#fingers gripping into his knee so hard it might bruise but he really wants it to break

[wegc]

perv!channie and reader finally fucking but she teases him the whole time until he has had enough. “you’re such a fucking pervert” and “you’re so disgusting” all while she’s grinning at him and riding him like her life depends on it. he’s literally a second away from cumming as soon as he’s inside her. “you really think you deserve to cum? after fantasizing about fucking your best friend’s sister?” she denies him to cum for so long that he finally snaps and flips her over, pounding into her like a madman. “such a tease, you whore” and “don’t have much to say now, huh?” she cums so hard but he’s not done. even after he cums, he aint done either…

OK IM DONE AHHHHHH (please feel free to finish or add on or write more to it bc i would v much appreciate it)

i’m ascending. something about cocky!reader paired with a perpetually flustered, perv!chan is such a mouthwatering combination.

perv!chan whose cock twitches inside you every time you humiliate him with yet another reminder of how repulsive and depraved he is; he can’t bite back immediately because you’re right. he’s nothing but a disgusting pervert and he’s fortunate that you aren’t completely appalled by him.

when you grip the base of his cock and guide him inside your dripping cunt, chan feels like he could pass away beneath you. every delusion of his, whether it emerged in his bedroom or your washroom—a mere room away from you—was coming true and it was far better than he had ever imagined.

all he can do is pant and whine under you, taking in the sight of your tits bouncing in his face and the cute flush of your face, which scrunched up in pleasure. most importantly, the feeling of your cunt—the warmest thing in the world—took his breath away; his cunt, all his—he’d make sure of it.

the overwhelming feeling of being inside you, the epiphany and high of all his dreams and desires coming true right before him has his poor cock pulsing inside you, seconds away from cumming. each flutter of your cunt, each moment your fingers teased his nipples or when your hot, wet mouth whined against his had him feeling lightheaded—he knew he wouldn’t last long.

and your teasing—while it did turn him on, it also infuriated him. god, you were such a fucking brat—a mouthy little handful. did you frankly know what he thought of every time he stroked his cock to the image of you? you wouldn’t be behaving so pretentiously if you knew all the things he yearned to do to you, all the positions he’d bend you in, all the fondling and groping he had dreamt of, all the mean and obscene remarks he’d taunt you with, all the ways in which he would make you beg for more. you had no fucking clue.

before you even realize it, you’re pulled off his cock and manhandled to your hands and knees, where the drilling of chan’s cock seizes your breath. he’s suddenly so deep inside your cunt—you swear the tip of his cock might kiss your cervix—and you can scarcely catch some air every time he snaps his hips to go harder.

chan would grin, smacking your ass, laughing shakily at the sounds of your yelps and wailing with each drag of his length. your face is buried in his pillow, but even that hardly muffles your loud sobs and pleas.

“god, you don’t ever shut up do you?”

“fuckin’ brat, you want more?”

“dirty little thing, you’re just as gross as me.”

“you feel like a whore, don’t you? doesn’t it make you feel dirty, knowing everything i’ve done? you hate that you like it, don’t you?”

chan, who fucks until dawn, cumming continually inside you and pulling out periodically to observe and engrave the way his cum oozes out of your gaping hole. he feels so pleased as he takes in the bruises and marks he’s littered on your body, marking you as his. or even better, the way your eyes gloss over, looking at him desperately with tearful eyes. your hair is dishevelled, draped messily across his ruined sheets, and your lips are bruised with his kisses and nibbles, lipgloss pathetically smudged away.

“so fucking pretty—my pretty girl, yeah? you wanna go again? can’t go without me, hm? need me so bad to stop all that fussing, right?”

“you’re all mine now, you know that? can’t fuck you just once—can’t have you looking at other people.”

[pparadiselost]

dressed to kill.

various (hinata shoyo, kageyama tobio, tsukishima kei, kuroo tetsurou) x fem reader haikyuu men and the lingerie/costumes they like to see on you. warning(s): nsfw dividers: cafekitsune. minors do not interact.

HINATA SHOYO + BABYDOLLS

hinata shoyo is not a picky man. 

he’s a great boyfriend, someone who wants you to feel confident in your own skin and show off your own style. he always hypes you up no matter what you’re wearing, and the fact that he’s genuine about every compliment he gives you only adds to how much of a sweet lover he is.

but if there is one singular thing that he would get on his hands and knees to beg you to wear is nothing more than a babydoll lingerie dress.

something about them just has him going wild. it’s like he can’t think straight anymore, his usually quick brain fried into a horny hum of nothingness when he imagines you all dolled up in the sheer material. his rationale goes straight out the window and his cock takes the wheel, throbbing and aching and needing to get his hands all over your body as soon as possible.

maybe it’s how innocent it makes you look, the fabric flaring around your hips and covering the upper part of your thighs, leaving your bare legs to tease his imagination. maybe it’s how the upper half hugs your body so snugly, the thin cloth barely covering your tits and your nipples poking through if he stares hard enough. it’s really all in the balance, making your beauty shine while leaving just enough to have his imagination wandering. 

it’s almost embarrassing how often he’s jerked off to this fantasy. all of his characteristic sunny swagger is gone when he buys you your first dress and asks you to wear it, sounding more like a teenage boy about to lose his virginity rather than your energetic boyfriend. but it’s like a switch flips in his brain the very second you agree, and without a chance for you to reconsider, he throws you down in bed.

he shoves his face right in between your legs, and his mouth goes straight to where he’s been itching to be throughout this whole ordeal. the translucent material of your lingerie drapes over his head like a veil as he presses hungry kisses to your pussy. he swirls the broad of his tongue over your pulsing hole, loving the way you suck in a sharp breath and shudder. he’s going to make sure to do you right, to fuck you right, for indulging him so well.

“fuck- you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” he laughs against your cunt, sounding like a man starved. he might as well be, with how messily he’s eating you out. he smacks his lips, the wet sound of your juices coating his tongue and lips echoing throughout your shared bedroom. “shit- you’re fucking perfect… my pretty girl, being so good for me.”

you unconsciously clench your thighs around his head when he sucks on your clit. heat shoots all throughout your belly, and you’re sure you’re going to ruin the sheets with how much your pussy’s leaking. he takes turns toying with your puffy clit and teasing the outline of your hole until you’re begging incoherently for him to just do something to you already. your pussy can’t take being teased like this.

