#dom x fem reader

[bkaulitzz]

𝐖𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 .01

more like this on my wattpad @/b_kaulitzz

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info/cw: fem x dom!bill, CHEATING, choking and chocking, p in v, oral, dubcon…, mask kink in a way, you are dressed up as SIDNEY PRESCOTT

synopsis: you get a little hot and bothered from hearing some drama about tom

pt 2 at bottom!! if u cant see it, refresh

more under cut :)

I pulled my dark-wash, denim jacket over the purple shirt I had, feeling every thread count as it slipped over my forearms. My feet stood on the cold wooded floor of my room. I stared into the vertical mirror that leaned against the wall, fixing my natural hair. I flinched, watching a figure step behind me, slithering his arms around my waist as he stared into the mirror with his Ghost Face mask. "Tom! God. You fucking scared me, " I looked up over my shoulder at him, getting a low chuckle in response. "Take it off."

"Slow down...we didn't even party yet, " Tom muffled, reaching up for the bottom of his mask with his gloved hand, and pulling it up over his head.

"Shut up, " I rolled my eyes and snickered, fixing my eyeliner as Tom watched. He placed his chin on my shoulder, admiring me as I fixed my eyeliner. "Tom..."

"Hm?" He tilted his head, his black cloak draped over his body. It was no different from his regular wear anyway.

"I don't know...I'm kinda disappointed in this year's costume, " I sighed, leaning back into him, and moving my arms over his arms.

"How come? I think you look good, " He smirked and planted kisses in the crook of my neck. I tilted my head, giving him more access. "I mean...you look good in everything anyways."

"Thanks...but I just felt like we didn't even try, " I frowned. He clasped his fingers with mine, resting his chin on my shoulder again.

"At least, you're not like Bill. He stole my whole costume and made his girlfriend dress as Tatum, " He groaned, caressing the sides of my thumbs with his. I looked back over at him again, kissing his cheekbone.

"I guess so...you're the better Ghost Face anyway, " I smirked and he turned his head toward me. He pecked my lips, grinning against them.

"Of course I am. I'm the original, " He hummed, pulling away, keeping one hand interlocked with mine. "We should go though, it's starting soon, " He pecked my forehead, pulling me in by my waist. "I'll go start the car, " He smirked, pulling the mask down over his face. I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms.

"Alright...don't run into a wall, " I said. He nodded with a thumbs up, turning around to make it to the door. I turned back to the mirror, fixing the black skinny jeans I had on. I raised an eyebrow, hearing a thud followed by a groan. I looked back, snickering and Tom held his forehead.

"Who closed the fucking door?"

***

I scowled, looking down at the potato crumbs that I had just stepped on. The smell of beer filling my nose as 'Monster Mash' could be heard from the living room. The sound of faint ping pong balls could be heard from far, doinking against a surface. I clasped my fingers into Tom's as they rested on my waist, looking around. I pursed my lips, squinting my eyes as I looked through the crowds of people. Some were on their staircase, others were just scattered around. I sighed beginning to walk into the crowd.

"You see him, yet?" Tom muffled into my ear, a little loud to be heard over the music. The fabric of his mask tickled my neck. I hummed and made my way into the living room, my black boots stepping onto what used to be white carpet that was now a beige. I cringed at the feeling of sliding past people with small 'excuse me's.' I gasped, seeing a Ghost Face nearby.

"Did you hear that...and...caught herpes?!"

"Yea, they got leaked on insta too, " I heard faintly as I pushed pass people. I felt the music pound in my chest as I was closer to the speaker. Bill stood by a leather couch, his hands on his girlfriend's hip. His head turned towards us as we stepped closer. He snickered, turning to his side before lifting his mask over his head. Revealing his black and white dreads.

"Are you still mad at me?" He smirked as he looked at Tom. I gave Bill's girlfriend a small wave and smile, feeling Tom's hands leave my waist. He stood beside me, crossing his arms in a petty way. I rolled my eyes before turning my attention back to Bill.

"Fucking obviously, you stole my costume, " Tom gripped the bottom of his mask, pulling it over his head. Bill rolled his eyes, making duck lips as he tilted his head.

"I wear it better, " Bill shrugged, bringing his hands down to clasp them, resting them on his thighs.

"No, you don't. I obviously look better, I wore it first anyway, " Tom blew raspberries as they spoke loudly over the music. I took a seat on the armrest of the black leather couch, resting my head on the wall it leaned against.

"Just because you're first, doesn't mean anything. Like how you were born first, it doesn't mean you're better, " Bill blew raspberries back, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend's waist. He turned to her with a smile, lifting her chin with a hooked pointer finger. "I'm the better Ghost Face anyways, right babe?" He grinned. She nodded, looking away shyly. Tom rolled his eyes, turning to me.

"We don't sound like that, right?" He snickered. I shook my head with a chuckle, sliding off the sticky leather. He took my hand, looking around the living room. "There's beer pong in the kitchen, wanna come with me?" He asked before turning back to me.

"What?!" I came close, furrowing my brows. He sighed, coming close to my ear.

"There's! Beer POOOONG! In the kitchen. Do you wanna come with me?" He pulled his mask back over his face. I followed to where his eyes once were, turning back to him.

"Sure, " I snickered. He slapped my ass before taking my hand to lead me to the kitchen. I sighed in relief once my boots met the wooden floors again. The music growing fainter. Tom wrapped his arm around my waist, approaching the beer pong table.

"Can we join?" Tom asked the two dudes on the other side of the table.

"I'm not playing, I'll just watch, Tom, " I said. He gave me a nod, pulling away from my waist as he picked up the ping-pong balls. The sound of the balls dinking on the gray foldable table started again. The other guys kept hitting the solo cups, missing some shots. I sighed, watching Tom down his fourth cup, making me feel thirsty. "Hey, Tom?"

"Yea?" His focus stayed on the other side of the table.

"I'm gonna get drinks, I'll be back, " I tiptoed, speaking into his ear. He nodded, turning to me to peck my cheek with his damp lips from the beer.

"Be safe, " He turned back to the game. I grinned before walking away from the beer table. The kitchen was also as crowded as everywhere else in the house. Whoever owned the house, had money, and the kitchen was huge. I walked over to the counter and saw a cooler with ice resting on the granite surface. I waited for the two girls talking in front of it to move before reaching into the blue cooler. I grabbed a buzzball, cracking it open to take a sip.

"Tom's fucking ran through, " One of the girls spoke as they were by the sink now. I raised an eyebrow, standing close as I sipped the buzzball to seem unbothered.

"Right? And he has a girlfriend, she's so oblivious, " The second girl sighed.

"Exactly. Either way, if I was honest... I wish we could've fucked..." She looked away from her friend. The second girl gasped, widening her eyes.

"Me too, to be honest, " They snickered. I furrowed my brows as my back was facing toward them, continuing to down my buzzball slowly as I eavesdropped.

"How long do you think they'll last?"

"Probably not long, " She smirked.

"Tom's easy, you'll get a chance."

"Right?" They continued to chatter as they walked off. I clenched my jaw, finishing the buzzball.

"Assholes..." I turned around, beginning to follow behind. I froze, seeing a dark red in my peripheral vision. I turned my head to the sink, gasping as it was full of jungle juice. I grabbed a solo cup from a nearby stack, dropping the empty buzzball can to the floor. I grabbed the ladle, pouring two scoops into my cup. I cringed, putting my lips to the rim of the cup, and taking a sip. I smacked my lips, furrowing my brows. I downed it, still being thirsty. I threw the empty cup into the trashbag hung on the cabinet knob, turning toward the beer-pong area. I squinted my eyes, not being able to see Tom, starting to walk back to the living room again. The music filled my chest as I looked around, blinking my eyes as it was a bit blurry. I raised my eyebrows, seeing a Ghost Face. I shoved past people, immediately throwing my arms around his neck. It felt like forever to get there but I managed. I tilted my head as it was a higher reach than normal. "Tom, fuck. Can you believe what I heard in the kitchen?? Some girls were ranting about you, " I frowned, feeling my face heat up as tears welled up. He raised his hand to my cheek, swiping off tears with his thumb.

"Y/n-"

"Then, they just...they talked about wanting to..." I gulped, starting to hear myself in my ears. "Fuck...what was in that jungle juice...anyways. They were talking about how badly they wanted to fuck you. God, they pissed me off. Isn't that unbelievable?" I tilted my head. He nodded in response. "Fuck. Tom...I just..." I bit my lip, coming closer to close the gap between us. I slid my left hand down to his chest, rubbing it up and down before grabbing the bottom of his mask.

"Wait-"

"Please, Tom...I can't wait any longer. They make me so...mad, " I growled before lifting the mask just a bit to expose his lips. I narrowed my eyes at the beauty mark under his lip, pushing it off for being tipsy as I held his face. "Please, " I whispered against his lips. He moved his hands down to my waist causing me to smirk before I kissed his lips. The taste of whatever he drank before filled my lips which was pretty sweet. I furrowed my eyebrows as the cold metal that I was so used to, hadn't tickled me. I pulled away, gazing over his lips again.

"Don't stop, " He muttered through his breath. I widened my eyes with a smirk, coming close again to place my lips on his. This time, he harshly moved against my lips, I breathed heavily as I wrapped my arms around his neck. My face heats up, feeling his fingers tickle up to my throat, pressing his fingers down gently. I let out a small whine and he took the chance to slide his tongue in, pressing his against mine. My heart skipped a beat as shivers went down my spine, pushing myself more against him. He groaned into the kiss, moving my face up more by my jawline. I shuddered, my hands slowly moving through the fabric of his mask down to dangle over his shoulders. I pulled away after a while, my lips swollen as I caught my breath. He licked his top lip, grinning with his teeth as he swiped his thumb over my bottom lip. The music continued to boom in my chest as I looked over my shoulder toward the speaker. I turned back to Tom, tilting my head.

"I can't focus..." I licked my lips, wrapping my arms around his neck again. He smirked, reaching down for the back of my thighs. I jumped and he held me by my thighs, walking toward the stairs by the front door. They creaked as he nearly tripped over the people who sat on the stairs. I laid my head on his shoulder, the music growing fainter. He dropped me on my feet by a door in the dim hallway he made it to. He wrapped his fingers around my throat, lifting my face to smash his lips against mine again. I furrowed my brows, kissing back as my heart raced again, my knees growing weak. "Tom, " I whined against his lips. He shushed me as his other hand reached down to turn to doorknob by my hips, never breaking the kiss. I stumbled backward into the room and it was already lit as if it was waiting for us. I breathed heavily against the kiss as he closed the door behind him with his foot, placing his other hand on my waist.

"You taste so sweet, " He bit his lip after he spoke, looking down at me. I gulped as I stared up at him at what seemed to be his eyes through the mask. He swiped his thumb over my bottom lip causing me to part my lips. He slowly slid his thumb in and I wrapped my swollen lips around it, keeping eye contact. "Such a whore, " He muttered as he moved his thumb down. He moved his hands to the opening of my jacket, helping me pull it off. He threw it aside, reaching down for my shirt after. Once the bra clipped off, he slowly peeled it off of me, gazing over my chest. He gasped softly, pushing me toward the bed by my waist. I shivered at his cold fingertips, stumbling before the back of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I fell back, allowing him to crawl on top of me. The smell of his cologne filled my nose as he dove down, keeping his eyes on me.

"New cologne, Tom?" I nibbled on my bottom lip, I preferred it much more than his other one.

"Yea...new cologne..." He grinned. I reached down to the bottom of his mask, trying to pull it off. He took hold of both of my wrists, holding them above my head.

"But, I wanna see you, " I frowned and he held both of my wrists in one hand as the other came down.

"Later...it'll be hotter with this on, " He trailed his fingernails down the side of my ribcage. I arched my back at the gentleness, reaching up into his touch. He bit his lip at the reaction, coming down to kiss around my nipple. His free hand came up to cup my other boob. I squirmed under him, feeling him lay his tongue flat against my nipple. He kissed around again, sucking at my flesh. He nipped, grazing his teeth around the areas. I let out a small cry and he slapped the side of my waist in response. "Patient, " He snarled. He kissed the dark purple marks he left behind before wrapping his lips around my nipple, swirling his tongue around it. My breath hitched as I looked down at him, feeling his hand slowly glide down to the start of my pants. He undid the button with one hand, slipping the black pants a bit by gripping the fabric on the side of my thighs. He slid his hand into my pants, grazing my nipple with his teeth. He pulled off with a pop, sitting up as he looked down at me. Effortlessly keeping me down while his other hand rubbed my clothed clit. I arched my back again, clenching my eyes as I trembled. "Does it feel good?" He asked and I slowly opened my eyes, being met with him staring down at me. I pursed my lips, nodding slowly with furrowed brows. He applied more pressure and I yelped in response as he harshly traced circles on my clit with his fingers. "Answer me."

"Yes, it does!" I stammered. He gave me an amused hum, feeling the wetness seep through my panties. He pulled out, placing the fingers to my lips. I parted them and obeyingly sucked on his fingers. He snickered at the sight, moving the hand around my wrists away. I sat up on my hands, my tongue sliding against his fingers as he pulled them out. He slid off the bed, reaching under the cloak to pull the matching black pants along with his boxers off. He threw them aside, coming over to the edge of the bed. He wrapped his hand around his cock, pumping it as he pointed at the area on the bed in front of him.

"Here, " He demanded and I crawled over on my knees, leaning down to reach his cock. I kissed the bottom of his cock as his hands moved up, keeping eye contact. He moved his hand away, allowing me to replace his hand with mine. I laid my tongue flat against the bottom, coming up to his tip. My hand moved the opposite way as I licked the precum off his tip, wrapping my lips around it. I smirked as I pulled out, pumping the rest as I kissed his tip. He groaned, moving a hand to the back of my head. "Don't fucking tease me, sweets, " He rasped, pushing my head down to take him whole. I choked and his mouth hung low, watching tears well up in my eyes. I breathed heavily through my nose, looking up at him as his tip hit the back of my throat.

"Aww, why are you tearing up? You deserve it for trying to tease me, " He swiped off the tears that rolled down my cheek and I moved my hands up to the sides of his thighs, which were surrounded by the cheap, black cloak. He put his hands on either side of my head, beginning to thrust into my mouth. I hallowed my cheeks, continuing to tear up each time his tip hit my throat. He let out low moans, gripping a handful of my hair to pull. He bucked his hips faster causing me to gurgle around his cock. I pulled off after a few thrusts, and a trail of saliva followed as I choked for air. He cupped my jaw as I looked up at him, my vision even more blurry with the accompanied tears. "You okay?" He frowned. I nodded slowly, catching my breath as he leaned down to kiss my nose. He kissed down to my lips as I fluttered my tears away. He reached down, hooking his fingers at the start of my pants as he leaned into me. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he kissed me hungrily, pulling my pants off for me. He let them drop off the edge of the bed, hooking his nails into the lace of my panties. He tore it open, causing me to pull away from the kiss with a gasp.

"Tom!" I looked down at his hands which were intertwined with each threading of the panties. I furrowed my brows at his black-painted nails, looking back up at him. "When did you paint your nails?"

"The other day...you didn't see. I wanted to surprise you, " He dropped the ripped panties. He leaned into the crook of my neck, planting kisses as he held my waist. I leaned back towards the bed as he pushed me down, moving my right leg over his right shoulder. He aligned himself, pumping the leftover saliva as lubrication before moving his tip to my slit. I grit my teeth, reaching behind him, under his mask for what I thought would be braids but were replaced with the feeling of dreads. I narrowed my eyes before widening them as he slowly slid in. I threw my head back, tugging at his hair which earned a groan in response. I wrapped my other leg around his waist, letting out a high-pitched moan as he stretched me. He dug his nails into my flesh, leaning his head down with groans. He bottomed me out and I breathed heavily, looking back up at him as my fingers were tangled with his dreads. "You alright?" He breathed out, sliding his hands up and down my sides to comfort me. I nodded as I bit my lip.

He moved his hands to either side of my body onto the bed, slowly bucking his hips. My eyebrows knotted and my jaw hung open as hushed moans escaped my mouth. He bit his lip at the expression on my face, keeping his rhythm.

"So...good, " I panted and he moved a hand up to my throat, pressing his fingers on either side. He looked down at the sight of me taking him, causing him to jolt his hips faster. My breath hitched, throwing my head back. "Tom, " I cried out. He clenched his jaw, moving two fingers up to my mouth. I sucked on them as the rest of his fingers choked me. He leaned down to my ear, muttering.

"You don't wanna get caught, right?" He husked out. I nodded slowly with a small whine into his fingers. "Good girl..." He removed his fingers, continuing to choke me as he sat up straight, thrusting into me. He moved a hand down to my inner left thigh, opening my legs more. "You're taking me so well, " He purred, looking down at me as I whimpered through my teeth to stay quiet. He looked down again at my pussy, letting out a desperate, filthy noise. He pulled out before flipping me onto my knees. He bent me over slightly, grabbing hold of my wrists to hold me up as he aligned himself. My whines were cut off, feeling him slam back into me. I shuddered, as he started to slowly move up into me again, hearing a plastic material hit the wood floor. I tried to turn back, only to be made to face front again by him gripping my lower jaw. He crossed my arms on my lower back with the other hand, pounding up into me. I threw my head back into his chest, letting out cries of pleasure as the sound of our skin slapping filled the room. His strained moans danced into my ear as he kept his uneven place. My moans were broken as I became lightheaded from the pleasure, clenching around his cock.

"Close, " I whined, feeling his nails dig into my arms.

"Hold it for me, " He lifted my face to look up at the ceiling, leaning into my neck. He planted kisses as he thrusted up, and his moans were hoarse against my skin. "You feel so good, " He panted. His thrusts grew more sloppy as I continued to throb around him. He pulled away from my neck, moving the hand around my neck down to my swollen clit. "Come for me, " He rubbed circles around my clit and I threw my head back, rolling my eyes back. I twitched, letting out a sharp moan before releasing all over his cock. He pulled out, letting go of my arms which allowed me to fall on my back. I repeatedly panted as he pumped himself to reach his high. He shuddered as he came, the mattress shifting as he got off.

"Fuck...I think that was...the best ever that we've done...Tom, " I slurred as I breathed heavily, my head resting on the pillow.

"That's because I'm not Tom, " His voice was clearer. I raised an eyebrow, lazily looking over to my right. I widened my eyes, seeing the mascara that ran down his face from sweat. His hair was disheveled, as sweat ran down his forehead.

"Bill! What the fuck! What if Tom finds out?!" I sat up, sitting back on my hands.

"He doesn't need to know, " He stepped over with a finger on his lips as he stared into my eyes. I pursed my lips, shooting my head to the door as I heard a knock.

"Y/n??" A deeper voice behind the door called, knocking.

"You're so fucking dead, " I mouthed aggressively. Bill smirked, tilting his head.

"Don't lie, you enjoyed it, " He muttered and I looked away shyly, feeling my face heat up.

"Are you in there?" The voice behind the door continued. "Whoever's in there, if you don't respond, I'll fucking break the door down."

"He's gonna kill you, " I whispered.

"Call me for a next time, " He winked, hurriedly sliding on his costume as the knocks became more aggressive, running into the closet. The door cracked open and I looked over with widened eyes.

© bkaulitzz; dont steal :((

pt. 2 HERE

[bananastarlo]

Warning: NSFW!

Thinking about nerdy yandere who is more than willing to help you study for your next exam. You invite him over since you think he’ll be easy to take advantage of. After all, his shy demeanor and nerdy interests don’t faze you at all.

What you don’t expect is how easily his patience snaps.

“Please, try to at least follow what I’m saying — are you even listening?”

Now he’s inside of you, trying to at least get you to do something right.

“That’s wrong,” he grunts, slowing his pace and abandoning your pussy as you whimper and tremble in need. “Come on, baby, just like I taught you.”

You grind yourself against him, mind foggy from how many times he’s denied your orgasm when you didn’t know the answer to his stupid questions.

As you stutter out the answer he’s waiting for, he captures your lips in a sloppy kiss, shoving his tongue into your throat and igniting a burning ache in your tummy, the pool of arousal beneath you only growing.

And without warning, you feel his throbbing dick pumping back into you, filling you up perfectly as he begins to mercilessly pound into you. His sweaty body slaps against your own, combined with his loud moans, filling the room with the lewdest and most erotic sounds you’ve ever heard in your life.

“Tell me what you need. Tell me you need me, that you won’t ever need another man because I can make you feel so good. Ugh, f-fuck!”

His voice cracks as his eyes roll back, forehead glistening with sweat. He feels your cunt clench around him as you come undone under him, body shivering, waiting for him to cum too.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, feeling his own orgasm approaching at the sight of you completely disheveled.

You’re already overstimulated by the time he thrusts deep inside of you for the last time.

You can’t think straight anymore, but he makes sure to push his thick, heavy load inside you. When he finally pulls out and you’re still dripping, he drops to his knees in front of you, licking and cleaning up the mess you two made. You gasp. Looking down, seeing him like this, gazing up at you with that hunger in his eyes, makes you mewl in feverish delight.

“Look at you… being so obedient after all. You liked that, hm?”

All you can do is lazily nod, earning a cocky grin.

“Next time I visit,” he breathes against your skin, “you better have all the answers ready — so I can make you feel even better, yeah?”

