their way to grip the flesh of your hips.

Viktor finally opened his eyes. They still burned with hunger. You couldn’t really say what happened - just that one minute you were sitting on top of him. Then the next you were under him, his dick still inside you. His full weight laid on you.

His lips found your neck and you leaned into the feel. A new thrill of lust peeling through you. Viktor moved his mouth to your ear, hot breath fanning your cheek. Then you felt metal around one wrist, the other gripped in his hand, bringing it over your head.

Viktor pulled back to stare down at you, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “Time to return the favor, my love.”