“fuck me! please fuck me, shoyo-,” you’re almost sobbing, the hem of your babydoll scrunched up in shoyo’s hands as he grips at your thighs to keep them pried apart. it leaves your exposed cunt at his complete mercy, and even thinking about that fact on its own has your walls throbbing and clenching painfully on itself. “anything- your tongue, fingers, cock- anything! please- need you inside me so bad, sho…”

“don’t worry.” he presses a quick kiss to your clit, the shaky moan you reward with him like honey to his ears. “i’ll get there. but fuck… you look so pretty… i want to take my time with you.”

you’re sure he’s going to leave bruises on your thighs from how hard he’s gripping you, his calloused fingers digging into your soft flesh. but everything about him is so arousing, and you’re equally as drunk off of him as he is to you. shoyo thinks he’s died and gone to whatever version of heaven there might be. placebo effect be damned, he swears on his life that your pussy tastes so much sweeter whenever he eats you out while you’re wearing your dress.

“got yourself all pretty for me, didn’t you? you knew that i would like this, that i’d want to fuck you senseless after seeing you in it. was that your plan from the start?” hinata asks breathlessly. he swallows back more of your slick, and his cock keens inside of his pants, his tip sticky and swollen and wanting literally any form of attention. but he can push that aside for now. now, he wants to enjoy the sight laid out before him, of your already fucked out face and your body covered in the delicate lace and sheer fabric he’s dreamt of, legs spread out the way he likes it and pussy drooling for no one but him. 

knowing that you put this on for him, that you dressed up for him, that you wanted to look good for him makes his dick so hard that it hurts. he promises to himself that he’s going to buy out some poor lingerie store’s entire stock just to see you in different colors and materials, and he’s going to fuck your brains out in each and every single one of them until you’re sick of even the letter ‘b’ in babydoll. 

“gonna make you cum on my tongue, yeah? love making you fall apart on my mouth,” he breathes against your cunt. he chuckles when he can feel you clenching up around his tongue, flicking at your hole and making your toes curl. “gonna fuck you on my cock after that then, doll. that sound good to you? gonna make you cum and squirt so you know just how badly all of this gets to me.”

this is going to become a bad habit of his, more addictive than anything else he could imagine, only making his obsession with everything that has to do with you so much worse.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO + ANYTHING WITH WHITE LACE

as much as kageyama tobio hates to admit it, he undeniably has a bit of a romantic streak. his love for volleyball, his dedication to bettering himself, his constant search for the one that continues to challenge him to unseen heights: it all points to the unending ache in his heart that searches for someone to be by his side.

only a part of that desire gets quenched when he falls for you. you were his first, and he’s determined to make you his last. it’s only logical, in his mind, that seeing you in white is enough to awaken something like a sleeper agent inside of him. it makes you think of the day you’ll be decked from head to toe in a beautiful white dress and a lacy white veil, and he’ll stare at you as if he’s falling in love all over again, barely holding back his tears as he waits for you to meet him at the altar.

it’s not his fault that he wants to make that dream a reality so badly. you can feel the way kageyama stiffens and struggles to meet your eyes whenever you wear white around him, be it anything from a simple pajama t-shirt to something more formal. it drives him wild, and it makes him want to eat you up, to pin you down and drink up the sight of you in that pretty color, to let whatever restraint left inside of him go completely.

it takes him a surprisingly long time for him to actually bring the idea of lingerie to you. it becomes a bit of a guilty secret of his. he buys all sorts of pretty, lacy white bras, crotchless panties, and matching sets, only to get shy and hide it away in his closet. it’s not that he doesn’t trust you, but he wonders if he’s ramping things up too quickly, if his love might become smothering to you.

but if anything, you’re worse than he is. you’re more than happy to don whatever piece he sheepishly offers up to you, and seeing you baring yourself up to him in the lingerie he could only fantasize about makes his throat close up. blood rushes to his cock, hardening almost too quickly for him to process, and his dick feels like it’s about to explode. he whines when you press up against him and coo something sweetly towards him. your hands rub against the bulge in his pants as you press your clothed tits against his chest, his cock twitches painfully when he notices the way the lace trim moves with the plush flesh.

it’s bad. he begs you to ride him, to take his cock so he can see your entire body covered in the lacy material that mimics bridalwear so temptingly. he likes hooking his fingers around the waistline of your panties just to feel the lace ride against his skin.

“so pretty- looks so good on you-,” he slurs as you buck your hips. you grin down at him, loving how fucked out and pussy drunk he looks, the way he cries out whenever you slide down his length and let his cock breach your tight hole. “gonna cum just from staring at you… fuck, you’re so fucking tight…!”

“do you like how i look?” you reach for his wrists, and kageyama feels like he’s going to die when you glide his large, calloused palms over the curve of your hips. he gropes at your figure, moaning loudly when he can feel the white fabric moving underneath his knuckles. you smile down at him, and you make sure to bounce your tits in his face to give your boyfriend a good show. “you wanted me to wear this for you, didn’t you?”

he nods frantically. his balls are straining against your ass, and your pussy won’t quit clenching up around him. he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he didn’t think you would take his thinly veiled fetish and turn it immediately against him. “you look good- look so, so good- wanna cum inside you…”

“yeah?” you repeat. you drag his hands up to your breasts, the white lace barely covering your hardened nipples. you groan his name when he touches you, his fingers pinching at your nipples and desperately squeezing at your tits. “you wanna cum inside of me while i’m wearing this? is that why you’re so hard right now? your cock’s so hard inside of me, tobio… feels so good when i ride it.”

he clenches his eyes shut at your praise, and satisfaction stirs deep inside of you when his cock twitches in your pussy. you speed up your pace a little bit, and his moans grow high-pitched, his hands gripping onto your chest to ground himself to no avail. heat blooms all over his body, and he can’t hold on much longer. your body feels too good. your pussy’s melting his dick, squeezing him into utter submission. knowing that you’re more than willing to let his lovesick fantasies play out makes him want to fuck his cock so deep and hard into you, to stuff his cum all up into your womb until it leaks out of you and drips down your thighs into a sticky mess.  

you click your tongue down at him. “eyes open, tobio. you’re the one that wanted to see me in this lingerie… don’t tell me that you’re chickening out now.”

“don’t- don’t tease me-,” he pants, the ragged edge in his voice has the arousal in your gut churning. he glares up at you, and the hunger and barely concealed restraint in his eyes are almost palpable. 

his hands drop from your chest down to your hips. he drags your hips up his swollen length and then forces you all the way down, snapping his hips up so that his whole, thick cock plows its way into you. red, hot electric pleasure shoots up your spine, and he manages to rip a strangled cry of his name out of you.