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired

⭐: No Goggles Mark, Mohawk Mark, #17 Mark/Sinister Mark, Mentions of Invincible (requested!).

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Squirting, Rough Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,239 (PART TWO HERE)

“You won’t believe what just happened, oh man!” Mark exclaimed with glee; an unfamiliar look of pride swam within his irises. It was the night he received his powers; a deep crater buried itself into your driveway from his failed landing. “What?” you questioned, prying your front door open as he entered. There were scuff marks littered across his naked upper body, battered and bruised from his knightly adventure. “It was incredible. I—I flew,” he explained, his hand gesturing excitedly. This was a dream of his; he would craft makeshift suits and detail desired escapades to save the world. However, for it to come true was another story.

“No way! This… this is a funny joke,” you sputtered. One doesn’t usually acquire powers at random, but in this dimension, who knows? “No, really. I took a huge leap off my roof, not really expecting anything,” he interrupted to soften the already ridiculous landing of his story. “You know, and I just took off.” The topic was so exhilarating; the thought of questioning him hadn’t dawned upon you. He leaned against the back of your couch, crossing his arms as you two reminisced.

“Wait—why were you jumping from the roof anyway? What if nothing happened and you fell?” you questioned with a raised brow. “I know, I know, it’s stupid. But I was curious and decided to give it a try,” he rationalized quietly, fingers nervously scratching his nape. “Aw… I want powers now,” you feigned sadness as you sulked. It was your attempt at being amusing, but truthfully, you felt left behind. Was it envy? Was it the need to feel important? Was it the fear of him leaving you behind to begin his journey as a hero? You didn’t know at the time. His expression became tinged slightly with guilt. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get powers soon,” he reassured you, but it was too humorous to be sincere.

“Yeah… soon. Real funny, wasn’t it?” you said to yourself as your body perched against a rooftop. It was the second day of the Mark variants ravaging Earth like their playground. The once-majestic towers now stand as skeletal frames, their glass windows shattered. Debris litters the streets, a tragic mix of shattered concrete and twisted metal, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of smoke and ash. Heroes formed makeshift shelters and sifted through rubble for survivors.

The Mark you once knew was head over heels for Atom Eve. It was no secret; he was a lost puppy whose ears would perk at the sound of his name on her tongue. Utterly devoted. Sickeningly in love. You were the very last to discern his truth. The two were written in stone, but it left a bitter taste in your mouth that you had long since gotten over. Until now. You were late to the news of the world's destruction. A strangely familiar face appeared on the news, a version of Mark that made your chest tighten. Within your family, a strange ability was acquired—a power bred through evolution to ensure survival in a world full of the unknown. Once in a lifetime, through a series of visions, you would discover a pivotal moment in time to peer through. That moment was now. Eighteen variants were loose internationally, each with their own tragic story and love interests. Six had dated or lost their Atom Eve, five had slain their worlds' Amber, and six had been devoted to you.

Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them—and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

Mohawk Mark

“Oh, shit… I know you,” he rasped, his expression twisted into a cocky grin. His stature and pose were that of confidence—and a man who caused insurmountable damage to those he met. “You look just like her,” he continued, his feet finding purchase on the ground as his stride increased. “Sorry, you've got the wrong one—try finding her—” Just as you spoke, static buzzed in your skull—a low crackling hum that drowned out the edges of the memory before it fully formed. It was there—just beyond reach—shrouded in white noise.

The harder you focused, the more the static swelled, but for a moment, the interference cleared. A voice—the ghost of a feeling—and just as quickly, it was swallowed again. You understood the gist; he was indeed one you would find yourself tangled with. “Looks like you’ve been through some tough shit—mind if I join you?” Without waiting for a response, he lunged forward, grappling you in a powerful embrace. His intent wasn't one of danger but instead of safekeeping despite his demeanor. Reflexes took over as you slammed against his cranium with the strength you could muster, effectively knocking him back.

"Fuck, you're a feisty one," Mohawk Mark growled, his breath hot against your ear. "I like that shit. Let's see how you handle this." His chuckle was condescending—yet a thrill shot through you. “‘Won't be handling shit,” you quipped before biting into his neck—just rigid enough to draw blood. He groaned, his flight knocking you two back into an alleyway.

Similarly to your Mark, he seemed attracted to strength, his veins pumping with lust rather than adrenaline. Holding a firm grasp of your jaw, his lips collided with yours in a searing and blood-stained kiss. The muscle of his tongue forcefully parted your lips as he sought to taste you against his own. Finding yourself against the wall, your legs wrapped around the width of his waist, your ass snugly hovering over his pelvis.

He pulled away every few seconds to watch your expression succumb to your selfish wants. Sex with the enemy was enticing and you weren’t letting him escape any time soon. “You planned this?” you murmured between the saliva-ridden kisses. “That would be telling. You know enough if you’re agreeing to this.” His voice grew to tease as he licked his lips—mirroring his satisfaction before peppering kisses down your exposed neck.

His version of sex was rough, with small increments of romance—only reserved for the best prize. With muffled groans, his teeth harshly nipped their way lower, his fingers tearing through the fabric of your suit. As he continued down your now-exposed cleavage, his tongue ran along the scantily clad lace of your bra. Staring up at you, he let out a mischievous snicker before his teeth snagged the cup and tore it from your chest—leaving it discarded on the ground.

“Shit… was fucking not enough? Had to ruin my clothes too,” you complained as your hips bucked against his pointedly. This earned a guttural grunt from the flesh of your breasts, as he heaved out a response. “You’ll forget about them anyway,” he dismissed as he continued until your panties were the last to be removed. The cool air dusted your wet cunt—its arousal seeping through your folds like honey. Its chill made you shiver and like bees to nectar, his tongue feasted before his eyes.

Hoisting you up, your thighs rested against his shoulders as he knelt, the angle allowing his tongue to slip inside your already spasming pussy. An unusual pink hue dusted his cheek as he stared up at you in utter bliss. Your fingers dug into his forearms, your puffy folds pressed against his lips as he devoured you. With your head resting against the wall, your hips ground themselves relentlessly against his tongue.

"Mmm, shit, already soaking wet for me," he taunted, pumping his tongue in and out of your tight cunt. His tongue—rough and textured—lashed out to lap at your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His groans sent mild vibrations through you as his fingers reached up to paw at your tits, nipples stiffened in the cold air. You couldn't help but moan as he ate you out with relentless intensity, his tongue plunging deep into your folds. His calloused hands roamed your exposed flesh, pinching and kneading your breasts, twisting your sensitive nipples until they grew numb.

His hands couldn't stop their exploration—they explored what he had lost many years ago. Sparks flew as his tongue circled against your clit, flickering the bundle of nerves with a speed inexperienced before. Every time you neared the precipice of your orgasm, his tongue would flatten as he sucked your clit—ruining the rhythm. You tugged his hair with a frustrated groan, and his eyes rolled into his skull with an amused moan.

Finally pulling away, he stood to his feet. His lips parted to speak when suddenly, “Hurry the fuck up,” you said curtly with exasperated gasps. With lidded eyes, a Cheshire grin settled across his features. “Yes, ma’am.” Prying his suit off, he palmed his dampening erection. For once he fell silent as anticipation ate away at you both. As he freed his cock from the confinement of his boxers, it slapped against his lower abdomen.

It stood with a veiny girth—the tip kissed a rosy red like his many mistresses' lipsticks. With a pleased hiss, he stroked himself briefly—eyes just barely losing focus from the buildup before he plunged himself into you. Your pussy hugged him with a familiarity that felt like home, the painful stretch soon becoming one of bliss. His hips began to quicken, wanting to see your fucked-out expression like never before.

However, his greed overwhelmed him as the stimulation grew difficult to ignore. His usual grunts and growls diluted into groans and profanities. The alleyway echoed with the cacophony of moans that mingled in the air—inharmonious, yet emotion-filled as a flame flickered within your core. “I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he grunted, a grin etched into his lips. “N-None of them—no ssslut compares to this. Only pussy I need—only woman I want.” A groan interrupted his sentence as your cunt contracted around him—swallowing him at the base.

That’s right—every harem formed and woman fucked was so he could ruin the image of you that plagued his mind in its grief. The vulnerability of it all made your toes curl, even if it wasn't much.

The fingers pawing at your breasts began kneading them like stress balls, until they were red. Truthfully, he missed every inch of you—not that he would admit that, especially since you weren’t exactly his. A high-pitched moan ripped from your throat as he continued to bounce you on his dick. Pre-cum coated your insides as the sounds of arousal grew louder, his balls tightening. With every thrust, he could see the air physically leave you, the scuff marks from brick marking your skin.

He could barely tell where to focus his eyes—on your tits or face? Both were gorgeous but fuck, he should just kidnap you and take you home with him, right? “Fuuuuck, Mark… I’m g-go—” you groaned as your fingernails indented into his skin, a pain and pleasure-filled gasp crawling from his throat. “Fuck, yeah…” he said, his raspy voice cracking with the slightest whine. “Take it… s-shit, take it…!” It was a growl as his eyes fluttered shut to hide his eyes practically rolling around his skull. With a clenched jaw, his dick began to milk itself. The pleasure mounted as your impending orgasm washed your body in a sweat-breaking heat. Just as he came, your cunt spasmed, once he pulled out, something within snapped as an aroused gush squirted from you.

His groin was now coated in your scent, taste, and the result of your rough fucking. The pleasure racked your brain as tears threatened to spill over. Noticing this—and pleased with his efforts—he let out a short chortle, a hand coming up to swipe your folds and have a final taste. His expression turned into a feigned sob as he silently teased—his tip running a line between your folds and ass, resisting the temptation to fill your asshole with his seed. Once you two were settled from your high, he spoke up. “Had fun, babe.” Your eyebrow lifted at the newly coined pet name.

Suddenly, a muffled voice in his ear caught his attention. “Shit…” he muttered with an annoyed grimace at Angstrom ruining his amusement. “Go on,” you beckoned. “Not yours anyway—so no need to stick around.” It was a light jab—one he received with a satisfied smirk before taking flight. “Doesn’t matter—I’ll be back,” he replied curtly before disappearing into the horizon.

You stood there—naked—processing what just happened. "Shit, I need a new suit from my apartment.”

Variant #17 Mark (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!) Or Sinister Mark (personalities are similar in the comics, so imagine what you will.)

"You thought you could hide from me?" he said, peering down at you with a friendly grin for someone so domineering. Staring down at the man’s shadow, his cape billowed in the wind. Unlike the other Marks you’d caught a glimpse of, this one barely had a bruise on him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he finished before he landed softly on the ground. As he approached, you remained still, eyebrows creasing into a frown. “I’m not—” You were abruptly cut off by a low voice as his head tilted to stare into your eyes. “Don’t play stupid. My version of you had the same power—but she resisted our cause.” His voice was tinged with pity as he frowned; he decided to take another route in his approach.

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll leave if you come with me,” he offered with an outstretched palm. You vehemently shook your head in disagreement. “I’m not going—it'll disrupt the timeline.”

“Why does that matter?” he asked.

“What makes you think I won't resist either…?” you retorted, causing his eyebrows to raise slightly in thought. “I’ll change your mind—and give you what you missed out on in my world.” It was such a matter-of-fact opinion—one rooted in a determination to outclass any obstacle that might deter him. Curiosity bested you the moment you turned to face the chaos erupting in the streets as a strong gust of wind obscured the debris. He was behind you. His fingers draped over your waist as he took flight—and to… your apartment? “I’ve been watching you for a while now… I know all about your preferences. Let’s have some fun, shall we?” His lips just barely grazed your ear.

Amongst the hands that roamed your body, a sense of longing lingered in every squeeze and grope. While being one of the strongest—and surely the most vile—his personality could be charming like your dimension’s Mark. Even if feigned for manipulation. He spun you around to face him, that polite smile etched into his face again as his body betrayed innocence. The erection forming within his costume became difficult to ignore—but he found a distraction. A touch, a handhold, and finally—a kiss.

“Let me show you what it's truly like to be satisfied.” His words were reassuring, yet they felt more directed toward his version of you rather than now. His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling itself in a wet heat as he sucked the air from your lungs. The warmth of his fingers spread across your cheek as his tongue attempted to delve impossibly deep. The taste was better than you imagined—not that you expected any less. If anything, finding him in a forgiving mood proved to be favorable.

His fingers shifted from your face to the back of your costume—in his attempt to be gentle, he tore the cloth from your body like tissue paper. In an instant, his costume was discarded in the corner, leaving him in snug boxers that hugged his dick. Before you knew it, you were pinned against the bed—a hand flush against your throat as he shrugged slightly. “Didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said, an amused huff exiting his nose as you exchanged knowing glances.

The remaining hand gently pried the panties from around your hips and down the length of your legs. His eyes fell upon the wet patch that seeped through the thin fabric—as the semblance of a pleased grin stretched across his lips. Focusing his attention once more, his fingers slowly parted your folds, watching as your velvety walls peeked through the slit. Its warm flesh was inviting—something he had yet to try since you retaliated so often against him at home. Just why couldn’t you be this welcoming? So willing to be corrupted? So… morally gray at the least.

Pressing two digits inside your warmth, he watched it conform to the size of his fingers. An obvious shiver ran through him with each moan that vibrated from your throat—as he imagined you hugging him and wrapped around his cock in plea. The sensations set your skin alight with gooseflesh—and each time you attempted to scurry away from his gift, the hold around your neck tightened ever so slightly. He was such a brat.

Your hips ground into his hand, clit colliding with his palm in gentle waves. As his fingers slowly retracted, his cock shyly peeked from the pocket of his boxers. His patience was running thin as he adjusted himself at your entrance—and slowly pushed through. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he bottomed out, his head falling backward as he quietly cursed under his breath. Mirroring his restlessness, your foot hooked around his lower back and pressed him deeper. A drawn-out moan echoed from your throat; he was barely holding on as he gnawed at his lip to contain himself. Reflexively, his hips stuttered before setting a relentless pace—pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that hit all the right spots.

“Already so wet for me… pathetic. Fucking slut.” His words struck a nerve within—as you repulsively tightened around him, earning a whine. Your moans echoed through the room, mingling with the slap of skin against skin and Mark's grunts of pleasure. He hammered into you like a man possessed—his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drove you toward climax.

The long thrusts stimulated every inch of his dick—the veins kissed with every grip of your cunt. “Did your version of me not do it for you?” you teased before taking a sharp breath at his relentless pace. “Y-You really don’t know when to be quiet,” he gritted. “But n-no… not like this. You're much better. I would take you to be a part of my empire.” He replied, his jaw tightening as his hips drilled into you with renewed conviction at the thought. A second you—not the one he’s attempting to keep as a slave for disobeying—but one he could trust to blindly follow his power. His grin grew wolfish as his other hand overlapped your throat—his gaze shifting between your bouncing tits and pleasured face.

The slight closure of your windpipe didn’t allow for much noise—but no matter, Mark began to sing like you’d never imagine. It was strange—the sound was much louder due to your silence as you clawed at his skin. His voice began to crack as his tightened jaw began to slack. "F—fucking incredible," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I knew… you'd be worth every s-second of c-...chasing you down," he sputtered as his length began to twitch inside you.

Seeing someone as strong as him unravel before you was a greater sense of accomplishment than becoming a hero itself. With a closed-lip groan, he began overstimulating himself with the effort to get you off. “Haaa… I’m c-close. Ugh…!” you muttered through strangled gasps—as the deprivation of air made you lightheaded and sensitive. Every nerve ending inside your cunt doubled as you went taut beneath him. “C’mon, fucking cum for me,” he heaved.

His thrusts became sloppy as he came inside without warning—doubling over as a consequence. An unfamiliar sensation painted your insides. You both saw stars as silence pierced the room—the slick produced coated his cock in a glaze. Through bated breaths, his fingers finally released their grip around you as you coughed out a response. “I have to admit… you’re hard to deny,” you said, momentarily spent as you lay before him. “Swee—” He was cut off by a voice in his ear.

It was Angstrom demanding his presence over the city. “What a nuisance,” were the final words you caught as he muttered under his breath. Every version of Angstrom was a hindrance to this Mark—nonetheless, he suited up to leave. “I’ll return—and you will join me,” he said confidently, as if there was no argument to be made. You nodded absentmindedly and sighed. Just what had you done?

No Goggles Mark

“Dude…! You’re so cool—what is that? I’ve never seen any powers like that in my world,” he said with an amused expression as he snickered at your agony. You stared up at him, your heartbeat suddenly quickening when meeting his gaze. A look of recognition flickered within his eyes. “Hey, I know you,” he said, his feet touching base on the ground as he approached you with a widening grin. “I’m not sure you know me exactly…” you replied, backing away as your eyes searched for a route to escape—his friendliness had truly taken you aback.

“Who do you work for?” he asked, words flying from his mouth without a care as he approached closer. “You're way stronger than the Guardians of the Globe dudes I fought.” He fought who?! A sense of dread filled you as a new series of questions plagued your mind. If this one could ruin the team to filth—then just how strong was he, and what exactly did he want? “I don't want to fight you, man,” you somewhat pleaded; he frowned with disapproval. “Fight? No, man… but it seems like you’re in trouble, dude.” The topic switched again—his gaze now behind you—as a flurry of aliens attempting their takeover waltzed through a portal. You didn’t have the heart to tell them it was a failed crusade before it began.

Taking a stride forward, a strong arm suddenly wrapped around your waist as you two were propelled to a lone-standing structure where steel beams and concrete floors remained. “Put me down,” you bruised him as you backhanded him into the metal beam. While he had a smile on his face, momentary irritation settled across his features. The painful sting ran to his cock. “Aw, what's the matter?” he asked, standing to his feet as you both came face to face once more.

“It would be hot, but I don't want to fight, dude. I’ve missed you. I promise I’ll be gentle… at first.” The delivery was more seductive—dropping an octave—as he approached you, hands outstretched and finding purchase against your hips. One thing other variants wouldn’t admit—was the supple touch of the right woman could caress their soul.

“I’m not the me you want,” you replied. “You can just be the one I have anyway,” he said. He was indeed serious—and while less terrifying than the other Marks you’d encountered, his strength was menacing nonetheless. “Then let’s see what other talents you’ve got.” Your response made his expression brighten with a new goal in mind. At that, the grin on his face widened as he leaned down and captured your lips in a fierce, dominant kiss.

His tongue forced its way into your mouth, battling yours for dominance as he ground his hips against yours. You two stumbled around the enclosure—footsteps echoing in the empty building. Mark’s hands cupped your ass, squeezing roughly as he whispered crude compliments into your ear. "Nice ass," he growled appreciatively, his fingers caressing the soft flesh. He couldn’t articulate it well—but you were truly beautiful in every universe—and he couldn’t wait to have his share.

Your fingers traveled up his muscled back as body heat pooled across your fingertips. Eagerness unlike any other began to rise as you longed to touch every inch of him. Hero costumes were peeled from one another, and you found his groping becoming progressively obsessive. His hardened cock stood awaiting stimulation as he bit back his urges—sacrificing the time to feel you once more.

Guiding him to the floor, you seated yourself against his lap—your legs hooked over his forearms. He was always too quick to finish battles, and that even applied to sex. Just the tip. That's what you two agreed upon. Sinking onto his cock—its girth filled you deliciously. The wet sound of arousal followed by his restrained groans filled you with delight; it was amusing to see a Viltrumite struggle to contain himself.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… and 6! On every sixth shallow thrust, you would contract your muscles—gripping his dick like a vice as every vein received a kiss from the gods inside your cunt. It had him crazed—wanting more of your warmth than you were willing to give. “F—fuck, babe, you’re killin’ me,” he hissed with an unforeseen weariness shaking his voice. “Can I?” he started. “No.” His expression hardened at your words. “You’re ruining the—” Before he could finish, he inhaled sharply as his head fell back. “Am I…?” you asked with feigned curiosity. It was undulating in a rhythm that drove him wild. He groaned beneath you—his hands digging into his palms as he fought his urges to misbehave.

The sound of your ass slapping against his pelvis filled the air—mingling with your moans and cries of pleasure. Anything would be worth trading; he could watch his dick disappear within your cunt nonstop. His impending release redoubled his efforts—pounding into you with a ferocity that sent you hurtling over the edge.

The excitement overwhelmed him as he sheathed half his cock inside—the spreading warmth and moisture making his thighs quiver beneath you. His balls tightened, painfully so—that alone ripped a pornographic moan from him. If he could fuck you as desired, he wouldn’t be nearly as needy. Your combined moans echoed through the infrastructure—and you were certain that with the windows gone, someone could hear—but the thought was out of sight and out of mind. Pre-cum beaded down his length as it was smeared each time he entered your warmth. “M-Mark…” you muttered; he nodded fervently behind you as his jaw locked.

“Y-You ready for it, babe?" he asked with a faltering grin as sweat tickled his brows. Leaning your full body weight against him—you felt your orgasm building quickly. The pleasure reached new heights as you both milked each other dry for the sake of proving a point. Your body instinctively began to lurch forward as your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave. The tip of his cock was bedecked with a foam ring of cum. Mark would’ve begun convulsing had it not been for him carrying you—instead, his body stiffened as he let out a tight-lipped groan. You could’ve sworn you saw his toes curl too—but who knows? His pale skin was flushed a hue of red as his body thrummed with an aftershock.