“is this what you wanted?” kageyama hisses. “i can play this game with you. don’t blame me if i end up knocking you up after all of this.” 

TSUKISHIMA KEI + MAID COSTUMES

despite his uptight, holier-than-thou attitude he displays at times, tsukishima kei can’t deny the simpler pleasures of seeing his pretty girlfriend dressed up in a frilly maid costume with a short, short skirt. he is just a man, at the end of the day, and something about coming home after a long shift at the museum to see you greet him in the cute costume with your hair and makeup all done for him makes his body flush. 

you’re so eager to shower him with attention, to help him unwind, to call him “sir” and “master kei” in that singsong voice of yours, and you prancing around in front of him and accidentally flashing him your dainty panties whenever the skirt bounces up too high is only the beginning.

part of him wants to shove the tiny skirt up to your waist and bending you over on the nearest surface to fuck you out on his cock, hearing you choke out his name just so he can shove his fingers into your mouth and scold you about not using the proper honorifics with him. another part of him wants to take his time with you, to feel you shudder as he slowly drags his lithe fingers up your thighs, unwrapping you like his own personal present, and making you suck him off while still fully dressed all so he can cum on your costume and hear you squeal about the mess he’s making. 

it’s not like he’s pressed for time now that he’s done with work. there’s no need to pick between the two equally tempting options when he can just do both with you.

“what a messy maid i’ve got here… you’re drooling all over me. can’t take it?” a big hand tugs at your hair, surprisingly gentle despite the harsh edge to his words. you’re struggling to fit more of tsukishima’s long cock into your mouth without using your hands, tied behind your back with a white bow that matches the rest of the decorations on your maid costume. 

you swallow around him. your mouth feels so full with his length, his girth already making you struggle to wrap your lips around him fully. you like it though, you like testing your limits like this, the warm tightness of your mouth and throat serving to pleasure tsukishima the best you can. after all, a maid’s job is to live for whatever her master wants, isn’t it?

you gag slightly on his dick when tsukishima tries to push you down a bit deeper. saliva dots the edges of your lips and coats his throbbing length. you mimic the motion of sex the best you can, bobbing your head up and down as much of him as you can possibly take. you flutter your eyelashes up at him sweetly, despite the fact that you’re blowing him off and looking more like a pornstar than you are a truly innocent maid. but it’s you, and that’s what matters more than anything else to tsukishima. 

“there’s a good girl…,” he coos down at you, and the loose smirk hanging off of his lips makes your pussy throb. it’s always hard to tell when he’s genuinely praising you versus when he’s only pretending to, but it turns you on so badly to know that he’s the one in control of everything. you slobber shamelessly around him as you daydream about how good it would feel to take his thick cock inside of your pussy. he would stretch you out so good, and just the thought of cumming and creaming on his dick makes you drool that much harder around him, like a dog to a bone.

he keeps twitching and pulsing inside of your mouth, and you know he’s close from how he’s gripping your hair and his low groans. you want it. you want him to cum inside of your mouth, and you want to swallow it all. but he has other plans in mind, and despite how expertly you swirl your tongue around his sensitive head and moan at the salty taste of his pre-cum spreading all over the inside of your cheeks and in the back of your throat, tsukishima refuses to give you the satisfaction of the heady taste of his semen flooding your mouth. 

he yanks himself out of your mouth, and you whine, your throat and mouth deprived of him. you stick your tongue out, feeling like a kid with their toy stolen away, and you wiggle your hips unconsciously, arousal dripping from between your thighs and surely making a mess out of your thin panties. 

“ah, ah, not so quick,” the blond laughs down at you breathlessly. you watch with deprived and enchanted eyes as he finishes himself off, denying yourself even the pleasure of drinking his cum, and you let out a pathetic whimper when he cums on you instead. his hot cum burns your skin, hot and sticky and heavy, and it goes all over your face, your skimpily clothed chest, into your hair, and enough to flood your senses. 

you lick at your lips, the salty taste not quite enough to satisfy you completely. you need more, you want all of it inside your pussy, you’re not going to be happy with being teased and having your prize dangled in front of your eyes tantalizingly. tsukishima knows this, and he knows that a good maid should never get all needy in front of her master.

he grips your face as you try to wipe and collect his cum to lick off of your fingers. you look like a disaster, your costume now askew and his cum staining so much of your body. 

“did you actually think you deserve my cum, sweetheart?” he asks, eyes narrowing slightly into a dark sneer. you barely suppress a shudder as his cock slowly hardens again, and it might just be your imagination but it looks thicker, longer, harder than it was mere minutes ago. he smiles mockingly at you as if he can detect your anticipation mixed with fear. “my messy maid… if you want it that badly, you’re going to have to work a little bit harder for it.”

KUROO TETSUROU + PLAYBOY BUNNY

kuroo tetsurou wasn’t always the silver-tongued, handsome man he is today. people always laugh when he recounts his younger days, especially when he was nothing more than a nerdy high schooler with horrible bedhead, an affinity for chemistry, and an incessant love for his school’s volleyball team. he doesn’t have too much trouble garnering attention nowadays, but there was a point in his life when all he had to quell his own confusing teenager hormones was a pile of trusty playboy magazines stashed discreetly underneath his bed. 

it makes his cheeks prickle with embarrassment to think too long about the scantily dressed women in all of the pictures and pin-ups, worn out after years of use, but he’d be lying if he said seeing the models dressed up in the signature bunny custom didn’t do something to his adolescent mind. even though it’s so lewd, there’s something classy about the way the costume accentuates the figure and leaves just enough covered for the imagination.

it’s no wonder that that became his first pick when the idea of dressing up for him came up. and god, the sight of you shyly approaching him in the same costume that became such a staple in his heart makes him want to eat you up whole. nothing you do can cover yourself from his hawk-like eyes, and seeing you squirm and trying to hide under your hands or arms makes him want to turn you into a mess where you can’t hide any part of yourself from him.

“mmm… it fits you perfectly, doll,” a low voice rasps from behind you. kuroo’s thick thighs make the perfect seat for you, and your stomach does a flip when you can feel the tent in his pants rubbing up against your ass. the leather of the costume’s main piece does wonders to your body. they push up your tits perfectly, and that coupled with a pair of sensual black stockings, red bottom heels (which kuroo generously paid for which earned him a long lecture from you after you saw the price tag), and the cutest little bunny tail on your ass makes you the vision of a wet dream come true. 

he grips your hips, big hands feeling up the curves of your waist and ass. he rocks you back and forth on his bulge, and you’re rewarded with a groan from somewhere deep in his throat when he feels the electric sparks of having his favorite girl grinding against his erection. you pick up the rhythm, rocking your hips against him, the act so desperate and so carnal despite the layers of clothing between the two of you.