Once you’d come down from your high, a satisfied grin beamed at you. "Dude, that was incredible," he murmured, a satisfied grin on his face. "We should do this again sometime," he said—as if this was some casual fling, not that you would mind.

Before you could respond, a message in his ear interrupted the conversation. “Ugh… this always happens; I have fun, and then—dude…” he sounded exasperated as he hurriedly redressed—reluctantly wishing you a botched farewell. “I like you. You’re coming with me.”

Feel free to request more lmao

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[mssalo]

ma'am

Joel Miller’s spent a lifetime in control, but under your confident lead, he’s discovered just how good it feels to let go. As your right-hand man in Jackson, he’s desperate to please, finding himself worshiping you in ways he’s never dared before—and loving every filthy second of it.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, sub!Joel, dom!f!reader, oral (male and female receiving), nipple play (SUCKING JOEL’S NIPPLES like he deserves), premature ejaculation, dirty talk, praise kink, begging, desperation kink, Joel whimpering, explicit sexual content, mutual devotion, protective partnership, reader is emotionally supportive but firm, Joel finds comfort in being cared for (he’s babygirl) and Joel being so far gone it’s frankly adorable.

11k. enjoy.

part two: after hours

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

Joel Miller had always been the guy people turned to when things needed fixing—whether it was a busted fence, a tough decision, or clearing out a horde of infected, he was the dependable one. The solid one. The man who got things done without flinching.

But with you, it was different.

You weren’t like anyone else in Jackson. You’d arrived last winter, stepping into the town’s bustling life like you’d always belonged, and somehow, you’d made it your own. 

People respected you—trusted you—not because you demanded it, but because you commanded it. You were sharp, resourceful, and unshakably confident. 

Joel couldn’t decide if you reminded him of a soldier or a queen, but either way, it made his chest tighten every time you spoke.

It started innocently enough.

“Joel, we need these supplies moved to the north gate before sundown,” you said one day, standing by the depot, that calm, no-nonsense tone that made Joel’s stomach flip.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied without thinking, the words slipping out as easily as breathing.

You’d looked up, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘yes ma’am’ type,” you teased lightly, your lips curving into that small, knowing smile.

Joel had flushed, shifting on his feet like a boy caught stealing. “Guess it’s just… habit.”

You didn’t push, just nodded and turned back, but Joel couldn’t get the moment out of his head.

Something about the way you spoke to him—firm but never condescending, confident but never overbearing—lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in years. 

Respect, maybe. Or something deeper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The more months you worked together, the worse it got for him.

“Joel, grab the shotgun and cover me,” you ordered one day, crouched behind a rusted-out truck as infected skittered through the woods ahead. Your voice was steady, even in the heat of the moment, and Joel’s chest swelled as he followed your lead without question.

Another time, while patrolling the perimeter, you had said, “Check the west side at dusk. Let me know if anything’s out of place.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel had answered automatically, his voice softer, almost reverent.

You didn’t always notice how easily he fell into step with you, how much he craved the way you trusted him to follow through. 

But Joel noticed. Every damn time. 

And it wasn’t just respect—though that was there too—it was something raw and magnetic. Something that made his chest tighten and his cock stir in ways that left him fumbling for composure.

It wasn’t just the way you spoke. It was the way you carried yourself. The way you moved through the world with confidence that was effortless, never forced. 

You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone—you just were. You called the shots when they needed calling, and people listened, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Joel wanted to. And more than that, he liked it.

One night, it all came to a head.

Jackson was quiet, the streets bathed in the soft glow of lanterns strung between buildings. Joel was walking back from the stables when he spotted you on the porch of the town hall, a map spread across the railing in front of you. 

The way the light hit your face, catching on your jawline and softening your features, made his chest ache.

“Joel,” you called, your voice slicing through the stillness like a blade.

He froze for half a second before making his way over, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. 

His pulse quickened as he got closer, his eyes darting over you—your loose hair falling over one shoulder, the curve of your wrist as you held the edge of the map, the faint furrow in your brow that he desperately wanted to smooth away.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his. “Come take a look at this,” you said, motioning him closer.

Joel stepped up beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he looked at the map.

The faint scent of soap and leather lingered on you, and Joel had to force himself to focus on what you were pointing at—a marked spot near the riverbank.

“Been seeing signs of movement out here the past couple nights,” you explained. “Could be nothing, but I want to clear it tomorrow. Need someone to back me up. You in?”

“Always,” Joel said immediately, his voice quieter than he intended but no less firm. His fingers brushed yours as he took the map, and he swore he felt a spark.

You smiled then—just a small curve of your lips—but it sent heat rushing through Joel’s chest. “Good. Be ready at dawn.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel murmured before he could stop himself.

Your brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in your expression. “You don’t have to keep calling me that, you know.”

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks warming. “Can’t help it,” he muttered, his gaze sliding to the ground. “Suits you.”

Your smile widened just enough to make his heart stumble. “If you say so.”

With that, you folded the map, tucked it under your arm, and disappeared into the town hall, leaving Joel standing there like a damn fool, his chest tight and his jeans uncomfortably snug. 

He swore under his breath, adjusting his stance in a futile attempt to ease the ache building low in his belly.

It wasn’t fair. 

The way you got under his skin without even trying. The way you made him feel… lighter and heavier all at once. 

Joel had spent his whole life being the one people leaned on, the one who carried the weight, and for once, he didn’t mind letting someone else take the reins. 

Hell, he wanted to. 

He wanted to follow you, to listen to you, to give you every ounce of control you asked for.

Joel stayed rooted to the spot, staring at the closed door of the town hall long after you’d gone inside. 

His pulse pounded in his ears, the ache in his jeans growing unbearable as his mind replayed the last few moments—the way your voice curled around his name, the subtle command in your tone when you told him to be ready, the approving smile that lingered on your lips when he’d answered.

It was ridiculous, he thought bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck. He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, and yet here he was, rock-hard in the middle of Jackson like some lovesick idiot. 

His cock throbbed against the tight denim of his jeans, a constant, humiliating reminder of how badly he wanted you—how badly he needed you.

Joel swallowed hard, adjusting himself as subtly as he could manage, though the motion sent a shiver of frustration through him. 

This was nothing new. 

Every time he was around you, it was like his body betrayed him, reacting to the sound of your voice, the sway of your hips, the smallest flick of your wrist as you gestured for him to follow.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you.

The way you carried yourself, confident and composed, made his chest tighten in ways that were equal parts admiration and raw, aching need.

You were everything Joel wasn’t. Steady. Collected. In control. And fuck if he didn’t crave that about you.

More than anything, he craved the way you made him feel. Like he could just… let go.

The thought sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to his cock, and Joel bit back a groan, his hand clenching at his side. 

He’d spent years—decades—being the man people turned to, the one who handled the tough shit without complaint.

But with you? He didn’t want to be the guy in charge. 

He wanted to be the one following orders, wanted to be the one looking up at you, waiting for your approval. 

He wanted to make you proud. 

To hear you say his name the way you had earlier, with that faint hint of amusement, like you saw something in him that no one else ever had.

Goddamn it, he was pathetic.

Joel shook his head, muttering a low curse under his breath as he turned away from the town hall. 

The walk back to his house felt like a blur, his thoughts too tangled to focus on anything but you. 

Every step sent a dull throb through his cock, and by the time he reached his front door, his hands were trembling, his jaw tight with restraint.

Inside, Joel leaned heavily against the door, the cool wood pressing into his back as he exhaled shakily. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, the pounding of his heart loud in the stillness of the house. 

The faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots reminded him he wasn’t dreaming, though he almost wished he were—wished the memory of you wasn’t so vivid it set his whole body on fire.

His jacket slid from his shoulders and hung limply on the hook by the door, but the ritual did little to calm him. 

His hand lingered against the fabric, fingers gripping tightly for a moment as though holding on to it might anchor him. But there was no escape—not from the way you lingered in his thoughts, the way your voice echoed in his ears like a melody he couldn’t shake.

C’mere, Joel. I need you to check this.

C’mere, Joel….

The words played on repeat, the confidence in your tone, the subtle curve of authority behind every syllable. 

The way you’d glanced at him tonight, your eyes catching his for just a second longer than necessary—it was enough to drive him insane. 

Joel groaned softly, the sound rough and guttural as he pressed the heel of his palm against the stiff, aching bulge in his jeans.

“Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head as if that might clear it. But it didn’t. It never did. He’d thought about you like this too many times to count. 

Late at night, alone in the dark, his fist slick and tight around his cock, imagining you leaning over him, your voice a breathy, commanding whisper.

“Good boy, Joel. Just like that.”

It was the praise that undid him every time, the approval he ached for, that soft edge of control in your voice that made his chest tighten and his hips buck into his hand. 

Joel’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he pushed off the door, his steps hurried and uneven as he made his way toward the bedroom. 

His body was hot, his skin flushed as he kicked the door shut behind him and leaned against it, his breath coming fast and shallow.

He didn’t bother with the lights. There was no point when the image of you burned so brightly in his mind.

His hands fumbled with his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp hiss before he shoved his jeans down his thighs, kicking them aside. 

His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

Joel wrapped his calloused fingers around himself, his rough palm dragging slowly along the length as his head tipped back against the door. 

A soft, broken groan escaped his lips, and he tightened his grip, savoring the sharp sensation.

“Yes,” Joel whispered hoarsely, his hips jerking into his hand as the thought took hold.

The image was so vivid it made his knees weak.

“On your knees, Joel. Let me see how much you want it.”

He imagined you standing over him, your hands on your hips, your lips curved into that wicked, knowing smile.

You’d look down at him like you owned him, and Joel would crumble beneath that gaze, his body desperate to obey.

His hand moved faster, his strokes rougher as his chest heaved. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick and broken. “I’d do it. Anything you want, darlin’. Just… just fuckin’ tell me.”

And then, there was the fantasy he couldn’t shake. You’d guide him down—your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him hiss as you tilted his face up toward yours.

“You want to make me feel good, baby? Show me.” You’d press his face between your thighs, your warmth surrounding him, and Joel would lose himself.

He could almost feel it—the softness of your skin, the slick heat of your cunt against his lips. His tongue would trace slow, deliberate circles around your clit, savoring the way your body trembled beneath his mouth. 

You’d moan his name, your voice breathy and broken, and it would be the only thing he cared about.

Joel groaned loudly, his hips jerking off the door as his hand tightened, the slick sound filling the room. “Please,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “Please, darlin’. Let me be good for you. Let me—”

He imagined you grinding against his face, your thighs clenching around his head as you guided him, demanding more. “That’s it, Joel. Just like that. Don’t stop until I come, baby.”

The thought of your approval, of hearing you call him a good boy as he worked tirelessly to please you, made his cock throb painfully in his hand. “I’d do it,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’d fuckin’ worship you, darlin’. Just say the word.”

The tension snapped, his body locking up as his release hit. Hot, thick spurts spilled over his hand, his voice breaking into a low, guttural groan as his hips jerked helplessly. 

Your name fell from his lips, raw and reverent, as the pleasure coursed through him, leaving him trembling and spent.

For a long moment, Joel stood there, his chest heaving, his hand still wrapped loosely around his softening cock. 

The air was thick with the scent of his arousal, the evidence of his need dripping onto the floor, and yet all he could think about was you. Your voice, your smile, the way you made him feel like he could let go of everything and just… be.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he finally pushed off the door and reached for a towel. 

He cleaned himself up quickly, his thoughts still tangled, his body still thrumming with the remnants of his release. But even as the tension faded, the ache lingered—the desperate, aching need for you.

For your voice. For your touch. For your approval.

And Joel knew he’d never stop wanting it. Never stop wanting you.

Because this wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until he had you.

Not until he could hear you say his name the way he’d always dreamed, soft and breathless, your hands gripping his shoulders as you told him exactly what to do.

· · ───

The sun was barely cresting the horizon as you and Joel set out toward the riverbank, the chilly morning air biting at your cheeks. Joel kept a steady pace beside you, his rifle slung across his shoulder, his eyes scanning the dense treeline with practiced precision.

Despite the tension that always came with patrols, there was a comfort in your presence—a grounding force that he couldn’t quite put into words.

The faint scent of soap and leather lingered on you, familiar and steady, and Joel found himself stealing glances at you more than he should.

You walked with such assuredness, each step purposeful, and the soft sway of your hips had him swallowing harder than necessary.

He tried to focus, but your commanding presence made it impossible not to feel both overwhelmed and grounded.

“See this?” you murmured, crouching near a patch of disturbed dirt. Your voice was low, clipped, yet patient as you gestured for him to come closer. “Looks like someone’s been through here recently. More than one.”

Joel crouched beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he examined the ground.

The way your hair caught the morning light, the subtle curve of your neck—it was too much. His chest tightened as he forced his gaze to the dirt and away from the way your lips parted slightly in concentration.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rougher than intended. “Could be raiders.”

“Could be,” you agreed, straightening and adjusting the strap of your pack. “Let’s keep moving. Stay sharp.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel said before he could stop himself, the words slipping out instinctively.

You glanced at him, one brow arching, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at your lips.

You turned without a word, leading the way through the uneven terrain. Joel followed close behind, his pulse quickening with every step. 

You always had this effect on him, like you were a magnet and he couldn’t help but be pulled in.

The ambush came fast. 

Raiders poured from the treeline, their weapons raised, shouts breaking the morning quiet. 

Joel moved on instinct, diving behind a fallen log and returning fire, but it was you who commanded the chaos with sharp, decisive orders.

“Joel! Left flank! Cover me!”

He obeyed without question, his rifle steady as he took down one of the raiders attempting to circle around. 

Even in the heat of the moment, his eyes kept darting to you—how you moved like a ghost through the underbrush, your aim deadly, your composure unshaken.

But when one of them charged at your blind spot, Joel didn’t think. He moved.

The gunshot echoed like thunder as he dropped the man with a single shot. 

You spun to face him, your eyes wide—not with fear but with something else. Relief? Gratitude? Whatever it was, it made his chest swell.

“Thanks,” you said, your tone steady despite the chaos. “But I told you—stay back.”

Joel gritted his teeth but nodded, ducking back behind cover as you finished off the last of the raiders. 

When the dust settled, you stood amidst the wreckage, your rifle slung over your shoulder, your expression calm but sharp. 

You scanned the area one last time before nodding.

“We’re clear,” you said, turning toward him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Joel replied, though his arm burned where a bullet had grazed him. 

He shifted, trying to hide the blood seeping through his sleeve.

Your eyes narrowed. “You’re hit.”

“It’s nothin’,” he muttered, brushing it off.

“It’s not nothing,” you snapped, stepping closer. Your hand grabbed his arm, firm but not harsh. “We’re done here. You’re going back to Jackson. Now.”

Joel stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I can keep goin’. I’m fine.”

You tilted your head, the corners of your lips pulling into a wry, almost dangerous smile. 

“Joel,” you said, your voice low but laced with authority that sent a shiver down his spine. “Do I look like I’m asking?”

Joel swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. “No, ma’am,” he muttered, his voice quieter this time, almost reverent.

“Good.” Your fingers lingered on his arm for just a second longer than necessary, the heat of your touch branding him, before you turned toward the horses. “Let’s move.”

At the clinic, Joel sat on the cot, his shirt discarded, the gash on his arm raw and angry. He winced as the doctor worked, stitching the wound with quick precision. 

But his eyes weren’t on the needle or the thread—they were on you, leaning against the doorway with your arms crossed, your expression unreadable.

“You’ll need to rest for at least a couple days,” the doctor said, tying off the final stitch. “No patrols, no heavy lifting.”

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but your sharp glance silenced him immediately.

“Got it,” you said curtly, nodding at the doctor. “Thank you.”

When the doctor left, you turned to Joel, your arms dropping to your sides as you stepped closer. “Let’s get you home.”

Back at his house, you guided him inside, your hand on his arm, your touch firm and steady. 

Joel sank onto the couch with a groan, his body heavier than he wanted to admit. You moved with purpose, disappearing into the kitchen before reappearing with a damp cloth and a glass of water.

“You don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a look that had him snapping his mouth shut.

“Let me,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

You knelt beside him, pressing the cloth gently to his arm. Joel swallowed hard, his breath catching at the sight of you so close, your fingers brushing against his skin.

The faint scent of you—clean and sharp, with a hint of something sweet—filled his senses, and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out.

When you finished, you sat back on your heels, your eyes meeting his. “Joel,” you said softly, “why do you push yourself so hard?”

Joel looked away, his jaw tightening. “Don’t wanna feel useless,” he muttered. “Don’t wanna… be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” you said firmly, leaning closer, your voice carrying a weight that made Joel’s chest ache. “You’re the furthest thing from it.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, his breath catching at the intensity in your gaze. “I just…” He hesitated, his voice breaking. “I just wanna be good for you. Wanna make you proud.”

You tilted your head, a slow, knowing smile curving your lips.

“You already are, Joel,” you murmured, reaching out to cup his face. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, and Joel leaned into your touch like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Joel’s breath was uneven, his good hand curling into a fist on his thigh as he struggled to find the words.

You sat beside him on the couch, quiet and steady, your eyes on his face, your expression calm yet unreadable. It only made him more frantic.

“I—I can’t stop thinkin’ about you,” Joel stammered, his voice rough and breaking. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, his palm trembling slightly as if he was trying to physically hold himself together.

“I need… I need you close. I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, but I—I can’t keep this to myself anymore.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you didn’t speak. You just nodded slowly, your gaze unwavering, and it made him feel both exposed and comforted all at once. The tension in his chest was unbearable.

“I—dammit,” he muttered, his voice thick, his gaze darting everywhere but your face.

“I’m tryin’ to say it right, but I don’t—I can’t—I need you, alright? I can’t stop thinkin’ about you. About how you—how you’re always so damn steady, and you—”

He sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes finally locking on yours. They were glassy now, his vulnerability laid bare. “You make it easier, y’know? Just bein’ around you… I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe I ain’t so—so broken after all. And I… I need that. I need you.”

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into the faintest smile. It wasn’t teasing, wasn’t pitying. It was understanding, warm, and Joel swore it made his chest ache even more.

“Baby,” you murmured softly, the endearment sending a shiver down his spine. “You like me…romantically?”

Joel froze for a moment, his breath catching as your words settled over him. His lips parted, but all he could do was nod, the movement small and jerky, like he was afraid to admit it outright.

“Want to be good for me?” you asked, your voice a low, soothing hum.

Joel’s nod came faster this time, his breathing growing heavier as he leaned into you, desperate for something he couldn’t quite name.

You leaned in slowly, cupping his face with one hand, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble along his jaw. 

Joel’s eyes fluttered shut as you pressed your lips to his, soft and lingering, and the low, guttural sound he made against your mouth was filled with need. 

His hand reached out, gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you, and his lips parted under yours, seeking more.

But just as he leaned into the kiss, you pulled back, your face still close enough that your breath mingled with his.

“Get better for me first, yeah?” you murmured, your thumb trailing along his jaw.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, his brows furrowing as he shook his head. “No, please,” he whispered, his voice rough and desperate. 

“Please, I can’t—I’ve been waitin’ for so long. Please don’t make me wait anymore.”

You shushed him softly, your fingers sliding through his hair, and Joel practically melted under your touch, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself back.

“You’ll wait,” you said firmly, though your tone was still warm. “Because you’re mine, and I’m not about to let you go. But first, I need you strong, Joel. Need you rested. Yeah?”

Joel let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he nodded, though his grip on you didn’t loosen. “Alright,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Alright. But just… just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“Well…you know me, baby,” you whispered, your lips brushing against the crown of his head.

Joel’s breath hitched again, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close as if to prove to himself that you were real. And as the weight of the moment settled between you, he felt something he hadn’t in years—peace.

· · ───

Joel had never been good at resting, but being sidelined for days was pure torture.

His arm still kinda ached where the stitches pulled at the edges of the wound, but the pain was nothing compared to the gnawing anxiety that came from not seeing you. 

Three days felt like a lifetime, and every hour that passed without you made his chest feel tighter.

You’d been on patrol since the crack of dawn, and Joel had spent most of the day pacing around his house, every creak of the floorboards setting his nerves on edge. 

He hadn’t wanted to push his luck with the doctor or you, so he’d stayed home, but the absence of your presence was like a physical ache.

He’d heard the patrol schedule—you were checking the area near the riverbank, where the raiders had been sighted. 

The thought of you out there, alone or with someone who wasn’t him, made his stomach churn.

Joel knew you could handle yourself—he’d seen it firsthand—but the idea of you in danger without him there to back you up was unbearable.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Joel couldn’t take it anymore. 

His boots thudded against the wooden floors as he grabbed his jacket and rifle, the pain in his arm be damned.

If he didn’t see you soon, he was going to lose his mind.

The gates of Jackson were quiet, the air cool and crisp as Joel made his way toward the watchtower. A few guards gave him curious glances, but no one stopped him. He wasn’t exactly known for staying out of trouble, injured or not.

“Have you seen her?” Joel asked one of the guards at the gate, his voice gruff.

“Think she’s still out near the west ridge,” the man replied, tilting his hat back. “They were due back an hour ago, though.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. An hour ago. His grip on his rifle tightened as he set off toward the west ridge, his boots crunching against the gravel.