“you have- hah- no fucking clue how long i’ve imagined you like this-,” kuroo chuckles. his big palms go from your waist up to your chest, and your breath hitches in your throat when you feel his calloused fingers hover over your tits. goosebumps dot your skin as he starts to slowly grope your chest, earning you yet another provocative moan from him when he keeps rutting into the soft flesh of your ass.

you bite down on your bottom lip, grinding down on him to stimulate your clit. it feels good, the dull blooms of pleasure doing wonders for the heat creeping all over your body. the idea of cumming untouched like this makes your head spin, and you want it more than anything else. you want your hole to become a leaking, cock-hungry mess all from dressing up in a lewd bunny costume for kuroo and from humping into each other like animals in heat. you know it’s going to make being fucked out his cock eventually feel that much better. 

“please, tetsu-,” you whine, your nails digging into his forearms. your voice is high strung and strained, whiny and girly just the way he likes it best. “wanna cum- wanna cum for you… you feel so big already… wanna take your cock inside me too…!”

“yeah? you want that too? keep talking like that, and i’ll fucking lose it for real…,” he grunts. you yelp when he bites down on your shoulder, sharp teeth marking up your unmarked skin and the sudden sting has your cunt clenching up painfully. the thrums of arousal thrashing in your core are all your mind can grip onto, and the shape of kuroo’s cock straining against his pants and grinding into your swollen clit makes your whole body feel weak.

you’re glad kuroo’s enjoying this so much, that he can prop your body up the way he wants you to. he’s so strong even in the midst of this sex-induced haze, and knowing that he has nothing but this kind of insane desire for you makes you feel almost giddy. it’s nice; it’s powerful to know that you have this effect on him. 

“gonna cum for me, bunny? while you’re all dressed up and pretty in my lap?” kuroo laughs. you nod, the faux ears atop your head threatening to go askew. his hands massage at your chest, every part of your body egging him on constantly. he kisses over the bite marks he left on you, the switch between loving appreciation and starved lust telling you everything you need to know about how this whole thing with him is going to end.

it’s a no-brainer that he thinks you look absolutely ravishing in his favorite outfit, but he swears that the costume is gonna look even better when it’s all crumpled on the floor, your naked body bared all for him. you’re going to look so cute, so innocent, and so adorable bouncing in his lap as he pinches your nipples from behind, that teasing tone of his pushing you towards an unending series of orgasms. kuroo can’t wait to feel you fall apart in his arms, to feel your helpless pussy fucked out on his cock. 

“that’s my girl,” he praises you, voice hushed and sultry. “my pretty, obedient bunny. cum all you want. gonna make sure that’s all you do for the next little while…”

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[kissesfordaryl]

daryl dixon & kinks.

top male reader.

CHOKING.

hes obsessed with the how easily your larger hands fit over his neck, how gentle you are as you squeeze and watch his eyes flutter close. your fingers are constantly dancing around his neck, just teasing. its gets him riled up and he has to actively try to not think dirty.

if hes riding you, he'll drag your hand off of his hip and up his body, urging you to take your grip and squeeze and squeeze until he comes all over your stomaches. other than that, he adores taking your fat cock down his throat, and letting his spit pool up there. he gets lightheaded but enjoys just sitting there on his knees, taking you all.

MARKING.

at first, he wanted to avoid any marks. he already disliked pda- and he didnt want the rest of the group knowing what he got up to with you. eventually as the years passed, he didnt mind a few hickeys making their way up his skin and below his jaw. the feeling of being owned- of others knowing that you did that to him, it got him off. that doesn't mean those are the only marks he has though. youre ruthless when youve got him to yourself: sucking dark and purple bruises into his inner thighs or below his nipple or on the curve of his ass. you'd take any skin you could get. daryl pretends he hates the sting of it- but really it gets him hard when he sees the reminders of how hard you fucked him the other night.

PRAISE.

more than anything, he wants to make you proud. he looks to you for everything- from the smallest to the biggest of things. if youre giving him directions during sex, he'll try his damndest to follow through. he's not really a brat; he doesnt find pleasure in failing you. all he wants to hear is how good he takes it, how good he's being for you, how pretty he looks with his legs wrapped around you.

DEGRADATION&HUMILIATION.

although he doesn't really find pleasure in failing you, his cock'll start twitching if you get a little mean. he cant help but agree whenever you call him pathetic, because he knows its true. your mocking tone thats just shy of cruel, the names you call him- all of it was true. he'd only apologize and nod, tears brimming his eyes and hair falling in his face.

HAIR PULLING.

with his long hair constantly falling in his face, you were bound to be a little rough sooner or later. the way you can take control so easily just by pulling has him weak for you- and who doesnt know it?

EDGING.

"cant you take a little more?" youve got your fingers wrapped around daryls dick, tugging and tugging and playing at his sensitive slit. "i mean, look how good im makin' you feel. least you could do is hold out a little longer, right?" it was a game to you, and he could barely hang on. edging him is the fastest way to get him whimpering, crying, gasping. on one hand, he just wants to come all over your hand, paint your face with it- but on the other, he wants to be able to make you proud. hes usually got a 50-50 chance of making it.

MANHANDLING.

one of things that might just embarrass him the most: manhandling. daryl was more than capable of handling himself. he was considered one of the more stronger people in his group. but none of that mattered next to you. you were broader, bulkier, stronger. he loves getting fucked against a wall, the thrill of someone even seeing, how easy it was for you to maneuver him in whatever position you wanted. maybe if you were hard enough youd leave hand prints.

man im obsessed with him☹️

[lottiecrabie]

pray for my soul. part four – matty healy

sneaking around with matty healy might forsake you, but at least it’s fun.

warnings: 18+, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, joint fingering, masturbation, dry humping, mirror sex, thigh riding, restraints, roleplay, religious imagery, pfms typical desecration

part four of five

20,067 words

Matty’s grip on your thighs is brutal. He has to: your legs trash around the sheets wildly, bucking into his mouth. His tongue meets your clit with deadly accuracy. He rubs at it with the back of his tongue, a new trick that has you biting your lip until your chin is numb, tugging at the roots of his hair.

His nails dig into your flesh, crescent moon scars to cherish when he’s gone. There’s faded purple bruises all over your body, hidden under your clothes. Thank God for cardigans, for turtlenecks, for swallowing sweaters; all the modest clothes your mother buys in pretty shades of pastels are perfect smoke shows for the hickeys Matty litters on you religiously. 

You love to trace the imprints of him. On your hips, your waist, your legs. Pretty colors on the underside of your breasts, still burning with soothing after-kisses. In front of the mirror, you trail your fingertips over the temporary tattoos, feeling like his name is permanently engraved on you. 

That’s what he’s doing now, spelling M A T T Y on your bundle of nerves as his fingers fuck into you. You put the letters together with a moan, some vertiginous thrill at both the feel and the idea. He’s marking you. He’s ruining you. You’re letting him. 

“Matty, please,” you whimper, raking through his sweaty curls. He hums, delicious resonance on your clit. Euphoria shoots up your spine; you clench around his fingers, drenching them in your slick. “I’m close. Fuck, I’m so—” Your head rolls. A shattering orgasm threatens the edges of you— you know that now, know the telltale feel of it by heart. 

His mouth leaves your cunt. You whine, frowning at the sudden loss of feeling, bucking into his fingers with renewed fervor to make up for it. “Look at me,” Matty orders. “I want to see you when you fall apart.”

It’s an herculean effort just to open your eyes, but when you finally do, Matty dives back between your legs restlessly, rubbing at you with a frenzied rhythm. You struggle to keep your gaze locked with his, trying to muffle the desperate cries you want to release. 

You’re close again— right there, really. You don’t warn him. He knows the signs anyway, knows them probably better than yourself. His eyes darken at the sight of you, flushed and panting, shirt pulled off, bra cups lowered just enough to reveal your pebbled breasts, skirt bunched uselessly around your waist; a show you put on nearly every night. Just for him. 

His hips grind into the bed, unconsciously humping the covers, surely overwhelmed with the sight and the taste and the smell. You feel guilty. For all the time Matty has spent on his knees in the past weeks, you haven’t returned the favor. You think you should probably— Matty curls his fingers just so, and now you’re not thinking of anything at all, breaking apart on his tongue. 

He comes breathless out of your legs, grinning lazily like he’s just so proud of you for doing the easiest task of climaxing. He climbs up your body as you pant, kissing your stomach, your neck, your lips. 

His tongue slips into your mouth, holding the side of your face like you could shatter between his fingertips. He tastes like you. You don’t hate it. Matty is still hard between your thighs, pressing into you as he tilts his head, finding a better angle to steal the breath right from your lips. 

You break away, eyes still firmly closed, mind spinning languidly. “You can—” You open your eyes, searching his frowning stare. Eyebrows furrowed, Matty almost seems to fear your next words. “You can… you know.”

Worry spills away from his face, replaced by amusement. He smiles teasingly at you. “What?” 

You huff, blushing. “You know.” Your hands dig into his shirt, embarrassment spreading through you, shaking you out of the happy blur post-orgasms bring you. “Touch yourself,” you finally complete, looking away, because Matty is clearly unwilling to help, preferring watching you squirm instead. 

“Yeah?” He laughs, nosing your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, suddenly hyperaware of him, of how hard he is between your legs. You already feel ready for another go. “I wanna see you,” you whisper, choked. 

Matty’s head rises at that. Gone is any trace of teasing. He’s staring at you like he could eat through your flesh, like he could dig under your bones. Like he wants you— right now and then. Your head spins. You almost consider saying yes. 

He kneels above you, hovering, each knee siding your waist. Your hands find them shyly. He peers down at you with a smirk; his turn to give you a show. Unbuttoning his jeans, Matty lowers his boxers, revealing his hard, leaking cock. 

Fire burns down your veins. You swallow thickly, eyeing his red tip, the vein running down his underside. It’s different than seeing it between the latticed holes of the confessional— realer. 

Matty wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly, thumb wiping at his tip. He spreads the precum down his length. His lips part at the first touch, a smothered groan gracing his lips. He’s beautiful. 

Your fingers dance on his knees, tingling with envy. You want to reach out, to touch him, to feel him. More than that, though, you’re scared. Of doing it wrong, of being bad, of new things you don’t know. 

Matty doesn’t seem to mind, however. His strokes quicken, already done teasing himself, instead chasing after his earth-shattering end. Your eyes flicker between his cock and his face, never knowing which spectacle is better to look at, always distracted by a twisting motion or a low groan scrunching his face. You suddenly understand him, understand his unsteady and evermoving gaze when you’re moaning under him. How you want to splinter apart, see everything. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks, shortwinded. 

You nod, too fascinated to blush and shy at your own eagerness. “Yes. Yes.”

His hips fuck into his own fist, tip glistening with precum. He passes a hand through his curls, eyes rolling into his head. You smile cruelly, pinching his knees. “Look at me,” you repeat back to him, devious. 

Matty’s eyes snap open, his face falling forward to stare at you. His cheeks redden. You smile at that, power and thrill swirling inside your soupy brain. 

His strokes grow desperate and irregular; he must be close. Every time his thumb swipes at his tip, Matty jerks, biting on his lip, trying to swallow a cry. Your head cocks, grinning at him. “It’s not so easy keeping quiet, huh?” You tease. Finally he knows how it feels to bite back uncontrollable sounds, knows how it really is when there’s no grinding cunt muffling all the pretty noises he usually unashamedly lets out.  

A breathy laugh leaves his swollen lips. “Shut up.” His arm flexes, eyes scrunching close and then opening as he remembers your demand. “Shit,” he cries, shaking his head. “I’m gonna—” 

He makes a move to move off you, but you still him by his knees, pushing down the bunched fabric of your skirt to make room. You stare at him unflinchingly, a smile digging into your cheek. His eyebrows rise in surprise, lust glazing over his eyes, but then his head falls forward, face wrinkling as he comes with a fucked-out groan. Ropes of cum spill on your stomach, painting your belly white. 

Matty catches his breath above you, panting as he stares at the sinful sight of you. You peer down at yourself too, fascinated. With a curious finger, you wipe at his cum, sucking it into your mouth. Vaguely salty. Not terrible. 

“Fuck,” Matty moans. Your eyes snap to his to find him already watching you. You grin around your finger. 

Devilishly, you catch another string of cum, reaching up to his mouth with a smirk. “Open up,” you tease. 

Matty jumps, slapping your hand away with a disgusted sound. “Fucking gross.” 

You giggle, wiping your dirty finger on your stomach. Matty glares at you, clearly unimpressed by your pestering. He tucks himself back in his jeans, falling beside you on the bed, sweaty head on your pillows. He kisses the top of your hair, sighing satisfiedly. 