The relief was like a flood when he spotted you in the distance, your silhouette unmistakable against the fading light.

You were walking back toward the gates, your pack slung over your shoulder, your rifle in hand. Joel’s breath hitched at the sight of you, his steps quickening as he closed the distance between you.

“Where the hell have you been?” Joel barked, his voice harsher than he intended as he reached you.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his tone. “Patrol. Where I said I’d be.”

“You were late,” Joel muttered, his gaze sweeping over you, searching for any sign of injury. “Anything happen out there?”

“Couple of runners,” you replied, brushing past him toward the gate. “Nothing bad.”

Joel followed you, his chest tight as he struggled to find the right words. “You could’ve sent word. Let someone know you were runnin’ behind.”

You turned to face him then, your eyes sharp. “Joel, I’m fine. I’m more worried about why you’re out here when you’re supposed to be resting.”

“I was worried about you,” Joel admitted, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “Didn’t like not knowin’ if you were okay.”

Your expression softened, and you let out a quiet sigh. “Joel, I told you I’d be back.”

“And what if somethin’ had happened?” Joel pressed, his voice growing rough. “What if—” He stopped, his jaw clenching as he looked away.

You stepped closer, your hand resting gently on his arm. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone soothing. “I’m here. I’m okay. And you need to trust that I can take care of myself.”

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at the steadiness in your gaze. “I know you can,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna worry.”

You smiled faintly, squeezing his arm. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joel huffed a laugh, the sound low and rough. “Ain’t what I meant, but… yeah, take it how you want.”

“Come on,” you said, nudging him toward the gate. “Let’s get you home. You’re not supposed to be out here.”

Joel wanted to argue, but the warmth in your voice and the steady grip on his arm made it impossible.

He let you guide him back toward his house, the tension in his chest slowly unwinding with every step.

The walk back to Joel’s house was quiet at first, the two of you falling into an easy rhythm. But as you neared the porch, Joel’s tongue loosened, and the floodgates opened.

“What was it like out there today? Was it quiet before the runners? Were they close? You eat somethin’? Drink enough water?”

You chuckled softly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Joel, I’m fine. I promise.”

“I know, I know,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his steps faltering slightly as you led him inside. “Just… can’t stop thinkin’ about it. About you. Out there without me.”

His voice was rough, his words tumbling out so quickly he barely had time to filter them. “I mean, I know you’re capable—hell, more than capable—but I wasn’t there, and… I hate not bein’ there.”

You stopped just inside the doorway, turning to face him. Joel’s eyes darted over you, like he was trying to memorize every detail, his breathing uneven, his hands twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but didn’t quite dare.

“You’re rambling, Joel,” you said softly, your voice calm and steady as you reached up to cup his cheek.

Joel froze, his breath hitching at your touch, his wide eyes locking onto yours. “I just…” he began, his voice faltering. “I just—”

“Hush,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “I’m here. I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere for another 4 days.”

Joel exhaled shakily, leaning into your touch like a man starved. “I know,” he rasped. “I know, but I can’t stop—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips soft and warm against his, and Joel melted beneath it, his whole body going taut before he relaxed into the moment. 

His hands found your hips, tentative at first, then firm, gripping you like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you pulled back, his lips chased yours for a heartbeat before he caught himself, his eyes fluttering open. He looked dazed, his chest heaving, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you.

You smiled softly, the sound of his uneven breathing filling the space between you.

Joel’s lips parted as if to speak, but before he could, you leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time. His groan was low and deep, the kind that seemed to come from the very center of him, vibrating through your chest.

His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, his need unmistakable.

When your lips parted and your tongue brushed against his, Joel whimpered—a sound so desperate, so raw, it sent a rush of heat straight through you.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly into the kiss, and Joel’s grip faltered for a second, his lips pulling into a shaky smile against yours.

“Why’re you laughin’?” he asked, his voice rough, his forehead pressing against yours as he caught his breath.

“You’re eager,” you teased, your hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. “It’s sweet.”

Joel groaned again, his cheeks flushing as his hands smoothed up your sides. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower. “You’re drivin’ me crazy, darlin’. Been thinkin’ about this for too long.”

His gaze dropped, and his eyes darkened as they settled on the curve of your breasts, visible through the gap in your blouse.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch but didn’t dare without permission. “You’re perfect.”

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as you ran your fingers along his jaw. “Joel,” you said, your tone firmer now, and he immediately snapped his gaze back up to meet yours, his breath hitching. “What are you lookin’ at?”

His cheeks went even redder, but he didn’t look away.

Your lips quirked into a sly smile, and you reached up to unbutton the top of your blouse slowly, deliberately. Joel’s eyes tracked every movement, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his cock straining visibly against his jeans.

“You’ve healed up, huh?” you asked, your tone playful, and Joel nodded quickly, his hands shaking slightly.

“Barely feel it,” he murmured, his voice trembling with anticipation. “Please, darlin’. Please let me—”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head as you pushed the blouse from your shoulders, revealing the smooth curve of your skin.

“Go ahead, Joel,” you said, your voice steady but laced with heat. “If you think you can handle it.”

Joel groaned, his hands finding your waist again, pulling you flush against him as his mouth crashed into yours.

His kisses were messy, desperate, his lips sliding against yours like he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed your body, shaky but reverent, sliding up your ribs and hovering just below your chest.

“Eager little thing,” you murmured against his mouth, and Joel whimpered at the words, his hips pressing against yours as his arousal became undeniable.

“Can’t help it,” he breathed, his voice shaky and desperate. “Been wantin’ to get my mouth on you for so long. Wanna lick every inch of you. Fuck, those pretty nipples—been dyin’ to suck on ‘em, darlin’. Let me taste you, please.”

The way his voice cracked, the way he clung to you—it was enough to make your resolve waver. But you weren’t going to let him get off that easily. Not yet.

“Bed,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to guide him toward the bedroom. Joel followed without hesitation, his hands still on you, his body trembling with barely-contained need.

“Sit down, baby,” you murmured, your voice firm but teasing as you pushed him gently onto the mattress.

Joel sat immediately, lips wet and swollen from your kisses, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you like you were a goddess he was desperate to worship.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his gaze flicking to your chest, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

You stepped between his legs, running your hands up his thighs, feeling the way they trembled under your touch.

“Is this what you’ve been dreamin’ about, Joel?” you asked, your voice low and sultry as you leaned in close. “Me, standin’ over you like this, lettin’ you look your fill?”

Joel groaned, his head tipping back as his hips jerked involuntarily. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Every night, darlin’. I—fuck—I think about you all the time. Can’t stop.”

You smirked, running your hands higher until your fingers brushed against the hard, throbbing bulge straining beneath his jeans. Joel’s breath hitched, his hips lifting slightly as if to chase your touch.

“Bet you’ve been strokin’ that cock to the thought of me, haven’t you?” you purred, your nails scraping lightly along his thighs.

“Thinking about my tits, my mouth, wonderin’ what it’d feel like to have me all over you?”

Joel let out a broken whimper, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress as he nodded. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice thick with desperation. “Fuck, yes. I think about you all the time—Drives me crazy.”

You laughed softly, Joel’s eyes focused, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you, his gaze zeroing in on your breasts, the way your nipples pebbled in the cool air.

You reached up, cupping your breasts and squeezing them lightly, your thumbs brushing over your nipples. “Wanna taste them, baby? Wanna feel my tits in your mouth?”

Joel groaned loudly, his hands clenching into fists as his cock strained painfully against his jeans. “Please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, let me—fuck, let me taste them."

You smirked, stepping closer and guiding his hands to your hips. “Go on then, baby,” you murmured, leaning in until your chest was level with his face. “Show me how much you want it.”

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. His hands slid up to your waist, pulling you closer as his mouth latched onto one of your nipples with a desperate groan. 

His lips were hot and eager, his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud before he sucked it into his mouth, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuck, that’s it,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging lightly. “Good boy, Joel. Just like that.”

Joel whimpered against your skin, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, squeezing them gently as he switched to your other nipple. His tongue worked in slow, deliberate strokes, his lips tugging and sucking as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Finally” he muttered against your skin, his voice muffled but no less desperate.

You chuckled softly, grinding your hips against his lap, feeling the hard line of his cock pressing against your thigh. “You’re so needy,” you teased, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Can’t even keep your hands to yourself, can you?”

Joel shook his head, his mouth still attached to your nipple as he let out a low, guttural moan. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping you tightly as he rocked against you, his cock throbbing beneath the rough denim of his jeans.

“Can’t help it,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. “You’re all I think about. All I want.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Then be a good boy for me, Joel,” you whispered, your voice low and commanding. “Keep sucking.”

Joel groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as his lips moved back to your breast, sucking and licking with renewed fervor. His hips bucked against yours, his need spilling out in every touch, every sound.

“You like these, baby?” you murmured, cupping your breast and brushing your thumb over your wet, glistening nipples. “My sweet boy likes them, hm?”

Joel froze for a moment, his pupils dilating as the meaning of your words sank in. His hips bucked sharply, and he let out a strangled moan, his whole body trembling beneath you.

“Fuck, I-,” he groaned, his voice cracking as his head fell back against the headboard. “Shit, darlin’, I’m sorry—I can’t… I’m—fuck!”

You felt the unmistakable heat and dampness spreading as Joel’s hips jerked one last time, his moans spilling into the quiet room. His face flushed a deep red, his chest heaving as he realized what had just happened.

“Shit,” he muttered again, his voice thick with embarrassment as he covered his face with one hand. “I didn’t mean to… fuck, I’m so sorry. This is so stupid—”

“Joel,” you interrupted, your voice firm but soothing as you brushed his hand away from his face. “Look at me.”

He did, his eyes wide and vulnerable, his lips parted as he struggled to catch his breath. The sight of him—flushed, desperate, and utterly wrecked—only made you want him more.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’m flattered, baby. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Had to come in your pants for me.”

Joel let out a choked sound, his hips twitching involuntarily beneath you.

“I… fuck, darlin’, you make me crazy,” he admitted hoarsely. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about you. I need you. Please… let me make it up to you.”

Your smile widened, and you leaned down, brushing your lips against his ear. “Still wanna keep going, baby?” you whispered, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “After you’ve already made such a mess?”

Joel nodded frantically, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I don’t think I ever wanna stop, ma’am. Please… let me taste you. I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head as you studied him, your expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, you smiled, your fingers trailing down his chest. “Undress me,” you commanded, your voice soft but firm.

Joel flushed, his hands moving to your waist again. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your pants, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for permission. 

You nodded, leaning back onto the bed as you let him guide the fabric down your legs, his touch careful but firm.

By the time your pants were off, you were sprawled out on the bed, your back resting against the pillows. 

Joel knelt between your legs, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, his eyes drinking in every detail like he was trying to commit it to memory.

"You're beautiful," he said again, his voice breaking slightly as his fingers slid along the waistband of your panties. 

Joel groaned low in his throat, his hands clumsy but desperate as he unbuttoned your pants and slid them down your legs.

He paused when he saw your panties, a visible wet spot already soaking through the fabric. His breath hitched, and he let out a shaky, “Fuck… look at that. So wet for me, darlin’. Goddamn.”

His hands trembled as he paused, glancing up at you for reassurance.

You smirked, one eyebrow arching as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

"Go on, baby," you murmured, your voice soft and encouraging. "You've got me all to yourself. Do what you've been dreaming about."

Joel’s hands hovered over your hips for a moment before he finally let them settle there, his thumbs brushing against the edge of your panties.

Joel settled between your legs like he was kneeling before an altar, his chest heaving and his fingers trembling as he slid along the waistband of your panties.

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and wide with need, and you gave him the softest smile, threading your fingers into his hair as you gently tugged him closer.

“yeah, baby” you murmured, your voice dripping with encouragement.

His breath hitched, and he leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

He kissed you there, slow and reverent, his beard grazing your flesh and sending shivers through you. Each kiss was accompanied by a low, throaty groan, his lips moving steadily closer to the source of your heat.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, his voice breaking as he reached the edge of your panties. His nose pressed against the damp fabric, and he inhaled sharply, the sound guttural and desperate.

“Fuck, you smell so good, darlin’. Like heaven—sweet, wet heaven.”

His hands trembled as they gripped your thighs, holding you open as he buried his face against you, nuzzling and inhaling like he couldn’t get enough.

The rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against your calves, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his breath and the wet heat of his mouth against your panties.

“Been dreamin’ about this—about your sweet cunt for so fuckin’ long. Want it so bad, baby. Wanna taste you—wanna lick you, suck that pretty clit between my lips and drink you down till there’s nothin’ left.”

You moaned softly, your fingers threading through his hair and tugging gently, encouraging him.

“Yeah?” you whispered, your voice low and breathless. “You wanna eat me out, baby? Wanna show me how good that mouth of yours is? Then take them off.”

Joel knelt between your thighs, trembling as he slid your soaked panties down your legs.

He didn’t even try to hide the way his breath hitched when your cunt was fully exposed to him, glistening and perfect.

His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths as he just stared for a moment, his lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“You just gonna look, Joel?” you teased, your fingers slipping into his hair and tugging gently. “Or are you gonna be a good boy and show me what you can do?”

That broke him. His head dipped instantly, his breath ghosting hot over your slick folds as he whispered, “Yes… yes, ma’am.” His voice was low, reverent, almost a prayer.

The first touch of his tongue was hesitant but deliberate, a slow drag from your entrance to your clit, as if he wanted to savor you.

He groaned into you, the sound muffled but deep, and then he leaned in further, pressing his mouth to your cunt like he couldn’t get close enough.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice soft but thick with pleasure. “Fuck, you’re so eager for it. Just like that.”

Joel didn’t answer—couldn’t answer.

He was too focused, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open as he worked his tongue through every inch of your folds.

His breath hitched as he tasted you, his lips sealing over your clit for a moment to suck softly before his tongue returned to explore your entrance.

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, your hips arching slightly into his mouth. “You’re so fucking good at that. Look at you, so hungry for me. You love this, don’t you? Love worshipping my pussy.”

His only response was a desperate, muffled groan and moaning as he shifted his grip, spreading your thighs wider. 

His nose pressed against your clit, and he rubbed it there as his tongue delved inside you, slow and deliberate, tasting you from the inside out. 

His breathing was ragged now, warm puffs of air against your heat between each swipe of his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered hoarsely against you, his voice barely audible over the sound of his mouth working your cunt. “Fuck… taste so good. Yes. Yes, ma’am…”

You tugged his hair lightly, guiding him just where you wanted, and he followed without hesitation, his moans vibrating through your core. 

His nose nudged your clit again, his tongue lapping at your entrance with long, languid strokes, and your moans filled the room, soft and breathy.

“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice breaking slightly as he found just the right rhythm. “Such a good boy. Keep going, baby. Make me come.”

Joel groaned deeply, the sound muffled as he pressed his face impossibly closer to your core, his lips locking around your clit. 

Each sound he made was guttural, desperate, like he was losing himself in the taste of you.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly, anchoring himself to you as his nose pressed against your folds, adding pressure in all the right places.

“Good boy,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you combed your fingers through his hair, guiding him exactly where you needed him. “Keep going, baby. Suck my clit just like that.”

Joel whimpered against you, the sound low and wrecked, and he obeyed without hesitation, sucking harder, his tongue darting out to flick over the swollen nub between pulls. 

He groaned again, his hips shifting slightly as if he couldn’t help but grind against the mattress, completely undone by the act of pleasuring you.

Your breath hitched, your body trembling as the tension in your core tightened to an unbearable degree.

“Fuck, Joel—don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He moaned louder at your words, his hands tightening on your thighs as he doubled down, his lips creating just the right amount of pressure while his tongue worked you mercilessly. 

His nose nudged against your clit in rhythm with his sucking, the sensation pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Please,” he murmured against you between strokes, his voice trembling with need. “Wanna make you come, ma’am. Wanna feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

That was all it took. Your body tensed, your back arching as your orgasm slammed into you, waves of pleasure crashing through you so hard you couldn’t even form words. 

Joel groaned against you, his tongue and lips relentless as he rode out your release, his moans vibrating through every sensitive nerve ending.

When you finally came down, your thighs trembling and your breath shaky, Joel slowly pulled back, his lips glistening and swollen, his face flushed and eyes glazed with pure adoration.

He looked like a man on his knees at the altar of a goddess.

“perfect,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, his gaze fixed on your blissed-out expression.

“Did I do good?” he asked quietly, his voice raw and hoarse.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Better than good, baby,” you murmured. “Fuck.”

Joel’s eyes darted to yours, wide and full of something raw and pleading. 

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against your inner thigh as he spoke, his voice trembling with need. “Please… can I keep goin’? Just a little more. I don’t wanna stop. Wanna taste you again, ma’am.”

His mouth found your clit in a featherlight kiss, his tongue flicking out experimentally, careful and reverent as though seeking permission. 

His hands slid up your thighs, holding them open like you might change your mind.

“Joel,” you said, your voice soft but firm, your hand threading into his hair and tugging just enough to stop him. “No, baby. I wanna feel you now.”

Joel froze, his breath hitching, and he whined softly against your skin, the sound almost pitiful. “But—” he started, his lips pressing to your clit again in a desperate, fleeting kiss. “I can make you come again. Please, I—”

“Joel.” Your voice was sharper this time, not cruel but commanding. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips glistening and his pupils blown wide. “You’ve been so good, baby, but I want you now. Don’t make me ask twice.”

The words sent a visible shudder through him. He hesitated for half a second before pulling back reluctantly, his lips parted as if to protest but no words came out. His hands lingered on your thighs, squeezing gently as he swallowed hard.

“Yes, ma’am,” he finally said, his voice low and hoarse, the respect and submission in his tone sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

He sat back on his heels, his eyes never leaving yours as he waited for your next command.

You leaned up slightly, cupping his cheek with one hand, your thumb brushing over his flushed skin. His lips were parted, breathless, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. 

“You’ve done so well, baby,” you murmured softly, letting your other hand trail down his chest. “But I need to see all of you. Let’s get this off.”

Joel’s breath hitched, his wide eyes locking onto yours as you reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Yes,” he whispered, the words shaky and reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed this moment.

One by one, you undid the buttons, the fabric parting to reveal the broad expanse of his chest.

You slid the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the bed as you sat back to admire him.

Your gaze swept over the planes of his body—the strong curve of his shoulders, the scars that marred his skin, the soft dusting of hair on his chest.

“Fuck, Joel,” you murmured, your voice full of heat and awe. “Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

His cheeks turned a deep red, and he looked away, swallowing hard. “Don’t know about that,” he mumbled, his voice low and unsure.

You leaned forward, your hands sliding over his chest, your thumbs brushing along the ridges of his scars.

“Oh, I do,” you purred, your tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re fucking perfect, Joel. Every inch of you.”

Your fingers grazed his nipples, and Joel froze, his breath catching audibly. The faintest shiver ran through his body, and he let out a soft, shaky, “Ma’am…”

You smirked, leaning in closer. “Sensitive, huh?” you murmured, circling the hardened peaks with your thumbs.

Joel let out a broken gasp, his hips jerking into the air as his hands gripped the sheets beneath him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice low and desperate. “Didn’t… didn’t know I -.”

“You didn’t?” you teased, leaning down to press a soft kiss to one nipple before flicking your tongue over it. Joel’s reaction was instant—a guttural moan that sent a wave of heat straight through you.

“Sweetheart I-” he gasped again, his hands trembling as they hovered near your waist, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. “I—fuck, I—”

“Hush, baby,” you whispered, shifting to his other nipple and sucking it into your mouth. 

Joel cried out, his head falling back against the pillows as his chest arched into your touch.

His hips bucked again, and you could feel how hard he was, straining against the confines of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his voice trembling. “I didn’t know… didn’t know I could feel this good. Please, don’t stop.”

You hummed against his skin, your tongue teasing over the sensitive bud before you nipped at it gently. Joel’s whole body jerked, a sharp gasp escaping his lips.

“You’re so sensitive, baby,” you murmured, sitting back to admire the way his chest heaved, his eyes wide and glassy. “Bet no one’s ever touched you like this before.”

Joel shook his head frantically, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white. “No,” he breathed. “Never. Fuck, it’s—ma’am, it’s so good.”

You let your hands drift lower, tracing the sharp lines of his ribs and the soft curve of his stomach. Joel’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a shaky moan as your fingers teased the waistband of his jeans.

“You want more, baby?” you asked softly, your voice teasing and full of promise.

Joel nodded frantically, his voice barely above a whisper as he rasped, “Please… please, ma’am. Anything you want.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, slowly pulling them down along with his underwear, your eyes drinking in the sight of him as he was finally exposed.

Joel’s cock sprang free, flushed and thick, the head an angry, swollen red and glistening with his earlier release.

Pearly streaks of cum had smeared down his shaft, pooling at the base and even dripping onto his balls. You let out a low hum of approval, your lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Such a mess,” you tutted, your voice thick with teasing affection. “You’ve really made quite the mess, baby.”

Joel’s chest heaved, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he avoided your gaze, his embarrassment clear. But his hips jerked slightly, almost involuntarily, at the heat in your voice.