Your eyes flick to the clock. You groan, digging your face into his shoulder. “It’s dinner soon,” you lament. Not only do you have to go downstairs and sit around a table with your parents like you’re not still tingling with the memory of Matty’s hands on you, but your mother has convinced herself a diet is needed and now you can’t eat anything but overcooked vegetables and soup. 

“Well, I’ve already eaten.” You slap his stomach, rolling your eyes. He laughs. “Come on. It was right there.” 

“You don’t have to take every bait.” 

He grins down at you. “How else am I supposed to make you blush?” 

“Try a compliment, maybe.” 

A beat passes. Matty stares at you still, smiling and lighthearted, just as happy dazed by his own orgasm. Your heart slams against your chest with each passing second, stomach fluttering uselessly. “You’re very pretty,” he says, low and confessionally, unrushed. Of course, you feel a flush spread on your face. You look away embarrassed. “Well, would you look at that. It does work, too.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, as though the words aren’t still coiling around the wrinkles of your brain. Matty laughs again, something easy. 

You sit up, staring down at the mess of your body. “I have to get cleaned up.” 

Matty nods, getting off the bed, bending down to put his sneakers back on. It’s still light outside. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” you say, pretending your heart doesn’t pinch watching him go. “See you soon.” 

—

Sunday morning is a daze. You’re dozing off in church, limbs sore from Matty going down on you in the cramped spot of his passenger seat before driving you home after school. Your legs protest everytime you kneel, muttering back the prayers with a smothered gasp of pain. 

You pick your nails trying to not think of it. It feels almost too perfectly planned: Matty untethering all your connections to faith, dirtying them. A soiled confessional, a sullied bible, and now you sit in church and pinch at your thumb to stop imagining his fingers curling into you. 

It’s not very successful. Every passing thought has you throwing a guilty glance towards Matty’s unruly curls. He’s sitting diagonally from you, further up. How ironic that he seems to sail through church as you tangle yourself in the shadows. That you must look forward to find him in his pew, seemingly twiddling his thumbs as the sermon progresses on. 

You stand from your seat for the communion, following dutifully behind your parents. Matty doesn’t move. He stares straight ahead; so do you. Your heart races inexplicably in your chest as you walk the aisle, inching closer and closer to him; some vague buzzing thrill taught to react to his mere proximity. Soon, you’ll brush past him. Your cheeks grow hot. It’s silly— young and naive and innocent. 

He’s been between your thighs. He’s seen you naked. He’s licked your wetness off his lips. Yet you’re still flushing at the idea of a graze. 

He’s under your skin. 

You count the seconds between each step. You pinch at your thumb, trying to kill the growing excitement— or at least smother it. 

You bite your lip as you finally get to his pew. His hand rests on the armrest, bored. Your thigh could graze it if you swerved— it happens all the time. It’s not suspicious. People falter in their steps every day, get caught in their feet and bend into unsuspecting bodies. 

Your stare faces straight on, digging a hole in your father’s head. You won’t get distracted. Won’t be weak. Won’t indulge in your sinful thoughts where everyone can see.

It’s almost predictable. Matty reaches a hand out and tugs on your pleated skirt. You jump, spinning to him, the back of your thighs tingling from a graze of his knuckles. He stares straight on, head resting on his hand, grinning to himself. A giddy smile that cuts his lips up, impossible to wipe away. An innocent act you see right through.

Your heart races twice as hard, but you can’t tell if it’s from the public display anyone could have caught or from the mere sight of him. You’re twice as flushed when you turn back to the line, squeezing your thumb so hard it numbs. You feel slack on your bones, butter melting from the heat of him. You can’t stop thinking about him.

You finally reach the priest. Dazed, you open your mouth wide. He places the body of Christ on your tongue carefully. You bite it. 

—

The shower burns. It’s a boiling degree, like the heat could make you clean. You scrub at your skin and it seems to only make your mind dirtier; a perfect equilibrium of filth must always be balanced in your flimsy body. The soap lathers over the purples and now you’re thinking of Matty’s lips stretched into a grin, a serpent smirk, bending down to kiss you. 

Whispering some terribly reprehensible things that make you dizzy, make you grip onto his shoulders just to ground yourself to something tangible. Grazing down your chest, kissing each rib to watch your breathing speed up. Biting your hip for the surprised jump, a giddy giggle falling out of your mouth next. Licking a flat tongue up your folds to hear the laugh morph into a moan. 

The images are too vivid. You’re breathless, nipples pebbled under your soaping hand, growing embarrassingly wet between your thighs. Your body holds a memory of him even your mind can’t keep up with. His name crosses your brain and suddenly your cunt throbs, ready to welcome him in, practically begging for it. 

Your hips shift uncomfortably, feeling that typical heat that spreads through you whenever Matty throws you a dark look, promise catching in the sharpness of his smile. It’s the wrong thing to think about; now your belly flexes, everything in you pulled tight in preparation. Your body holds its breath. 

You groan, frustrated. You lower the temperature of the water, incapable of keeping up with the boiling fire this bathroom has caught on, lapping up the shower curtains. It’s at least a bit soothing on your hot skin. 

Though there’s still the problem between your thighs, of course. It doesn’t seem to satiate with the minute change, barely notices it. You sigh, grabbing the showerhead, hoping to wash away the wetness dripping down your thighs, the remaining filth on you. 

You angle the showerhead and— Oh. 

You jump, startled by the sudden feeling, heart racing. Wide eyes stare at the white tiles, blinking. You flick a look to the incriminating showerhead. You bite your lip, apprehensive as you slowly place it back between your legs. 

“Shit,” you cry, biting your lip to hold back the following moans threatening to come out. A hand on the wall holds you upright. You wrinkle your face, washed with burning ecstasy. Fucking shit. 

It hits your clit just right, incessant pressure practically attacking it. You roll your eyes, head falling backwards, pleasure building inside of you. Your legs spread further apart, upping the water pressure, biting back a scream. You follow the motions Matty usually licks on your bud; circles, up-and-downs, side-to-sides, shaking at the consequential new feelings 

You might very well tear your lips apart trying to keep quiet. Your forehead falls on the tiles, afraid of crumbling to the ground. Euphoria waves through your limbs, warning bells ringing in your mind. You slap a hand on your mouth in preparation, keeping the showerhead still as— 

You come apart with a muffled scream. The shower nulls into inexistence, water barely an existing concept as pleasure washes you. His name tingles your tongue. You swallow it.