“Aw, don’t get shy on me now,” you teased, your fingers curling gently around his cock, feeling the slickness of him against your palm.

“This is nothing to be embarrassed about. It just shows how much you need me.”

Joel whimpered, his voice breaking as he finally met your eyes. “I… I can’t help it,” he admitted hoarsely, his voice trembling. “You make me—fuck—you make me crazy.”

Your thumb stroked up the length of his shaft, smearing the sticky remnants of his cum before circling the sensitive head.

“I know, baby,” you cooed, your voice softening just a touch. “And I love how desperate you get for me. Let me clean you up first, okay? Can’t leave my good boy all messy like this.”

Joel nodded frantically, his lips parting as a shaky moan escaped him. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his voice thick with submission.

You leaned down, your tongue darting out to trace along the underside of his cock, starting at the base where his cum had pooled and slowly working your way up.

The taste of him was intoxicating, salty and musky, and you let out a quiet, pleased hum as you licked him clean. Joel’s entire body trembled beneath you, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as he struggled to stay still.

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ma’am… oh, fuck…”

You didn’t stop, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, collecting every drop of his release before moving lower.

Your lips closed around one of his balls, sucking gently as your hand continued to stroke him, coaxing soft whimpers and gasps from his lips.

His thighs trembled, his breath hitching as you moved to the other, lavishing it with the same attention.

“You taste so good, Joel,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry as you pulled back slightly to admire your work. “Such a pretty cock, too. Look at you, all clean and perfect for me now.”

Joel moaned loudly, his head tipping back as his hands clenched the sheets even tighter. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I don’t deserve this.”

You grinned, your fingers brushing along the length of his cock, your touch light and teasing.

“You deserve every bit of this,” you said firmly, your voice dipping into a commanding tone. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, haven’t you? Letting me take care of you like this.”

Joel’s hips jerked against your hand, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he nodded frantically.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Yes, ma’am. Please… please don’t stop.”

You leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive slit.

“You want more, baby?” you murmured, your voice dripping with seduction. “Want me to make you feel even better?”

Joel’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking onto yours as he nodded, his desperation palpable. “Please,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’ll do anything. Just… please let me feel you.”

You smiled, soft and knowing, before leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “Anything, huh?” you teased, your voice low and dripping with promise. “Then show me, Joel. Show me how much you want this.”

Joel’s hands trembled as he gripped your hips, helping you straddle him. His cock pressed against your slick heat, and he groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through both of you.

His eyes flicked between your face and where your bodies were about to join, his chest heaving with anticipation.

“Don’t make me wait,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “Please, ma’am. Let me feel you.”

You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, your breath hitching as you slowly sank down onto him.

The stretch was delicious, the thickness of him filling you completely, and you couldn’t help the moan that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck, Joel,” you gasped, your hands bracing on his chest. “You feel so good, baby. So big—.”

Joel’s head fell back against the pillows, his lips parted as a choked moan escaped him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, his voice shaky. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect. Feels like heaven, darlin’. I—fuck—I can’t believe this.”

You rocked your hips slowly, letting yourself adjust to the feel of him before setting a steady rhythm.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he bucked up to meet you, his movements desperate and hungry.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice low and commanding as you leaned over him, your lips brushing against his ear. “That’s it, Joel. Let me take care of you. Let me give you what you need.”

Joel whimpered beneath you, his hips stuttering as he clung to you.

“You’re… you’re so fuckin’ good to me,” he rasped, his voice cracking with emotion. “The way you—fuck—the way you handle everything. The way you handle me.”

You tilted your head, studying him with soft affection as your hips moved steadily against his.

“Finally can let go, hm?” you murmured, your tone soothing yet commanding. “Yeah? Let me take care of you, Joel. You don’t have to worry so much.”

Joel’s eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as his hands slid up to cup your waist, holding you like you were his lifeline.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips bucking harder into you. “I—I worry about you, darlin’. But… but it’s an honor to. Always an honor.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you leaned down to kiss him deeply, swallowing the desperate sounds spilling from his lips.

His thrusts grew erratic beneath you, his chest heaving as he neared the edge.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist tighter, his fingers digging into your skin like he was afraid to let go.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts, and his hips moved with a frantic rhythm beneath you, desperate and unrelenting. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, your body moving in perfect sync with his.

“You’re so fucking good, Joel,” you murmured against his lips, your voice heavy with affection and desire. “So perfect, baby. Keep going—don’t stop.”

His head tipped back, exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat, a choked moan escaping his lips.

“I—I can’t—fuck, darlin’,” he gasped, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “You feel so goddamn good. Can’t… can’t hold on much longer.”

You cupped his face, bringing his gaze back to yours, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek.

“You don’t have to hold on,” you whispered, your voice a soothing command. “Let go for me, Joel. Let me feel you.”

Joel’s eyes widened, his pupils blown, and his hips snapped up into you with desperate force.

“You’re—God, you’re everything,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his hands slid up your sides, trembling as they roamed over your body. “Everything, darlin'. Don’t wanna stop… don’t wanna lose this.”

“You’re not gonna lose anything,” you reassured him, your own voice breathy and uneven as you rocked against him harder, the friction pushing you closer to your own edge. “I’m here, Joel. Always. Now, give it to me, baby.”

Joel’s body tensed, his back arching off the bed as a guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck!” he cried, his hands gripping your hips as his release hit him, his cock pulsing inside you with a heat that sent you spiraling.

The intensity of his climax triggered your own, your body tightening around him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you.

Your cries mingled with his, the room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, raw and unrestrained.

Joel’s hips stuttered beneath you, his movements slowing as he rode out the last shuddering waves of his orgasm. His hands loosened their grip on your hips, sliding up to cradle your back as he pulled you down against his chest, holding you close.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sounds in the room your labored breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets. Joel’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin, his chest rising and falling beneath you as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re… you’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but filled with awe. “I don’t deserve you, darlin’. Don’t deserve any of this.”

You lifted your head, brushing your lips against his with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. “You deserve it all, Joel,” you murmured, your voice steady but warm. “Every damn bit. You’re good to me—you’re good for me.”

Joel’s eyes searched yours, shining with an emotion he couldn’t quite name but didn’t want to hide. His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing your forehead in a lingering, reverent kiss.

"Now rest up. We’ve got work to do.”

· · ───

From then on, you and Joel became Jackson’s most formidable pair. Whether it was managing patrols, handling disputes, or protecting the town, people knew better than to question the two of you. Joel was your rock, steadfast and loyal, while you were the sharp, commanding presence that kept everything moving forward.

He was at your side for every decision, every challenge, always watching your back—and stealing those quiet moments when it was just the two of you. Joel wore his pride in you like a badge, unspoken but deeply felt, in the way his gaze lingered and his touch steadied you.

And every night, as the world outside grew dark, you both found solace in each other—a partnership built on trust, strength, and the kind of love that didn’t need words to be understood.

Joel always said it best in his own way: “Ain’t nothin’ in this world I wouldn’t do for you, darlin’. Always.”

· · ───────────𖥸──────────· ··

I am not beta reading all of that so if y'all find any errors tell me or ignore them like I did the past 22 years. Hope this was fun for you - please comment your opinions (plsplspls). I kinda feel like this is too long idk-

love youuuuuu

[ciaoteamo]

Milk and Water (Pt. I)

pairings: doppelgänger!Milkman x fem!Reader

summary: One of the newest residents’ very first doppelgänger comes in, trying to sway you into to letting them in. Will you..?

pt.II

art credit (twt: loafuu_chii)

warning: 18+ content

“…what’s the story behind your um… ears(?)” You ask the doppelgänger before you. It was a clone of one of your favorite neighbors actually, her name was Maria.

A woman around your age that you became really close friends with over the few months of you working here.

“@&! !$?&” The doppelgänger let out a series of sounds.

“right, so give me one second” You press the bright red button next to the window and the steel blinds shut with a blaring alarm sound.

You call D.D.D. and they clean up their mess per usual. You once again, you were just thankful you didn’t have to work on that side of the glass.

You check your wrist watch, and happily sigh at the fact that you only had one more hour left to work.

“ mmm, someone’s eager to go home i see” A familiar voice speaks up.

“oh, Mr. Francis” You give the man a polite grin. He gave you a sly one in return. You knew it wasn’t him off the bat. Francis was usually shy towards you, making you want to tease him into blushing whenever you saw him.

Well, you suppose you could kill two birds with one stone. Flirt with the doppelgänger of your crush, and have some entertainment.

“how are you pretty girl” He asks, sliding an I.D. and sheet through the slot.

You examine the documents and identification and beam a smile up at him.

“the date on the I.D. is a little expired hun” You declare. He lets out a small chuckle and leans a little toward the glass.

“mmm, been busy with the milk business, love. must’ve slipped my mind to renew it” He replied. His eyes were low but he still held his sly grin. You leaned back in your chair, with a bored look on your face.

“you’re not like my Francis” You huff and tilt your head with a disappointed look.

His grin faltered and he stepped closer. His breathing had quickened a bit and he took off his hat. “who knows, i could be better” He suggests.

Now that his confidence had depleted a little, you were growing bored of him. You checked the time again and you had 45 minutes left.

“well i’ve gotta get you moving now. it was nice to see such a handsome face though, so thank you” You beam and reach for the button

“you don’t want to do this, trust me” He states with a warning tone. This wasn’t unusual, getting threats after realizing they’re doppelgängers, but being that this one was this aware… they must be evolving.

“and why would i trust you?” You ask out of curiosity.

“i mean look at me” He smirks, one arm leaned against the top of the window. His irises turned from their chocolate brown and into an empty pure white.

“hm” You nod and press the button.

“(Y/N)!” He roared with what you assume was his fist banging the glass.

You call D.D.D. and wait for them to clean their mess, again.

The steel blind begins to lift and you sit back in your seat, checking your watch again but noticed the new pink lighting that shone in.

You furrow your eyebrows and look up in horror as you see blood streaks on the window in thick, and dripping amounts. You jump out of your chair and put your back against the wall.

About 5 D.D.D. workers were piled up, bloody and battered in the corner of the room, and there the doppelgänger was.

Staring at you.

His eyes were low, his shirt was torn, revealing his pecs and the start of his abdomen. He was panting with his (surprisingly still) neat hair and an almost psychotic expression.

“oh no…” He starts with a laugh, still breathing heavily.

“what did you do..?” You cover your mouth with your hand.

“it’s what you did. you got me all riled up.”

He looks down for a brief moment and you swear you hear a zip. He holds his tie and the end of his tattered shirt in his mouth and looks up at you with knitted eyebrows.

His breath fogging up the window as he asks you. Looking like a poor starving puppy. “will you let me in now…? I need your help…” He slightly groaned.

“…what. the. fuck.”

[n1ght0f-nyx]

giving him a fast and rough handjob that lasts what feels like several hours, he lays on the bed, his thighs squirming and clenching as you bully his sticky cock, he has cum a bazillion times, cum pooling at his thighs and stomach "oh god.. please mommy..i need more...d-d-dont stop!!" he begs and pleads, and you cant help but grin "don't worry babyboy...i wasn't planning on it~"

[meiru-sama]

Yandere!loser x fem!reader

This story contains: Masochistic yandere, submissive yandere, mean/bully reader, masturbation, bullying, psychological abuse, toxic relationship, sexual themes, NSFW

He always noticed how you would always look at him--- though it wasn't filled with admiration and love. It was filled with disgust and judgement. You would lean on your locker, surrounded by your friends while you all stare at him as he pass. His breath hitched, his palms sweaty while you laughed at him.

Any normal person would consider this as an act of psychological abuse but to him it was psychological pleasure. He loves it, everything about you.

The way your lips would lift into a grin everytime you would make fun of him.

The way you would wrap your fingers around his messy hair, pulling it everytime you sit behind him.

The way you would look down at him everytime you would 'accidently' spill  water all over his work.

The way you would constantly push him out of your way while you glare at him.

The way you would force him to kneel infront of you behind the school with your friends. Slapping him, hitting him and sometimes giving him a 'sorry' peck on the cheeks.

It was making him go crazy, he could feel his pants tightening everytime you speak to him with your low and taunting voice.

He loves having your attention, he loves kneeling infront of you, he loves being humiliated by you.

Though he would hide it behind a facade, he would beg for you to stop, he would fight back and act like he doesn't like it. But all he wants is for you to push him on the ground. Break him until he can't take it anymore.

One day, you invited him to a party in your house. Words cannot express how glad he was, he can't stop thinking about the thought of you wearing a tight dress.

"Wear something nice, kay?"

"If i don't see you tonight, i'll go rough with you for the following weeks."

He almost screamed, he was contemplating if he should go or not. He wanted you rough but he also wanted to see you in your party dress in a freaky setting.

He sighed, as he stared up at your house. It was huge and he could hearoud music inside.

Upon entering the door, he was almost blinded by the colorful lights. He was nervous but luckily you greeted him the moment he entered. He was right, you were wearing a tight dress.

You led him to an empty room, far from the heated crowd and oh-- he loved how it  reeked of your expensive perfume.

You forced him to sit in your bed before rummaging through your drawer to grab a three page of crippled paper.

You told him that you had some plans next week so you wouldn't be able to do your essay project. You sat on the ground, laying your head on his lap. Looking up at him, playfully.

He have always thought about how smart you were---effortlessly always top of the class, reciting without struggles, high scores. It shocked him that you were asking him for help, someone who is second to you.

He nodded, painfully and you noticed it. You smiled when you thought of an idea.

"Maybe you should have something in return."

You stood up, towering over him who looked at you, eyes wide in shock.

"Tell me, what do you want? I'll give it to you."

He couldn't belive what he was hearing. YOU giving him the chance to choose? Wow. He paused for a minute before he finally opened his mouth to speak.

"Kiss me." Those words slipped out of his mouth like a crime, though it felt good. It held commitment and desire.

You frowned before chuckling. You pushed him in the bed, sliding a knee between his thighs. You could feel his boner.

"You're a freaky one, aren't ya?"

You muttered before kissing him, your hand roaming around his belt thought you had no intention to remove it. You liked teasing him.

The whole makeout session lasted for a good 30 minutes. He was practically moaning between the kiss, panting and grinding on your knee.

"You'll get more when you give me a good essay."

You said before standing up, you then gave him one last smile before leaving him on the bed--- hard and needy.

When you finally left, he quickly stood up and went to the bathroom where he finished your job. He wished it was your hand stroking it right now. He imagined you kneeling infront of him, sucking his soul out like a good girl you are.

[hatethysinner]

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

[esote-rika]

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 | 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: You have several (stereotypical) assumptions about your nerdy coworker; he proves how wrong you are about them. Content: 3.2k, early season dom!Spencer Reid, bratty reader, reader has hair that can be put in a ponytail, brat taming, BDSM dynamics, sensation play (feather tickler hehe), reader is ticklish, spanking, making out, thigh riding, coworkers hooking up (are we even fucking surprised), hopefully still soft and sweet and hot. a/n: Listen I know I keep saying I’m taking a break but unfortunately I’m ovulating HARD; this is the last one for May, but there will be a part 2, I’m already planning it. I wrote this completely piss drunk (my friends can probably share screenshots as proof oops) and then sobered up enough to edit (might have missed some stuff). Based on a request that Tumblr ate 😭 but basically, BAU reader teases Spencer about sex only to find out he's a kinky BDSM dom. Hope u enjoy!

“What would you know about BDSM?” The question, spoken with a carefree laugh and just a hint of condescension, is directed at your coworker, who is currently stirring copious amounts of sugar into his coffee beside you. 

Dressed in a tweed blazer that overwhelms his slight frame, Spencer Reid only tilts his head to the side, honey eyes keen and flashing with something you can’t quite place. You lean against the counter in the pantry, intrigued by his response. You’d expected a blush, chin tipping down, hair falling over his pretty eyes, lips uttering bashful, stuttering words. 

Not… this. Regarding you with a frank, unblinking calm that has you shifting in place.

“Oh, right,” you roll your eyes teasingly, unwilling to let him see how easily his nonplussed reaction has fractured your easygoing facade, “You’ve read about it extensively, haven’t you? What do psychology textbooks have to say about whips and blindfolds, Dr. Reid?”

“Quite a lot,” he replies with a serenity that unnerves, “Some attribute it to the feeling of being safely back inside the womb.”

You scoff, “Right, because thinking of your mother during bondage is so sexy.”

“But,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you, patient but warning, “There’s often explanations that go hand in hand with biology. Deprivation of one sense tends to heighten the other. Physical restriction offers the same feeling, which then leads to altered states of pleasure. In a more emotional sense, surrendering your power to a partner communicates the highest level of trust, offering a deeper sense of intimacy for some people.”

So he does know a lot about it. Still, you don’t drop your teasing grin as you reply, “God, how do you manage to make BDSM sound so clinical?”

“Because it is a little clinical, if I’m just explaining it in polite conversation. The communication is better enjoyed if the actions match.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm hmm,” he smiles, dimples flashing, a show of innocence. A mask. 

“And this information is from experience?” you tease.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

His tone carries implication and it settles upon your stomach, heavy and warm. That makes you perk up, but you fight the urge to show your intrigue. Instead, you scoff, “As if there’s anything to know.”

He’s quiet. Sipping at his coffee, honey eyes twinkling over the rim of his mug. It’s infuriating.

“No way.” you huff, finally breaking. The lightness of teasing leaves your voice, shifting to something darker, more accusatory, “You expect me to believe you have experience? In BDSM?” 

“Announce it to the entire office, why don’t you?”

You pause, looking at him almost in betrayal. Really, how could you not? Spencer Reid, who looks like his nose would start bleeding from the slightest sexual attention from a living, breathing person, has BDSM experience? The man who wears sweater vests and slicks his hair back like he’s a seventy year old librarian? You survey him today, in all of his rumpled, mismatched glory, trying to find one hint of his apparent favored pastimes.

He looks almost smug as he meets your gaze, cocking his head to the side.

“No way.” you repeat.

“You possess an awfully limited vocabulary for today.” 

“Shut up, stop pulling my leg,” your eyes narrow suspiciously, still in disbelief. 

“I’m not pulling your leg,” he says, allowing a small, almost imperceptible smirk to curve up his lips for one split second, before his face gets hidden by the coffee cup again.

“Prove it, then.” 

The words startle both of you, but you’re stubborn enough to see it through. Meeting his gaze with a confidence that would seem sincere to the untrained eye, but Spencer has worked with you long enough to know it’s all bravado. 

He looks at you, unsure. “Prove it?”

“Look who's vocabulary is limited now.”

He scoffs and lowers his voice, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“I know what I’m getting into, I’m a grown woman, thanks.” 

“Then I’ll fax you a copy of my rules. If they still seem like something you’d want to try out, come to my apartment Saturday night—that is, if we aren’t called in for a case.”

You shrug, the perfect picture of nonchalance. “Great, sounds like a plan. Don’t forget to fax.” You both know he wouldn’t.

By some universal twist of fate, that Saturday is devoid of any last minute cases. You spend the whole morning poring over the sixteen-page document that Spencer had sent over on Friday, reading through the risks—a lot of which you already know from your own research—his specific set of rules, and what he’d normally allow for a beginner. You don’t have the same perfect memory he does, but you’re sure you’ve memorized everything by the time you knock at his apartment.

“So you came,” he says, offering you a cool glass of lemonade, looking perfectly at ease as he leads you into his bedroom. 

“Of course,” you say, looking around as you sip on the drink, taking it all in, “I was serious when I said prove it.” It’s dim, but nothing else is inside that rouses suspicion. It looks completely normal—a neat bed, a messy desk, haphazard piles of books—until your eyes land on the items on the dresser. 

Silk ties. A paddle. Something that looks similar to a feather duster, but you assume it’s made with a different activity in mind. Your cheeks are aflame.

“You know the safe word?”

“Yes. Jupiter—you’re such a nerd, by the way.”

He laughs, taking you half finished glass and setting it down. “Do you have any objections to the terms I’d laid out? Additions?”

“I just need you to make a promise.”

“For what?”

“That this stays between us.” You face him, searching his eyes for any deceit. It’s always a risk, being a woman and engaging in anything that could be considered deviant, especially in an environment like the BAU, which is honestly a glorified boy’s club.

“You have my word. Everything that we do stays in this room.” he vows, stepping closer.

“And,” you bite your lip, “No sex, right?”

He shakes his head, “None. We’ll focus on sensations tonight, just to let you get a feel for things.”

It seems more intimate, just trusting him to tease and play with your body, but you’re glad that the boundary is set in place. Spencer seems to have gotten a lot of experience at this, and briefly, you wonder just how many other people has been in your place.

You push the thought away and smile at him. “Okay. Then that’s all on my end. I accept all your terms, and I remember the safe word.”

He hums, turning you around. Standing so closely behind you, his heat warms your back like a gentle fire. Long, elegant fingers that carry the lingering musk of old books and coffee gather your hair into a ponytail at the base of your neck. He secures it with a thin elastic, before leaning in, breath whispering goosebumps into your skin. 

“Strip.”

There’s a sudden loss of heat as he steps back. You’re surprised to miss it, already, but even more surprised by his command. “What?”

“I said strip, angel.” he says, walking to your front with an expectant look on his face, “Down to your underwear.”

You sputter, looking up at him incredulously, but his face is serious. Patient, but serious.

“Do you need your safe word?”

You don’t reply, realizing that it’s begun and this is exactly what you agreed to do. To submit to him and his commands. The weight of this reality sinks in, rendering you mute and frozen, and he immediately softens. 

Hands cupping your cheeks, Spencer looks at you with concern, “Hey, we can stop.”

“No,” you reply, forcefully. Stubborn pride pulsing through your veins—no way you’re stopping before you’ve even done anything, “I don’t want to stop, it’s okay. I just—okay. Strip.” you step back, nodding and muttering to yourself, “Okay, yes, I can do that.” Looking down, you fumble at the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with clumsy, unsure fingers.

He steps back to the dresser, retrieving the bundle of feathers, never averting his gaze. Wide brown eyes take you in as you lose your shirt, and then your pants, standing before him in matching lace underwear. A slow grin spreads over his lips, “You dressed up for me?”

You feel your cheeks burn, “No.”

“So you just wear expensive lace sets for no reason, even on Saturdays?”

“You don’t know what I like.”

A step closer, “I’m about to,” he says in a low, smug tone that has your breath catching, “Stay still.”

Stay still. Easy enough. Your eyes follow his movements, the way he brandishes the feathers in his hands. Your head cranes back as he circles you, and he tuts in disapproval.

“I said stay still,” he murmurs, hand cupping your jaw and adjusting your head forward.

“But—”

“But?” 

“Nothing.” you squeak as you look ahead again. Your heart makes itself known, drumming in an exaggerated, hurried way that makes you want to shift. But Spencer said stay still, so you do.

A small part of you wants to scoff—why are you following Spencer Reid’s orders? This is ridiculous. Say the safe word and this would all be over. He’d never mention it to anyone else, like you both agreed earlier. You can get out, and you know for a fact that Spencer wouldn’t judge or protest.

But you don’t.

Because a larger, more significant part of you finds this whole thing incredibly hot.

Several seconds pass. Agonizingly slow. He’s drawing it out, you realize, testing how long he can get you to stay still. Or maybe he left. No, he wouldn’t—couldn’t, you’d hear his footsteps.  Finally giving in, you look over your shoulder, brows knitted in confusion.

You’re met with a disapproving look and a shaking head. “Didn’t I tell you to stay still?”

“You’re taking too long,” you pout.

“That’s the second time you’ve disobeyed me, angel,” he tuts. The heat of his body envelops you as he steps into your space again, his chest pressing to your back. A hand skims over your side, warm and firm as it finds the swell of your hip, and sits there. A warning. “You know what’s going to happen when you do it thrice, don’t you?”

Your mind flashes back to the conversation and the list, the rules he laid out so painstakingly for you. Thoughtful and attentive, Spencer had made you read through pages of what he expects from this dynamic, the rules you must follow as his submissive, the punishment that will be enforced should you disobey.

Three strikes and you get spanked.

“I do,” your words drift out the most delicate breath, heart hammering even more now. “I remember.”

He hums when you are finally still. Lips land on your bare shoulder, chaste and warm, while his hand travels up your side, featherlight and teasing. They skim up your ribcage and you can’t help but gasp, fighting every cell in your body to keep from moving. Your compliance is rewarded by another satisfied hum, and then finally it touches you. 

The feather. 

Crawling up the back of your left thigh, soft as a whisper. 

Ticklish.

“Fuck,” you gasp, jerking away from his grasp in surprise. You find yourself missing the feel of his hand on your waist before you realize your mistake. 

“That’s the third.” he says, shaking his head.

“I wasn’t expecting it on my thigh!” you snap, suddenly feeling so exposed. To shield yourself, your arms cross over your shoulder defensively, voice lowering by way of apology, “I’m ticklish!”

He considers it for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, but his eyes remain trained on you. Gauging your reaction, the same way he’d talk to a skittish witness. You find yourself shifting again, unused to being on the receiving end of such a stare. When he speaks, his voice is calm, as if he’s soothing a ruffled creature, “You’re welcome to say your safe word.” 

The easy way out. But you’ve already gone this far, stripped out of your so-called armor, down to your lace underwear and allowed him to regard you in ways far too intimate for coworkers. It would be such a waste to back out now. Besides, he said the punishment would just be spanking, how bad could that be?

“No,” you reply finally, voice breaking through the silence that settled and swelled in the room, “No, I’m okay, I’ll—I’ll take the punishment, like I agreed to.”

He sits up straighter, “Are you sure?”

A gulp. “Yes.”

He pats his lap, “Come here then.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you felt warmth at your cheeks, but this feels like a wildfire has started now, smoothing over your face before spreading all over your body in an all consuming blaze. Flashes of those kinky magazines and news articles you’d rolled your eyes over flit through your mind, the models now replaced by the image of you and Spencer. He’s asking you to bend over on his lap to receive your punishment.

With a nod, you join him on the bed, your torso draping horizontally over his lap. Your legs are laid on the bed, and you hold yourself up by your elbows. From this position, he has perfect access to your ass, a large hand smoothing over one cheek. 

You squirm, “Your hand’s cold.” 

He laughs, “God, you never stop complaining, huh? I should add another one just for that.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it.”

He sighs, “I know. You’re doing fine, all things considered. I’ll just do three, okay? For every time you moved.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to count.”

You inhale so sharply you almost choke on nothing. That had no business being as hot as you found it. His hand is on your ass again, and you have to dig into your brain to focus and answer, “Okay.”

The first strike comes quickly, a sharp sting followed by a cool, gentle hand soothing over it. You exhale a gasp along with the word, “One.”

“Good girl.”

Jesus Christ.

Another smack, this time on the other cheek. “Two… three.”

It’s over before you know it, barely even lasting three minutes, but it’s still managed to take your every breath away. You find yourself wishing he had added another strike, just so you could feel the sharp sting again. 

“Are you okay?” his voice pulls you from your reverie, hands helping you sit back up beside him, “Do you need a break? I could get you some lotion—”

You tune him out, staring as he offers different ways to soothe the stinging. His hands keep making lazy strokes up and down your arms, eyes completely focused on you. Words are flying past his lips, attempting to reach you through this haze, solutions and probably another reminder of your safe word, but all you can think about is how close he is, how pretty with his earnest brown eyes and pouty lips, but also how hot and since when was Spencer Reid hot? 

A familiar sensation settles low in your belly, slickness between your thighs, and oh my god you just want to kiss him.

So you do.

His lips are soft, pausing mid sentence for just one moment, before he’s kissing you right back, open mouthed and desperate, his hand cradling the back of your head, tilting it up so his tongue can dive deeper into your mouth. You moan, kissing him back with just as much fervor, scrambling forward in an attempt to get even closer. He tastes like mint and cinnamon, the oddest combination that has you sucking on his bottom lip, eager for more.

An arm wraps around your waist, and you find yourself on his lap again—no, on his thigh. Singular, straddling it with nothing but a tiny scrap of lace and his trousers in between your skin. Two degrees of separation. You moan again, biting down hard.

“Wait,” he pulls back, breathless, thrown off, “Wait this isn’t part of the agreement.”

You laugh, “I’m sorry, I don’t really care about it right now.”

Soft brown locks tickle your jaw as he ducks his head. Lips run over your collar, moist and gentle as he speaks, “I wasn’t really prepared for this. I don’t have a condom.”

“Oh.” you seem to deflate in his arms, despite the incessant pounding in your chest, the buzzing at your fingertips.

He looks up, surveys you like a puzzle to be solved. On his thigh, with barely anything on, practically throwing yourself at him. Muscle flexes and shifts beneath you, eliciting a gasp from your lips. It moves again, just as his hands hold onto your hips and keep you in place. 

Your lips fall open, “Oh.” you repeat, but this time, it’s a low, breathy moan. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with a small smirk, “Move those hips for me, angel.”

You don’t need to be told twice, pressing down hard onto his thigh. The pressure gives your clit enough stimulation, pulling another moan from your lips. Louder this time. Loud and pretty, as his hands keep you steady, and your arms wrap around his shoulder, fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Oh god,” you gasp, staring right at him, at those intense hazel eyes that have turned nearly black. You ride his thigh shamelessly, finding a rhythm that you know will have the pleasure snapping within minutes. Paired with Spencer’s praise, the sweet kisses he’s laying on your jaw, you find yourself trembling in his arms as you rub yourself along his muscular thigh. 

All of the anticipation seems to have built up to a fever pitch, his teasing, the spanking, it all floods back until your orgasm hits you like lightning. Razor sharp, every nerve of your body seems to sing and tremble from pleasure as Spencer keeps his thigh gently moving, helping you come down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, burying your face into his neck. 

He laughs, wrapping his arms tightly around you, “Are you okay?”

“Better than okay.”

Slender fingers card through the back of your head, tangles into your hair, “You did really well. We went a little off script, but it seems like you found it pleasurable, which is always the goal.”

Pleasurable is the understatement of the century, but your only response is a breathless chuckle. At the moment, that’s all you’re capable of. 

“Okay,” you whisper into his neck, losing all ability to extricate yourself from him. He doesn’t seem to mind though, his hold on you just as tight, free hand rubbing warm circles over your bare back. “Okay, you’ve proved your point. You seriously are a dom.”

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“What? You can’t believe it? I literally just gave you one of the most hands on demonstrations anyone could ask for.” he says with a laugh. It rumbles through his chest, and the feeling makes something in your stomach clench pleasantly. 

You lift your head, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes flash with mischief when you reply, “I don’t know, I might need another one to fully understand it.”

He smiles back, wide and catlike, “Well then, I think that calls for an encore.”

Thank you for reading!!! also if you could give me some encouragement for my thesis that’d be much appreciated i’d give you so much brain kisses MUAH.

[trampleddoves]

For the blurb thingy: him fucking you into overstimulation and you weakly try to push him off but you can't so he just guides you to hold onto your plushie while he keeps fucking into you...<3

s. r. blurb 9

contents: afab!reader, dom!Spencer, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mentions of a safe word but not used, corruption of a plushie, MDNI

You aren't sure where Spencer gets his stamina in bed. 

You love him, really you do, in all his lanky, nerdy glory, but Spencer Reid can barely run up two flights of stairs without losing his breath. He cannot run like a normal person while holding his gun, often leaning on one side as if the gun weighs more than it actually does and is dragging him down. 

Yet somehow, without fail, he manages to last multiple rounds of sex 

At first, you assumed he's trying to compensate for something. He reaches his climax quite quickly—Being buried inside you seems to set every nerve in his body on gasoline, white hot flames licking just under his skin and erupting without warning. You both cry out, his in pleasure, and you out of surprise, your head thrown back as he spills deep inside your cunt. He pushes through the orgasm, taking advantage of the slick that’s gathered inside your walls to fuck you even harder. 

You thought he’s just being thorough. He wants you to climax as well, after all, he’s simply being a thoughtful lover. 

All delusions of that fly out the window by the time you come down from your high for the second time in a row, and he’s still going. Fingers at your clit, alternating between infinite circles and playful pinching, he fucks you hard and deep even as your vision swims and you’re barely coherent. 

The sheets are ruined beneath you, your slick dripping down your ass and thighs and soaking the bed. His cock is slick, a ring of creamy white gathered and coating the base, evidence of your release that’s mixed and dripped out from your swollen, sensitive folds. 

For someone who’s so adamant about exchanging germs and bacteria, Spencer Reid can be awfully filthy in bed. It’s overwhelming. Dizzyingly so. But something about your hazy, dreamy state only fuels him during nights like these, so he slows down, deliberately keeping himself on edge as he cups your breasts in his big hands, catching your nipples between his long fingers. 

Your hands lift up, sluggishly pushing his forearms away, and he pauses.

“Too much?” he rubs his palms over your chest, before they skate down your back, easing his rhythm to something more gentle and tender, “Need your safe word?”

You mumble something incoherent, eyes closing as his cock slides out. Your cunt tightens around him greedily, because despite everything, you relish this just as much as he does. The mind numbing sensitivity is simply too euphoric to ignore, the way you can feel your cunt ease up or squeeze around him is downright addictive, and even the loud, sinful sounds of wet skin slapping hard into each other is music to your ears. You love that his strength and stamina seems reserved specifically for you and your intimate nights, that he has something of a reservoir of physicality that he keeps hidden away from people. 

You whimper again, twisting to the side.

“Darling? Talk to me.” he croons, laying his body over yours. His weight presses you into the mattress, cock sitting heavily inside your walls. It helps ground you enough to extract an answer.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, keep going.”

“You sure?” he kisses your jaw, tongue licking up to your ear, hot and wet and filthy, “We can always stop.”

You clench around his cock in response. 

A breathless laugh. He lifts himself on one elbow, his other arm reaching for the closest fluffy thing he could find, which happens to be a large penguin plushie. “Here, hold onto Mr. Butters for me, love.”

You moan, one arm holding the toy to your chest, the other grasping his hand desperately, “We’re corrupting Mr. Butters.” you whimper as he begins to move again, pulling out of your delicious heat before snapping back inside.

“Not the first time we’ve done so, unfortunately.” he chuckles, finding a steady rhythm, “You still with me?”

“Mhm hmm,” you nod, gasping as he lifts your hips for a better angle. You swear you feel him in your stomach like this, reaching spaces so deep, spaces only he’s able to feel.

“That’s it,” he groans, roughly thrusting into you, “Good girl. Just hold onto Mr. Butters.”

So you do. Poor Mr. Butters, with you through thick and thin, bearing witness to your childhood fears and teenage folly, and now, your very adult activities.

[yuutryingtowrite]

Yandere!Maid x Vampire!Reader

A/N: If you wanna know more about the levels, check this post :)

Warning: Not nsfw, but suggestive. MDNI. Butler (side character) calls reader “Mistress”

Danger level: ★ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

Submissive level: ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡ ♡

Yandere!Maid who looks at the castle in front of him, then the flier in his hands, then the castle again. Unless there was a typo in the address, the job interview should be here. He hesitantly uses the bat shaped door knocker and waits...This place looks so creepy and ominous, was this a prank ? Was it to scare him? Seriously? Sigh…He has had enough of being treated like a fool. As he continues his descent into frustration, bitterness and self-pity, he doesn’t hear the door opening. Nor does he see the butler standing at the entrance until he hears a: “Sorry for the wait, my kind sir. Are you here for the housekeeper position?”.

Yandere!Maid who thinks the butler is telling him a load of bullshit. According to him, the owner of this place is a vampire in search of additional staff members. He resists the urge to scoff. Whatever, if the “mistress” wants to take part in some weird role-play, then so be it as long as he would get paid. The same guy tells him to “please take a seat” in the living room and that “mistress will come and attend to you in a moment”. Soon after his departure, the air shifts. Black particles float around until it materializes something, or rather someone. The poor boy's shock and confusion quickly turn into enchantment. Fuck, you are totally his type. This is bad, he can feel his face burning. “Shall we go to my office?”, you ask with a smile.

Yandere!Maid who hates you. Who hates the fact that your personality matches your looks. Who hates how much control you have over him. The other day, your...pet sneezed on him, so he needed another uniform. “It seems that I only have a female one left ”, you told him. “There is no way in hell I am wearing that”, he sneered. “But wouldn’t you look cute in it? Besides, it is either that or cleaning with your normal clothes on until your new uniform arrives here-” “Alright, shut up, just give me that”, he abruptly took the offending dress from your hands and went to change. Since that conversation, his work attire has fully transitioned to said maid outfit. Maybe he becomes a bit too proud of himself whenever he catches you staring at him. And maybe, just maybe he wants to give you a nice view by bending down and taking his time “to clean the table” whenever he knows you are behind him. He will never admit that though.

Yandere!Maid who, one day, demands asks you about your eating habits. As soon as you answer, something regarding animal blood, he turns oddly quiet. You are about to ask what is wrong, but then he surprises you by climbing into your lap. You watch him get comfortable and, with trembling hands, undo the first buttons of his dress. The cherry on top is him pulling on its collar a bit to show a silver of his chest. He now avoids eye contact as he waits for you to take the lead…You are still just looking at him, so, with a blush becoming darker, he snaps at you: “A-are you stupid or something ? Do you want me to spell it out-” “I am just enjoying the view”, you respond with a teasing smile. Before he can sputter more insults, you grip his chin and tilt his head to the side, exposing his neck to your hungry gaze. “But if you insist…Thank you for the meal <3”

Yandere!Maid who has his face buried deep in his pillow while he tries to calm his flustered self down. After you finished drinking from him, he hurriedly got up and scurried to his room without so much as a word. The more he recalls the embarrassing noises he made in front of you, the more mortified he becomes. It was not his fault, it just felt really good and you even pulled him closer and tugged on his hair and-He whines and squirms in his bed as he feels his body turning hot again like that time. The action causes him to feel a sharp sting on his neck. He freezes. That is right. You marked him. You marked him. You marked him.

...

Don't drink from anyone else, ok?

[bananastarlo]

Warning: NSFW!

Thinking about yandere nerd who saw someone else talking to you. Now you're paying the price.

You see him in the hallway, quickly avoiding his gaze as he continues to stare at you from a distance with piercing eyes, making you blush.

But when a boy comes up and tries to talk to you, he gets bold, approaching you and wrapping his surprisingly strong arms around your waist.

“Back off, she’s mine,” is all he says, his voice sultry with possessiveness.

Then he takes your hand and storms off with you.

“Who are you thinking about right now, hm? Is it him?”

You don’t answer, the shame of the situation you’re in making you want to shrink back. But it feels so good. He feels so good.

“Answer me!” he demands, as he spanks your ass while you’re bent over his knee. The loss of pleasure as he stops pumping his thick, long fingers into your dripping pussy, paired with the sudden sting, leaves you heavy with arousal as you squirm in his lap.

“N-No, you’re all I think about, p-please,” you desperately mewl, attempting to rub your aching clit against his knee, causing enough friction to stimulate yourself as your thoughts begin to fade, chasing your own orgasm.

“Shit,” he groans. “You know, it’s really hard to stay mad at you when you look so cute and desperate on my legs, only for me.

But you need to learn that you belong to me now.”

Suddenly, he yanks your hair back with one hand, the other keeping you from squirming.

The sound you make as he whispers into your ear, telling you how fucking good you look, is enough to make him cum in his own pants.

“Aw, look at this, I made a mess and it’s your fault, baby. But you’ll help me, right? Help me, and I’ll make you feel so good I’ll forget you ever tried to talk to another man.”

Now you’re between his legs, looking up at his veiny, hard cock and the amount of cum leaking out of it. You pant as your own bare pussy starts to pulse and drip onto the floor at the sight of his dick. Your hands shakily wrap around his shaft, earning a needy groan from him.

You sigh in utter bliss at the thought of making him feel good, beginning to lap up his thick white cum like a good dog while gently stroking him, drawing the most angelic and sinful sounds from his throat.

“Y-Yes, that’s a good fucking girl,” he praises as his head falls back, face flushed, his fingers twitching as he grips the sheets. He slowly brings one hand to the back of your head, guiding your hot mouth, while biting the other to suppress his whimpers.

It doesn’t take long—he ejaculates again, and this time, shoots his load on your face, giving him a sight he thought he’d only ever see in heaven.

He needs a moment to regain his composure, huffing heavily.

“C’mere,” he croaks, fully pulling you into his arms, leaving no space to breathe. You oblige, excitement and a rush of heat filling you as your hearts pound against your ribcages, thinking about what he’ll do to you, already anticipating his hot, passionate touch.

“You can use me. You’ve been so good for me, you earned it,” he whispers, shifting his attention to your neck, sucking and biting your soft flesh.

You moan as your hips stutter against his, drawing the same sound from him.

You try to focus on your own satisfaction as you roll your hips against his knee and glide your aching slit along his big thigh, holding onto his neck to steady yourself. Your whines and puffs begin to increase as your mind blanks, and all you can feel are the intense waves of pleasure crashing through your body.

He watches you as you increase your pace, hitting that right spot over and over again.

“You’re doing so good,” he smirks.

As soon as you hear his words, your body reacts—your back arches as you release on him.

He takes you in his arms and cradles you, patting your head and whispering sweet nothings into your ear, making you drowsy until you eventually fall asleep in his embrace.

[vinnyvamppp]

Pretty When You Cry

Did I leave for two hours and come back with this?! Yes, I did! Mainly, my idea for writing this is because he cries often in the show when upset or overwhelmed, so why not let that apply to sex too?

Synopsis: He's having relationship issues with Amber, but you're willing to be his distraction... right?

Warnings: Dacryphillia, Sub!Mark (canonically loves his women in charge), Soft Dom!Reader, Position changes, implied struggles with romance, no contraception (pull out game 💀), porn w a plot, fem presenting reader, friends to lovers?

Mark Grayson/Invincible x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,542

He was such a pretty crier. A man in tears was a man you could love for years. It was a sight you never grew tired of. While it would be shameful to admit, you partially listened to him spill his troubles to see those glistening pearls bubble down his waterline. As you stared at him admiringly—perched against his rooftop—you listened as he poured his heart out, a feeling of pity settling in your gaze.

Little did you know, his emotions were stirring more than usual and creating an unfamiliar sense of lust towards you.

This was wrong—utterly and irrevocably wrong.