You drop the showerhead as soon as your climax ends, overwhelmed and sensitive. You breathe harshly, staring as the water runs down the bath. You laugh to yourself, raking a hand through your wet hair. 

It’s the first time you’ve come without him. First time you’ve— a moment in the confessional passes through your mind, taunting you to use the word— masturbated since the last time, the one that brought you sticky deep into this mess. 

You came into the shower to wash yourself and you’ve managed to make it dirty. Still, as you step out, the bathroom drenched in heated smoke, you feel strangely clean. You wrap a towel around your flushed body, a slack, relaxed smile on your lips. 

—

The sheets are sweaty and sticky on your skin. You push them off, then feel oddly exposed, throwing them over your body again. You huff, twisting, laying on your back as you throw a glance at the clock. He’s not coming. 

It’s fine. Something must have come up. Perhaps he remembered a very important test for tomorrow and threw himself nose first in his studies. Perhaps his mother started noticing his cracked bedroom window and sealed it shut, preventing him from sneaking out to crash in her bed nearly every night. Perhaps he’s bleeding out in the streets somewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s not like you have to see him anyway. You can sleep without his cheeky goodnight, your eyelids droopy and your thighs sticky as he gets dressed in a hurry. 

It’s just— Well, there was a bit of teasing today; grand, dirty promises whispered in the crook of your ear; ghosting touch as he passed you; heavy looks that made your hands shake as you solved an equation on the blackboard; kisses that never went to more. Now you’re keyed up, jittery and awake, and he’s not coming. 

You sigh again, passing two hands though your hair, trying to ignore the ache throbbing between your thighs. You purse your lips. The cross stares at you, chastising the inkling thought tugging at your mind. 

You shut your eyes and let a hand travel down your stomach. You near the hem of your underwear, hinting at the possibility. Your thighs clench in anticipation. You frown, trying to remember all the reasons you shouldn’t as your fingertips dig under the fabric and cup yourself. You’re already wet. 

It’s not like it would be the first time. What is one more in the grand scheme of things. It’s surely not gonna be that that forsakes you, of all the things. You dip one finger in, hitting your clit. You jolt and bite your lip, pleasure striking through you.

You start with slow circles. Relief immediately seeps down your stomach. You open your thighs further, giving you space as you attempt to hit your clit like he does. Your finger lacks the roughness of a callus. You make a low noise of frustration.

That damn callus and its filthy trail on your skin. On your collarbone as he nears your cross, rubbing the cool metal like he had to remind himself of your faith while kissing you. On your breast as he grabs, circling a nipple until you’re putty in his arms. On your stomach as he takes his sweet time traveling it down just to tease you. On your thighs as he grips them and keeps them apart for him. On your neck as he presses until you’re rolling your eyes and gasping. On your clit finally —finally— as he draws the letters of his name on it. 

You make a sound of pleasure. You copy him, rubbing M A T T Y on your bundle of nerves as if he was there in the room, as if it was his hand in your underwear and not your own. Thrill hits you. You rub harder, trying to find half the ecstasy he naturally coaxes out of you with knowing eyes and a sweet, devil tongue. You can’t seem to. 

Last time you touched yourself— properly touched yourself— you didn’t know what pleasure could be. Now, with the vivid memory of Matty’s hands and tongue in your mind, everything feels a little shortcoming. You try to speed up, but you can’t match the pace he does. 

Impatiently, you push the covers off your chest, grabbing your tits and palming them like him. Low heat boils under your skin and you shift your hips, glad to see that something is finally working. 

Matty in your bed. Matty fingering you. Matty licking his digits clean. Matty in the confessional with that low, implacable voice. Matty asking you to pray for him. Kneeling in front of him, hands clenched together. Matty tugging at his jeans’ button. Matty’s hand on your chin as he pushes it open for him. Matty—

“Hey, sorry I’m late I was—” You open your eyes in a panic, pulling your hand out of your underwear like you’ve been burned. Your heart races as you turn to the intrusion with a panicked look. 

Matty is at your window, staring at you with two arched eyebrows. A slight, devilish smirk rises on his lips. He knows. Cheeky, he takes a step towards the bed, voice dancing as he asks, “What are you doing?”

Your fingers are wet by your thigh, laying on the white sheet under the covers. You bite your lip. “Nothing.” He gives you an unimpressed look. 

“Show me your hand.” 

“No.”

His smile breaks his face. “Why’s that?” You scrunch your nose, shaking your head. He snickers at you, taking another step until he’s reached the bed. “D’you wanna know what I think?” Your breath hitches. He has that low, teasing voice that turns you on. “I think you were— what did we call it again? Being ‘impure with yourself’? Is that it, angel?”

You lick your teeth, your cheeks heating up. “Maybe.”

He clicks his tongue. “Couldn’t wait for me to get home, huh? Had to relieve that little ache inside of you right now? Burning and dripping for me all alone in bed? Fucking begging for it but there’s no one to help?” 

You pout at him. “Yes. You were late.” 

“I’m sorry, love. Family dinner got forcefully extended. Couldn’t wrangle out of it if I tried.” 

Matty turns around and walks away from the bed. You frown, resting on your elbows as you watch him go. He sits on your desk chair, facing you. He looks like he wants to eat you up. His chin nudges towards you. “Go on, then. Give me a show.” 

You flush, falling back on your pillows. You shake your head. “I can’t. ‘S not the same without you.” 

“What? You can’t touch yourself like I can? Can’t make you come like me?” You shake your head again, more fervent, more pleading. Matty coos, “Oh, poor little baby. If I’d known.”

He stands up and walks back to the edge of the bed. You’re surprised as he grabs your hand and tugs you out of it, making a noise of confusion. Still, you follow when he directs you to the full-length mirror. His front presses against your back, his breath heavy on your neck. You shiver. 

“I can’t let my perfect girl stranded like this again,” Matty whispers, dragging his knuckles down your arms. He reaches your wrist, swallowing your hand with his own. “C’mon, let me show you how.” He takes your hand to his mouth, sucking on your wet finger. Your breath hitches. He smirks around your digit. 

He wants to— You meet eyes with him through your reflection. He releases your finger with a pop, licking its length for good measure. It’s dirty, and you feel the hot resonance low in your belly. God, you want him.

You grab his wrist before he can move, puppeteering his hand down your stomach— that damn callus— and in your underwear. He indulgently lets you. “Can’t you just do it?” You whine. 

“What if I’m late again? What if I can’t come that day?” He nips at your cheek, husky and tempting as he whispers in your ear, “What if I want you to give me a show? What’ll you do then?” 