Mark gazed idly at your dimly lit features as you looked up at the stars from the roof, he had decided to invite you over to his place after a fight with his girlfriend; he didn't want to go home, and he definitely didn't want to be alone. The fight with Amber still lingered—a bitter taste in his mouth—but it was nothing compared to the turmoil brewing in his chest.

He wanted a break—you were just that. One of his childhood friends and confidants. He was certain he and Amber were over; it was a situation where he didn’t realize they were broken up until it was too late. So why the hell—in the midst of everything—was he thinking about kissing you? He HAD a girlfriend a few hours ago, one who loved him with every fiber of her being.

Yet, you were always so pretty to him. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t had a crush on you in the past—or even fucked his fist at the thought of you until his dick was raw and coated in lotion. It was pathetic, he knew it, but more than ever now he felt enticed by your very presence. The way your lips would speak such comforting words, and you would stare at him as if only he existed. Sure, the relationship between him and Amber didn’t work out because he’s Invincible and she’s a regular human, but he could be selfish just this once… right?

For the thousandth time, you reassured him Amber would return to him with a new resolve. It was almost like you were trying to convince the two of you. It was nonexistent now. So what else could he do besides cast aside his doubt and stare at those puffy lips?

“You okay?” you asked, curious about his staring. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay,” he muttered like a dejected puppy, tugging at your heartstrings. “Right, so instead of moping… you need a stress reliever. For your sake. Dragging yourself around all day won’t help.” You sighed quietly, your fingers gently resting against the thin cloth of his back reassuringly.

“Right,” he replied. “What’s your idea of a stress reliever—and don’t say exercise; I already do that constantly.” His fingers gestured in your direction, some of his playfulness returning. “Get this,” you started, as if to say something revolutionary. “Exercise.”

His eyes rolled as he mumbled under his breath, his head turning to face you with a raised brow. “You’re such a comedian,” he quipped. “Come on, an actual one that won’t have me sweating and panting like a dog, okay? Please?” His voice struck a chord within you; it was the perfect rasp and whine.

Not to mention his words causing your thoughts to travel a million miles past sexual. “I wouldn’t mind the sight,” you said casually. “Besides—the lotion and tissue in your room suggests you ‘exercise’ more than enough.”

It was a harmless joke—enough to bring him pause as you two quietly chuckled. It was embarrassing, but nothing he couldn’t deny.

“Uh. Yeah,” he muttered. As you leaned over slightly, his staring persisted. Your shoulder rested against his as you stared into his eyes. His gaze avoided you momentarily before locking within your reflection. “Mark, what’s going on?” you asked, head tilting slightly. “I know I’m not going crazy—you’ve been staring at me since you invited me over. You didn’t call me over just to stare.” The last sentence was sarcastic. “I did,” he rasped—it was hushed and nearly caused your hearts to flutter in tandem.

“They are different." He started, "Very different. But I… didn’tknowhowtotellyoubecauseitfeelsdesperatetosaythisnowthatamberandibrokeupbutivelikeyouforalongtimeandimeansincewewerekidsandireallywanttokissyourightnowandineedtobeinsideyou.”

It poured out like an unexpected dam breaking.

As you stared at him in silence—your looks of bewilderment matched one another’s. To escape his embarrassment, he briskly stood up, opened his bedroom window, and climbed in. As he turned away, you crawled in behind him—his gaze slowly meeting yours as you gave a “Fuck it” sort of nod.

The actions were fast—rushed even. He needed a distraction to quiet his never-ending mind—and like always—you were the solution. His fingers draped over your waist as he pulled you in, your lips meeting his in feverish delight.

His temperature as a Viltrumite ran hot—your bodies already producing a light sheen of sweat. The quiet sounds of moans mingled between hot breaths. Tilting his head further—his lips parted as his tongue jutted out in search of yours. It was a gentle yet mutually needy kiss; your bodies were pressed so firmly together you could feel the tent forming against his slacks.

He was an excited one—but gentle. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you tugged the strands to earn a strangled groan. His lips latched onto yours like a suction cup; only when he was satisfied with your moans did his puffy lips shift down your neck. His tongue tickled the skin—not leaving marks as to get caught, but covering you in his taste. Your fingers delved under the fabric of his shirt as you relished the attention.

The indentation of his abs was the sweetest treat—your fingers shifted upwards—exposing his abdomen to the night's chill as you both groaned. His feet shuffled forward clumsily as you two fell against his bed.

Sitting you up, his fingers nimbly worked you out of your shirt and pants. Your hands fumbled to get his pants down, but eventually, they pooled around his ankles. Just as he assisted you in removing his shirt, you took in his appearance with such admiration and lust while he stared at you reverently.

You two—while being incredibly impatient—nearly skipped foreplay entirely. His fingers unclasped your bra and removed the matching colored panties down the flesh of your thighs. The wet patch forming in his boxers was becoming evident—his arousal at an all-time high, and his stamina was mounting for the night ahead.

Pressing you back against the bed, your bodies pressed together—his heart pounding—you devoured each other's mouths. His tongue was like a tender caress that made your stomach tie in knots; the anticipation was killing you. “Ha… I needed this,” his words muffled between kisses as you hummed in agreement.

He pulled away—his thumb dragging down the corner of his boxer as his cock slowly sprung from beneath the fabric. In all its glory, it stood with neatly trimmed pubes and visibly throbbed with restraint. Once his last article of clothing hit the ground, he took a moment to nervously chuckle as he admired you, splayed beneath him. His expression was giddy as it traced down the supple curves of your figure, the fat of your breasts and the arousal coating the outside of your folds—catching his attention more than anything. You looked gorgeous.

Time was up. You had enough and needed a little more. Reaching up to give him a gentle peck, you flipped him onto his back as you straddled him. He looked surprised but welcomed the authority as he melted beneath you. His lips sought yours, and your fingers began to caress your clit as you continued.

The quiet sound of your arousal pooled into his ears, his eyes fluttering open as he stared at you with your eyes screwed shut in bliss. He could feel himself nearly cum from the sight alone. His dick was beginning to hurt—and to soothe the ache—his fingers wrapped around his cock and pumped in tandem with your fingers.

Slightly annoyed—your fingers swatted his away and brought it to your clenching hole—ready to milk him dry. As his first digit entered your warmth, he shivered. He could feel every ridge and contraction as your abs squeezed from the pleasure. His fingers formed a V, and once spread enough, you took your seat with pleasure. It would normally hurt, but thanks to your sadistic mind imagining his crying for the last few hours, you’d been leaking like a faucet.

The stretch was delicious, but nothing was better than his blissed expression and immediate groan. Deep. Long. Exhilarating strokes. He was reactive—the perfect man for your little kink. Never mind not having a condom; he was never the most responsible in that manner.

The slow, deliberate movement of your hips was like a tantalizing dance—teasing him with every rotation. His fingers dug into your thighs, urging you on as you began riding him with an unhurried intensity. His eyes locked onto yours, his eyes occasionally fluttering shut in pleasure as he fought the urge to slam you down against him. While he would love to, he felt helpless and abandoned to your will, a willing captive, lost in the maelstrom of desire.

His chest rose and fell as quiet whines slowly filled his throat—the sight of his eyes rolling back before fluttering finally broke the final restraints of your self-perseverance. Digging your fingernails into his chest—your hips rose slowly before suddenly dropping with a renewed conviction. “Oh… F-Fuck… yes,” he sighed, like this was the medicine he’d been craving.

As much of a gentleman as he was for his girlfriends, he was lascivious when he intended.

Shifting his fingers to your ass, he assisted in the fluidity of your movements—his strength allowing you to glide along his cock with ease. Moans began to filter from your lips. “That’s… perfect, don’t you stop,” you demanded it with every bit of grit you could muster.

Your fingers clasped around the width of his chin so he could focus on you—his body bouncing against the mattress as the air was knocked from him. He wasn’t the most talkative, but he was vocal. “I’m not… I’m not going to stop. Feels so perfect in here, I can’t—I,” he stammered wearily as his body moved on autopilot.

You watched as he practically fucked himself dumb, the sound of skin colliding filling your ears as your teeth gnawed at your lip. One particularly deep thrust seemed to have sent him into overdrive—his tip could feel your insides contracting as if to suck him in more.

He wanted to be buried in you—he could imagine you two fucking like rabbits. He smiled weakly at the thought.

His toes curled into the mattress as your back arched, and harsh gasps erupted from his throat as his body trembled. A groan—a measly groan of his resilience, echoed in the room. Lost in your own sounds of pleasure, you had yet to notice the man nearly convulsing beneath you.

His hand left your hips and rose to the fingers that gripped his chin. Suddenly, your impending orgasm was ruined.

“Sorry, I’m s—sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbled before pressing a firm hand against your stomach and resting your back against the bed.

Before you could react, he sheathed himself within your pussy once more and fucked you with vigor to make up for lost time.

He attempted to speak—only his jaw clenched in response. Your head fell back against the edge of the bed—the legs of the bed frame wobbled as it rocked sideways; the thumps against the wall filled the room. Pleasured grunts and profanities fell from your pouted lips as you ground back against him. A high-pitched whine fell from him as his head fell.

“Oh—Jesus, what—what the fuck? You feel so, so, so, so,” he slurred slightly—you chuckled in response.

“Fuck… mm, seems like you’ve wanted this for a while?” you questioned through moans—your fingers cupping your bouncing breasts from his gaze as he grew distracted.

“You… have noooo idea,” he admitted—too in bliss to care much about embarrassment.

Your core slowly began to tighten and so did your chest as his body pressed forward with nearly all his weight. His fingers curled into the blankets as his tongue ran dry with ruined sobs. His pelvis rubbing deliciously against your clit made your legs stiffen behind him. He moved to pull away—but before you could—one of your legs hooked around the width of his neck.

The position elevated your hips slightly—his dick punctuating with each thrust unintentionally.

He was losing his mind. Such raw and unfiltered love swelled his chest. Your fingers wrapped around the width of his lower back to spur him on—your orgasm quickly doubling back. “P-Please, can’t cum inside… fuck,” he muttered wearily as tears began to fall.

His body trembling with pleasure, he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. The sensation was too much, the pressure building in his chest like a dam about to burst. He tried to hold it back—to grit his teeth and bear it, but it was no use. The pleasure mounting had his body wracking in ways he had yet to feel so intensely.

With a satisfied grin, you watched his pretty lashes become coated with warm tears. The salty taste stained your lips as he moaned in delight. Your sounds mingled with one another until they became indistinguishable. His fingers found the fat of your ass and he bullied himself into you, the strength behind it made you dizzy.

Wiping his tears away, you peppered gentle kisses against his face. “I've always loved you,” he muttered suddenly—you brightened in response. “Love you too,” you replied gingerly before a high-pitched whine ripped from your throat. The tip of his tongue pawed at your nipple desperately—the bud hardening beneath his cold saliva.

Your orgasm hit you like a train as your back arched, your fingers clasped at him—legs trembling. Harsh gasps left you in your failed attempt to remain silent. Hedonistic praises left you, but Mark could barely respond. The throbbing sensation of your pussy was practically trying to suck the cum from his cock. “Please, oh fuck, please, baby, I’m gonna cum. Holy shit,” his words were hurried as he let out a chuckle of disbelief.

At his words, your leg freed him—as he pulled out just last minute, his sperm barely making it to your abdomen. His body hunched over as he gasped—his jaw slacking as his muscles visibly strained. Slow whines spilled from his lips as he came down from his high.

His recovery time was fast, though his body still trembled with an aftershock. With bated breaths, you both stared at one another, his eyes barely focused as he sat in awe.

You both chuckled at one another before his rasped voice called out to you. “You think we should date?” he asked before correcting himself. “I mean, do you want to date me? I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I would like—"

A pillow slammed into his face as you rolled your eyes. “Sure, Mark. I’d love to go out with you.”

Had to be dramatic like the show lmfao.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[darnell-la]

Wolverine forcing you to squirt for the first time?? Pretty please?

note: if you’d like an older Wolverine, you can request again. we wrote this one too fast and made it the younger Wolverine. it’s still hot!

follow our Instagram @ darnell.la so we can start posting random videos, photos, edits, and memes of the people we write about!

———

“Can’t tell me you’ve never squirted before and expect me to move on with life,” Logan said after placing you on the bathroom counter he had dragged you to during a drinking game.

The party was loud and you could still hear people playing Truth or Shot. After one of the girls asked if a man had made you squirt, and you answered that you hadn’t even done such a thing, Logan knew he had to do something about it.

He had made an excuse, asking if you could come fill up his cup with him. Of course, you came with him. He was a good friend, but you didn’t know he’d throw his cup away and drag you to the nearest bathroom.

“L-Logan -- Calm down,” Y/n gasped as his teeth sunk into her neck. “Ah uh,” he crowled, needing to give her what she deserved. “Can smell you, baby -- Can’t just leave you like this,” the man’s hands ripped at her panties after he pulled her dress up.

The young girl let out a low and shaky moan as his finger pushed inside of her. His eyes glued right on her face, watching her fall apart on his fingers in an instant.

“C’mon, baby, give it to me,” he growled, as he turned and twisted his finger in and out of her. “Too much,” she said whined as her hands fell on his shoulder. “Fuck, there’s no way,”

Logan couldn’t believe it, It seemed like she was a virgin. There’s no way one finger would make her get like this.

“Don’t lie to me, baby — Just tell me another man’s made you cum,” Logan wanted to know, but he knew the answer already. His eyes still locked onto hers, as her eyes drifted away every few seconds. She felt high, but she hadn’t smoked or drank tonight.

“N-No one has, Logan,” y/n took a while to admit, but thankfully for him, she got it out. The young girl's mind was going crazy. Logan hadn't ever shown a lick of affection towards her, yet now he was worried about whether a man had touched her?

She was confused, but he wasn’t. The thought of another man making her squirt first was unacceptable to him. He couldn’t let that happen.

Logan let his ego get the best of him, but so what? He was going to make her squirt tonight, tomorrow, the day after, and then the days after that. He was going to be the first and then last.

“I know you can take another,” the man said as he pulled out, instantly pushing two in next. “Logan!” The girl moaned at the burning feeling of her walls stretching. She was wet, but she still had to get used to the new and unfamiliar feeling.

“Fuck, yes, baby,” Logan couldn’t get over her. She looked so damn pretty. He wished he had done this months ago. He’ll gain those days back. He’ll spend every day licking at her cunt until she drowns him.

“P-P-Please,” y/n stuttered hard, trying to close her legs, but the man used his free hand to push them back open. He gripped her tightly. She wasn't going to stop him. He needed this.

“Keep your fuckin’ legs open, or I’ll fuck this cunt dumb,” the man threatened, wanting nothing to get in the way of feeling her drench his fingers. She has already coated them with slightly white and clear liquid. She never knew a man would like how much she leaked.

“Logan,” the girl gripped his shoulders tighter with a sob, feeling the knot in her stomach getting harder to control. She was embarrassed, but he wanted all over her whether she wanted to give it to him or not.

“Be a good girl — Make a mess, and I’ll clean that shit right up,” the man told no lie as his two fingers curled. Within seconds, y/n’s mouth parted as her head leaned back. Her eyes crossed as she felt her legs go stiff and her toes curled.

“Augh,” she let out a choked cry as she released on the man’s fingers. “Oh, that’s it, baby — That’s it!” The man finger fucked her cunt a bit harder to get every last drop out of her.

“P-Please,” the girl pushed at his wrists, needing a break, but he wouldn't stop. She gave up after a while and decided to pull the man into a tight hug as she struggled to breathe.

Y/n was still leaking down his hand. She couldn’t stop. He had made the girl go on for almost an hour until she passed out on his chest. breathing lightly from the exhaustion.

Logan couldn’t help but chuckle, knowing he had the girl dumb and cute, all for him. She was his. She marked him, and later when he sweet talks her into taking him as hers, he'll mark her.

[chaepink]

Overstimmed gojo trying to push you away when you won’t stop sucking him off

Dom!reader, crying, whining, overstimulation, teasing

“W-Wait! Mmm t-too much [name]!” Gojo lets out a desperate cry as you steal another orgasm from him. He watches you with glassy, hazy eyes as you grin at him and swallow his cum.

He hiccups a little as he grips the sheets underneath him tightly. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows but his body feels so weak that he just falls back down on his back and whines.

“N-No more pleaseee” He tries to squirm away from you but you quickly grab his thighs and pull him back to you which makes him whimper. You laugh at him and his adorable state.

“But don’t you think you can do another one for me, baby? Don’t you want to be good for me!”

Gojo whines at you and before he could reply with a stuttered response, your mouth is already back on his dick which makes his body shake and eyes roll back. But he doesn’t try to get away so you guess you can take that as a yes from him.

[deltamel]

Big Man, Little Dignity

── MEMORISED ALL YOUR LINES, FANTASISE YOUR DEMISE. satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through tokyo tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you. word count. 5.5k

CONTENT. MDNI. fem!dom!reader, manipulative!sub!gojo, (brief mention of reader having a cunt but otherwise no description), bratty sub gojo, manipulation, foot humping, degradation, light choking, no prior discussion of kinks or aftercare, toxic dynamic, existing relationship, friends with benefits, pwp

MEL'S NOTE: what began as a character study of manipulative!gojo devolved into sentencing him to come in the most deliciously humiliating way. title insp. is the namesake song by paramore. a massive thank you to my gorgeous beta @nyxomniax (nyx's ao3) <3

“I really don’t like your attitude.”

Although attitude is a crude euphemism—Satoru’s sharp gaze seems to penetrate even through his blindfold. If looks could kill, as the saying goes. 

You sigh. Tonight was supposed to be a taunt, a challenge, a plea—all rolled into one tight, conniving quip that would snake its way around Satoru until the tips of his ears turned red where he knelt before you. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, at how your words roll off him, as though they’ve physically hit his Limitless and have slowed to the point of non-existence.

“Well,” he starts, petulant. “I really don’t like how long this is taking.”

You scoff, crossing one leg over the other as you lean further back into the cracked leather of the sofa you're sitting on. It creaks beneath you in protest.

“So how about we skip to the good part?” Satoru grins widely at you, utterly unashamed even as your eyes dip down to the hard outline tenting his uniform slacks. 

You’re bored, you realise. Uninterested in acting out the same scene and reciting the same worn, tired script to a man who, to your knowledge, couldn’t give less of a shit if you were completely mute as you let him rut into you.

It is… strange.

Months of hushed, sweaty hook-ups flash through your mind, like some kind of slideshow that should be playing all of your favourite memories before you die. These are anything but; they’re a twisted amalgamation of simmering anger and bestial grunting way too close to your ear to be enjoyable.

Why had you let it get this far? Spin this far out of control?

“Oh sure, I have all day,” Satoru says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Absolutely no rush whatsoever. Take your time, even!”

You press your lips together, unimpressed.

Shame burns through you like you are no more than bone-dry tinder unfortunate enough to be in its path. You wanted to lead tonight, to set the pace—and you believed forcing him to kneel at your feet and feeding him the command to behave would be sufficient. That he may finally take the bait. Naturally, you seem to have asked too much, and you’re utterly lost as to how you’ve deluded yourself into such a fictional image of him. One that is flushed and moaning and writhing beneath you. One that would beg you for more.

He’d never.

Satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through Tokyo Tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you.

“Now, I may look the picture of youth, but if I’m sat on my knees any longer, we may have an issue when I finally fuck you.” He laughs, presumably imagining himself as a hobbled-sorcerer or something equally inane, hell-bent on clumsily thrusting into you. “And we can’t have that, can we? How will I satisfy that greedy cunt of yours?”

It’s an unconscious impulse as you kick hard at the centre of his chest, anger flaring at the hit to your own ego, only to be rebounded by Satoru’s Limitless. You never stood a chance.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you snap. “I’ve never met anyone who loves the sound of their own voice as much as you do.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, admonishment smeared over his face. “Ask nicely.”

Breathing out through your mouth, you try to summon the patience that seems to be rapidly eluding you the more Satoru talks.

“‘Ask nicely’,” you repeat blandly.

“Yep,” he says, emphasising the pop of the p at the end.

“Like how I ‘asked nicely’ for you to behave?”

“I wouldn’t say you ‘asked nicely’...” he trails off, looking askance as though he’s working hard to recall the memory from only five minutes prior. “More like demanded and expected that I, bearer of the Six Eyes, would obey.”

“Huh,” you tilt your head, “that’s funny. I’m pretty sure you’ve been demanding to fuck me.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, heaving a labouring sigh, as though you’d told him that his favourite coffee shop—the quaint, crumbling building a few blocks away from the school run by an elderly couple, that you’re near positive Satoru only frequents because he can bat his lashes and they will give him free coffee—has run out of the sugary atrocity he usually drinks.

“Did you miss,” he waves his arms down his body, presenting himself, “the bearer of the Six Eyes part of my sentence? That was pretty integral info.”

Wishing you were surprised at the lack of gravity he’s giving the situation doesn’t come easily. He’s always been like this, since as long as you’ve known him anyway; years of dropping ill-timed jokes and unbothered banter in the face of national threats and almost always imminent death. It’s illogical. And above that, it’s quite frankly insane. So why would you be the exception to his whims? Why would he afford you real concern when it proves no benefit to him? You could tear at those towering walls surrounding him, brick by brick, until your bare hands are broken and bloody and unrecognisable, yet there’d hardly be a dent big enough to warrant his attention.

Before you have a chance at spitting back any lacklustre rebuttal, he speaks over you.

“So let’s cut whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. Honestly. What are you trying to achieve with me down here and you up— wait.” He perks up, likely seeing you anew from behind his blindfold as he rambles. “Was this all an elaborate plot to get me to eat you out? Because baby, I do not have to be on my knees to have you on yours. Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

You launch forward, sinking a hand deep into his unpigmented hair—allowing yourself only a split-second of astonishment that he allowed you to make contact with the real him, not his Limitless—before yanking him forward to unbalance him. That’s all it takes. One slip-up, intentional or not, and you use the momentum to force his face down into the floor between your feet, pressing his cheek against the rough grain of the wood. The connecting thunk is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard from Satoru all evening.

Against the dark wood below him, Satoru’s alabaster skin is downright ghostly. Stark and obvious in every way that Satoru is himself. It’s fitting, really. You savour the colour rushing to his cheeks, the strands of hair fallen over his blindfold, the blood welling in his lip where he must have bitten himself on impact. You want to taste it. To draw more than just blood from his lips.

The bounds of his Limitless do not protect him from himself, you think. How ironic.

Satoru’s chest stutters where he’s bent over awkwardly, still kneeling. His hands are trapped underneath him like he meant to stop his fall. You know he could have. So why didn’t he? And why is he letting you hold him down, making no effort to brush your hand from his hair or sit up as you watch him try to regulate his breathing?

Hell, he’s not even said a word. Quiet as a field mouse where he’s pressed down between your heeled shoes.

“You want to eat me out?” you murmur, leaning over your lap to study the side of his face in interest.

Satoru exhales sharply, and at first you think you might finally have him snared—a hunter’s high when the bullet rings loud and sharp in the air, the elation when their prey drops to the ground like a stone. But then he angles his head further to the side, twisting as though to catch your eye through the blindfold, and he smiles.

Smiles.

A scoff bursts from your throat before you can help it—an ugly sound, perfectly complementary to the resentful look smudged across your face.

Well.

You tried, at least. But it’s beyond clear that Satoru Gojo is a lost cause—a fool’s errand—and you are no such thing, not for him. No matter how much you desire to see his pale skin painted with deep red want as he pleads for your touch, pent-up and desperate, an orgasm withheld tenfold until he’s panting and whining, bucking his hips up to knock his dick uselessly against your leg—how he would tip his head back, baring the smooth, unmarked column of his neck for your teeth to sink into and… god.

Your imagination is painting cruel washes of colour over the pallid picture before you, and you bite your lip in frustration, yearning for some kind of restraint to resist being his fool. Shifting his knees slightly, Satoru hums thoughtfully and shatters the illusion your mind has conjured. The sound fills you with dread. Nothing good comes from his premeditated words.

“I’m not sure anymore…” he trails off. Does he sound breathless? No—he can’t, right? No. You’re the one who wants this. He’s just messing with you. “You’re being kind of mean to me.”

And now he’s pouting. The revered six-eyed sorcerer is pouting against the floorboards. You tighten your fingers in his hair, relishing how it makes him hiss at the sharp pricks of pain. Again you wonder, why hasn’t he put his Limitless back up?

The harsh treatment doesn't, however, stop him from barrelling forward.

“I have feelings you know! I’m not some sex doll you can push around however you like—although you’d probably love that, thinking about it now… you know, I can probably find a guy for you. I’m talking someone real shady. Under-the-table type of deals. All I have to do is put up one ad on Craigslist—’hot single in urgent need of a man who won’t talk back’—and the offers will come swarming in. It’ll be uncomfortable, but for you…” he laughs. “Just for you, I’ll bite the bullet if you’ll consider shelving this stunt indefinitely!”

His mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute, like it’s replaced his heart and is running to keep him alive. To pump the very blood around his body. You know he has it. Blood, that is. Your eyes flicker to the beads of it that are shifting on his lips as he speaks, hardly taking a breath between each sentence.

“Satoru,” you say, interrupting him impatiently. “Please shut the fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. There’s a smear of red on them.

You stare down at him. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Satoru breathes through the ugly smile. “Probably. That would explain why I’m still hard, even with a psycho bending me over.”

You can’t even wipe the indignant expression from your face if you try, because your brain latches onto the fact that Satoru is still hard, and runs with it despite your protests. You try to form some kind of barb, a cruel insult at least—but you’re fighting a losing, bloody battle of the highest dishonour with yourself. You know every offensive and defensive move in your arsenal, and so you are defeated, your traitorous brain attempting once more to make the man underneath you submit.

“I’m the psycho?” you prompt.

He hums, his cheek still against the floorboards. You wonder if you’d be able to feel the reverberations of it under the soles of your feet were you not wearing heels.

“Huh, maybe you’re right,” you say, levelling your eyebrows and veiling the trepidation buzzing behind your features. “Hands behind your back.”

Your words are plain, and you hold your breath as he mulls over the request. His fingers flexing and flagging on the floorboards where his hands are tucked beneath his torso.

Please.

One of his hands moves to brace himself on the floor and you can feel the heat pulse in your core, expectant and hopeful, only to be slaughtered as easily as a curse in the face of his boundless power when he slowly pushes himself upright. He doesn’t dislodge the tight grip you maintain on his hair and you don’t bother trying to keep him pinned. Satoru has evidently decided he’s done with your little display of dominance and you can’t overpower him. Even if you wish fervently to have the ability to do so.

“I’m good, actually,” he says. Matter-of-factly and in a tone so chipper you want to strangle him just to hear his words wobble and break from the sure path they’re on. “But thank you.”

The flush you can feel creeping up your cheeks is humiliating, degrading you impossibly further when Satoru simply watches you. His face is an expressionless mask. Frustration wraps itself around you, coiling until you can’t breathe and you use your hold in his hair to shove him. Your palm forces his head to the side like it may give you a reprieve, but when you hand drops, his head simply swings back to face you a moment later. Bright eyes stare at you impassively, as though he’s watching a bug crawling by his stupid, shiny shoes. Too small to care about. Not worth the effort to catch, nor kill.

“Fuck you,” you say. But there is no anger in it, not anymore. You’re deflated, and the level tone you try to uphold barely masks the hurt you feel trembling through your words.

You’ve been a fool, after all.

Months spent convincing yourself 'one day’, while deluding yourself over scenarios that could never be—because you’re, well… you’re you, and Gojo Satoru is the Six Eyes. You’ve been kicking up circles of dust running from that very notion since the first time you slept with him.

“Come on,” he broaches, voice light as he shifts back to sit on his haunches more comfortably. “You still going to let me hit?”

You are nothing to him. You know that now—the ember is glowing bright and burning through you, sacrificial in every right—and you will only be saved if you are cleansed of Satoru.

“I’m done,” you mumble, eyes shifting to drink in the Tokyo skyline from your apartment. Thousands of minuscule lights flicker, each a person tangled in their cobweb of life as insignificant as your own. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

It’s ironic, really, that now seems to be the moment you’ve finally stunned Satoru. His mouth opens but no quick quip or joking response comes forth. He closes it again. You can see it in your periphery—the blinking lights call your name as you let your gaze drift over each building, every life, and the sun dipping slowly behind them.

“Hey,” he starts, voice guarded. “I thought this was all part of our give and take.”

An apology? No. An excuse? Hardly.

Of course he wouldn’t debase himself with atonement; you aren’t worth that. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Satoru apologise to anyone—not when he decimates acres of land fighting a curse, nor when he bumps into someone and knocks the coffee they held from their hand. Perhaps this should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You inhale a deep breath.

“You take and take and take. There is no give with you— no—” you pause, eyes flitting over to Satoru but not lingering long enough to examine his expression before they drift back to the sunset. “I have nothing left to offer. You have wrung me dry.”

You don’t expect an immediate response. After all, when have you ever rejected his advances? When have you before had the courage to sever those threads trapping you both together? He may have a silver-tongue, but that does not mean he cannot falter.

“Okay.”

…okay?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you drag your attention to the man kneeling before you.

“Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to give or you leave.”

His tone is blunt, no trace of a question to be found where it should be. He’s got it wrong—as though reading the lines of your reaction backwards. Has Satoru ever tried to understand you?

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you say tiredly. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

You’ve never referred to what was going on between you and Satoru as we, and even as it rolls off your tongue, it feels strange; like an ill-fitting sheet with its seams stretched beyond repair just so that it may barely clutch onto the mattress. It feels fraudulent. But the words have been spoken and you cannot swallow them back.

“I can give.” Satoru implores, his large hands rest on his thighs, painting the very picture of composure.

“I don’t want what you offer.”

I want your submission.

You can’t say it, even now. Even with this goodbye between you forming the perfect stage for one last hurrah—an act he won’t forget. That he may even care about.

It won’t matter, you remind yourself.

The silence branches between you, pushing you further and further and further from Satoru with each passing second.

He won’t reply.

You have been his fool, through and through—played the part well enough one might think you’d been bred for such a role. Perhaps you do not want him to reply, because if he speaks, if he pushes, you don’t know what you will do—for better or worse. So, bringing your hands to the sofa underneath your thighs, you tense and begin to push yourself to stand—to leave—when Satoru moves all at once. Clumsy and disorganised in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Urgent in a way he never is. You pause.

Satoru shuffles forward on his knees, closer and closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth from your crossed legs. The peculiar twist of his mouth has your gut swooping, a foreboding feeling rising within you at the serious expression. The distrust must be plain across your face, but when you open your mouth to protest, he leans forward. Cautious, like the possibility of you striking him is a real one—like he wouldn’t just block you with his Limitless—and gently, he places his chin on your crossed knee.

You freeze, and the breath you were inhaling lodges in your throat.

A long, slender finger hooks under one side of his blindfold and lifts the corner up to reveal a wide, beseeching eye staring up at you. Your own widen in response. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He looks…

Harmless. Almost innocent. 

And then, as if you’re not preoccupied worrying over whether in the time you were looking out the window, Satoru had been somehow possessed, he speaks.

“This is what you want, right?” His voice is so soft. “You want control.”

He’s demented. There’s no other explanation. Not as to why he’s kneeling in front of you like an entirely different person. Not as to why his tone and his stupidly big eyes have heat rushing to meet you like it never left. How does he know? All this time you believed him to be oblivious, he’s—

You have underestimated him. Again. He knew.

“You want me to beg,” he continues, his eye glued to yours. “To ask to touch you. To come.”

The leather sofa creaks underneath your fingers, where they curl nervously into the material.

“I…” you trail off, unsure as to what you’re even trying to say—what you even want to say.

The heat from his chin is leaching through your trousers, penetrating the layer of fabric and you fear it may scald your skin, marring it permanently. You can smell his cologne. He doesn’t let you breathe before uprooting your entire world—destroying the threads woven through you both that have kept you safe, that have kept him happy. 

“Please,” he breathes. Breathes, not whines, because if Satoru Gojo just propped his chin on your knee, looked up at you with his pleading, blue eyes, and whined, you really would be convinced he’d been possessed.

The wave of heat that washes over you is so filthy you barely have the forethought to worry if Satoru can feel it radiating from you as you screw your eyes shut against it. Against his exposed eye and its analysing stare.

“Please.”

You choke on a sound at the back of your throat, scrabbling to keep it inside you. To not allow him to stoke the burgeoning fire threatening to engulf you. The smoke is thick and blinding. Why it has taken you near leaving for him to play along with a desire he’s clearly known about for god only knows how long baffles you.

You can’t think straight.

It’s like any semblance of logical, rational thought has fled you to safer grounds, abandoning you to deal with the consequences of your desires alone as though it’s what you deserve. Perhaps you do. Wanting to grind Satoru, a man who holds Six Eyes and the most powerful sorcerer the Earth has ever encountered, into mere dust beneath your heel cannot possibly be normal.

Gradually, as unassuming as the approaching tide, a sick curiosity calls out: would he let you? The urge to answer that question commandeers your mind, screaming and hollering for attention that you can’t help but grant it because… what if he does? Months of yearning for this very scenario are ploughing through your defences like they are no more than reeds swaying in a breeze. Is Satoru offering you a chance for the control you have been desperate for? What if this is it? Your one and only opportunity. A test.

Take the leap or never know.

Perhaps by permitting yourself to finally release the perverted desire—that which has simmered higher and higher each time you slept together—you may develop an addiction with no prospect of your next fix. But the screaming is reaching its peak—loud and distracting and you can’t think around the blaring curiosity to taste it regardless; to ruin your palette once and for all; to at least know. So you open your eyes again and unclench one of your fists from the leather sofa, raising it slowly, cautiously, to cup the side of his face and stroke your thumb over his cheekbone. Only then do you look into his eye.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. Re-emboldened, you test the boundaries again. “Are you going to behave?”

Satoru leans his weight into your hand, so lightly you may not have noticed if your world hadn’t narrowed down to the sorcerer before you. He swallows before he speaks.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting on his knees and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he lets it pop back out, slick and shiny with his spit. You can feel your heart thundering like a brewing storm in your chest. “I’ll behave for you.”

A switch has flipped. Satory hasn’t been this agreeable in any of the long years you’ve suffered his acquaintance, and you feel lightheaded knowing you may be the first person to see him like this. You nod, trying to disguise the way you shiver at the realisation.

“Hands behind your back.”

The blindfold slips back over his eye when he lets go of it, and you would mourn the loss of eye contact if not for how he immediately obeys. The pliancy sends you reeling. You want to see. Are his hands clenched? Relaxed? Fidgeting? But you stay. The novelty of your situation isn’t lost on you—the things you want to do to him are so great in number that it’s overwhelming. You’ve had practice, however; you’ve imagined Satoru like this enough times you may well have thought through every possibility as to how this night could go. You don’t hesitate.

“Good.”

He swallows.

Feeling suspicious would probably be a smart idea, one that would prepare you for the rug he may pull out from under your feet. Because the possibility that his actions are a means to an end or a new opportunity to laugh in your face before he flips you over and ploughs into you—like his submission was a mere hallucination—is real. But you can’t quite bring yourself to commit to the feeling for more than a few seconds before there’s an itch under your skin telling you to touch. Your other hand joins to cup his face, and you tilt his head away from your knee until his throat is entirely bared. His blindfolded eyes study the drab ceiling above you both.

“So pretty,” you mumble, eyes tracing the long line of his pale neck.

You want to lean forward and bite, but the night is young. There will be time. You do not have to rush something so precious. You must savour this like a woman on death row with her final meal.

Satoru’s mouth drops open slightly, baring his teeth, and you can see his chest rising and falling fast. Intrigued to test a hypothesis you’ve held close to your heart for months, you dip your thumbs down below his jaw and dig them into the soft skin there. He releases a breathy sort of ‘hah’ at the sensation, shifting again on his knees. You press harder, the skin turning white beneath your thumbs. His pulse is pounding, but it’s not enough—you want to hear him. Releasing the pressure, you study the irritated pink that frames two deep nail marks on either edge of his jaw.

Ever so slowly, your palms cup his nape and you drag your thumb nails down either side of his windpipe, hard enough to leave two trailing scratch marks. Satoru muffles a surprised noise that tapers off when your thumbs come to rest at the base of his throat, your hands collaring him.

Squeezing your hands against the base of his throat, you listen to how his breath chokes off at the pressure. The tip of his ears begin to redden as you hold his breath between two states. His mouth drops open further, desperate. You let go and listen to how he heaves in a deep breath before releasing it, controlled in an attempt to level his breathing. To keep the spots dotting his vision at bay. You can see the tears clumping at his lash line—a response no one can control in the face of being choked—but fuck, the power rush you feel as you study the tears threatening to spill over is hedonistic.

Slipping your fingers back up the sides of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, you hook your thumbs underneath his blindfold and tug it off, dropping it on the ground by your feet. He doesn’t protest, eyes fluttering open. Leaning back in your chair, you sever the contact between you. After a few seconds, he drops his head down and looks at you, making a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Is his voice hoarse, or is that your imagination?

No.

His voice is hoarse—rough with a desire you’ve instilled into him.

You quirk an eyebrow and Satoru flushes in response, eyes darting around where you sit. Wordlessly, you uncross your legs, stretching one out until your foot rests against his thigh.

“You don’t want something…” You drag the toe of your shoe up the inseam of his slacks, voice low. “More?”

“I…” Satoru swallows. “Yes.”

Lifting your foot, you press the point of your heel into the meat of his thigh, hard enough you’re sure the pressure must be uncomfortable. He doesn’t do more than clench his jaw. Your lips purse and you nod silently, content to wait.

The lull stretches between you, thick and sticky like sap gathering at the wound of a tree.

“Uhm,” he starts warily, “please?”

The corner of your lip twitches.

“Can you touch me?” he asks, voice firmer now at your reaction. “Please?”

Satoru sighs in relief when you remove your heel from his thigh, but the calm is quickly shattered when your leg extends further, the ball of your heeled-foot coming to rest on his cock as you press gently against it.

“Ow,” he gasps, but he doesn’t sound very pained at all. In fact, the red flush creeping across his nose bridge is all-too incriminating. You smile.

Running your fingers through your hair, you push it back from your face before straightening your barely-wrinkled clothes, steadfastly focusing your attention on anything but the man in front of you. It doesn’t take long for Satoru to squirm, and you only increase the pressure of your foot in response. He makes a strangled noise through his clenched jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” you say, tapping your nails on your thigh impatiently.

Satoru’s bright eyes flick between your own curiously. When you don’t say anything further, he lifts his hips into your foot slowly, watching you. A breath escapes him at the pressure. His eyebrows scrunch up in concentration and he reaches out a big hand to wrap around the back of your calf, forcing your foot forward as he begins to gently roll his hips. You let him—the effort is not yours to expend.

“Surely you can do better than this?” you ask when he continues his cautious, slow thrusts, voice bored.

He huffs, eyes flitting up to meet yours before focusing back on where the bright lacquer of your heel meets his dark slacks, and the arousal slowly bleeding through. The hand clutching your calf is uncomfortably warm, yet the tightening fingers and low moans on every thrust command your attention.

“To think that I’ve let you fuck me,” you say through a sigh. 

Satoru bristles beneath you but the stutter of his hips gives him away. These cruel words you spill are a means of catharsis, months of bitterness rotted down to pure acidity—never would you have guessed he’d enjoy the taste. 

“This is as humiliating for you as it is for me, Satoru.” 

You’re lying—of course you’re lying. You would wear Satoru’s humiliation like a second skin if such a scientific feat were possible; something so intrinsically tied to your body it may never be taken from you. Satoru huffs a strained laugh, feigning indifference as though it could fool you.

“I’d hope— it is—” he says between pants.

Leaning further back on the chair, you spread your other leg, tracking how Satoru’s other hand is curled tight into a fist atop his thigh. Blood pools in his cheeks, infecting his face like a virus he can’t fight. 

“Bearer of the Six Eyes,” you drawl, letting the words hang in the air between his pants before you continue, “humping my foot like a dog.”

“Haah— shut— up—” he spits between each sticky press of his crotch against your shoe, fingers digging into your calf painfully in punishment.

It’s filthy—the way his thighs strain in his slacks as he moves; the way his baby hairs stick to his forehead; the way Satoru bites his lip to contain his noises.

“Why have you resisted this for so long?”

Satoru doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’ve asked him a question and your ego bruises. He’s too caught up in the chase of his high to bear you a second thought. You dig your foot into his cock cruelly.

Ignore me now.

“Oh fuck—” he gasps, his movements stuttering underneath you. “Ah— you’re— mean—”

You take in his reaction, humming. A moment passes before you deign to reply.

“I’m being mean?” you pout. “You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

Satoru moans aloud, harsh and tortured. You dig your foot in again just to hear his voice catch in his throat. The pace of his hips is frantic now, and he uncurls his fist, splaying it out on the wooden floor behind him so that he can roll into your foot faster, harder. Satoru’s head tips back at the new angle and he pants, open-mouthed, into the air. Barely-there moans escape on every exhale. You watch with fascination.

“You’re close, huh?” you tease, all-too pleased when Satoru nods his head rapidly.

“Yes— ah— yes.” His voice is thin and torn. Glassy eyes watch you carefully when he tips his head back down and you hum in recognition.

“I want you to say ‘thank you’ when you come.”

Satoru’s eyes flare wide, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, the roll of his hips grows unforgiving, his pace quick and punishing as he drives himself to the edge he’s so desperate for—the one that you’ve granted him. Enraptured, you increase the pressure on his cock, trapping it harder against his pelvis. Satoru groans as he ruts against your foot. The trembling wracking his body worsens, and he squeezes his eyes shut when his back bows towards you.

“Thank you,” he keens, mouth dropping open as he comes, hips still quietly rolling against your foot as he rides it out. “Thank you, thank you, haah— thank you, oh— thank—”

Leaning forward, you press your finger into his open mouth and pet it across his tongue to quiet him. His eyes flutter open to take in your dangerous grin. 

Satoru is finally human like this. Mortal, even. Skin flushed and damp. Breaths coming short and fast. At last, you can reach him. Hooking your finger into his cheek, you drag him closer before he has a chance to calm, until you can feel the warmth of his feverish-panting on your chin.

“You’re welcome, Satoru.”

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