You press his index finger between your folds. You shift your hips slightly, rubbing yourself on his offered digit. Your head drops on his shoulder, moaning. Matty groans behind you. “I just want you,” you plead. “Touch me, please.” 

You can feel him pant against your back, his chest upping in quick, deep successions. His fingers dig into your hip, possessive and tempted, and then he pulls the hand from your underwear. You make a pained sound, missing him. 

“Just be patient,” he says, working you down while he tugs your panties from your legs. 

Your knees hit the fluffy pink carpet. He spreads your thighs open, giving the two of you a clear view of your cunt dripping for him. You blush, shy and embarrassed, turning to hide into his shoulder. 

Matty tuts. “Look at yourself, love,” he demands, pushing your head with a finger until you’re facing your reflection again. Your nipples are hard through your flimsy,  silk shirt. Your hair is tangled and sweaty. Your face is pulled tight in pleasure. Your pussy is wet, clit swollen and begging. You look fucked out and he hasn’t even done anything yet. You moan. It’s not the worst sight. 

“Show me what you were doing.” 

You don’t have the instinct to hesitate, already shoving your hand between your thighs. You bite back a moan as your finger hits your clit. Your head falls on his shoulder. You make artless circles, slow and lazy. 

“Good,” Matty praises in your ear, though he adjusts two fingers over your bud, pressing them in. The sensation is immediate, euphoria blooming under your skin. You wonder if it really has anything with technique or if your body just recognizes that it’s him. “That’s it, darling.”

He creates a rhythm, circling and swiping incessantly, getting your wrist used to the shapes. You follow dutifully, mewling for him, your cunt throbbing around nothing. You miss his long, spindly fingers, miss the way they curl into you. 

“Matty,” you whine and hope it’s enough. For good measure, you lock eyes with him in the mirror, fluttering your eyelashes at him. “Touch me.” 

He laughs in your hair, shaking his head. “You’re so greedy.” It should feel wrong, should feel shameful, but you giggle happily, feeling quite satisfied as he tugs your camisole up your chest. Your breasts are on display for him and he pinches one of your hard nipples. “Is that better?” 

“No,” you say, brain so hazy you forget good girls should never speak their mind— or even open their mouths for that matter. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

Matty smirks at you, raising his fingers from your peaked breasts and slipping them in your panting mouth. His ring tastes like iron on your tongue, like blood. It should feel foretelling, prophetic, but you just moan around them. He chuckles as he takes them out. Wet with drool, he rubs on your nipples again. “How about that?” 

You pout at him. “You’re doing it on purpose.” 

“You don’t need me,” he says, and his own hand draws yours lower, hinting at your entrance. You hold your breath, fluttering with need. “Female independence and all,” he teases. 

You shake your head vigorously. “I don’t want independence. I want you.” 

He snorts. “What? You want to be my little housewife?” This time, you nod, though just as fervently. He coos, rubbing your knuckles. “Want to lay in bed all day and wait for me to come home to eat you out? Bake me a pie so I’ll keep you happy and cockdrunk all year?” 

“I’m more inclined to you fingering me at the moment.” 

“Yeah?” His hand presses into yours and two of your fingers slide in. You gasp, straightening your back, getting used to the stretch. Only when you’re inside to your last knuckles that he whispers, “Sorry, love. I’m a feminist.” 

You throb around yourself. It’s an easy fit after having known his fingers. You don’t reach far, but it’s something. With delicate care, Matty makes you slide out, and you shudder against him. 

“Just like that,” he coos. “Slow at first.” You nod, thrusting in and out yourself. “Curl your fingers,” he demands, and you obey, biting your lip at the resulting feeling. “Perfect.”

He sets the pace with a sure, decisive hand. He picks up speed slowly, ignoring your thrilled wish to go faster, makes you thrust as deep as you can go, rubs your clit with the heel of your hand. You’re drenched to your knuckles, fucking yourself until euphoria spins your mind. 

“Look,” Matty demands, and you open your eyes. You stare at the filthy image of your cunt swallowing your fingers, over and over. You moan just like he knew you would. “So pretty. Aren’t you?”

“Y—Yeah.” 

“What are you thinking of? When you touch yourself, what do you think of?” 

“You,” you answer truthfully, still entranced by the show. 

He smirks. “I know.” Does he have to be so cocky? “But what?” 

“It depends.” He speeds up and your thighs shake with pleasure. Your wrist is growing sore, but you follow like a soldier marching to war. Anything for sweet release.

“Right now. Right before I arrived. What were you thinking of?” 

You’re drowning in pleasure, your neck slack on his shoulder. He pinches your nipple meanly, slowing your fingers, and you understand. You jolt awake, finding his dark, unflinching eyes in the mirror. Your reflection stares back, flushed and sweaty and gone, a mess just for him.

“I thought of you in the confessional. I thought of you making me pray, and me getting on my knees for you. You nudging my chin down, sweet in the gesture but rough on the fingertips, making my mouth wide open for you to—” Brain catches up to your tongue. You stop, suddenly embarrassed. 

Matty pants behind you. “What?” There’s no hint of teasing anymore, just raw need. You clench around your fingers at the sight, desire ravaging your stomach. 

Your lungs are on fire. He’s too close, and too there, and you can’t say. Good girls don’t speak. Good girls don’t finger themselves. Good girls don’t let dirty boys show them how. Good girls certainly don’t— Your cheeks heat. 

“What?” Matty repeats, presses. “Tell me, please.” As though to bargain, two of his own fingers slide into you. You gasp at the stretch, him there while you— Your room spins and spins around you. Your eyes focus on the spectacle, seeing your four fingers working together. 

You clench and clench around them, not used to the tight fit but so turned on and wet you barely register it. “Is this what you wanted?” Matty asks in your neck, pumping the four of your fingers in and out of you. You bite your lip so hard you might make it bleed trying to stop yourself from screeching. 

“Yes,” you admit, scrunching your face 

“Then give me what I want.” 

“I thought of sucking your cock,” you hurry out. Your brain is so liquidy with pleasure you can’t muster any shame anymore. “On my knees for you, and you pushing into my mouth, and gripping my hair, and your moans, and— Oh, fuck—” He curls your fingers in, hitting the spot you’ve been missing perfectly. The heel of your hand still rests on your clit and rubs sinfully. Your head falls on the mirror as you barely hold back cries. 

He rolls his thumb on your nipple. You’re overwhelmed with feeling, euphoria most of all, pleasure dancing and dancing around you. Matty fucks quick and hard— a reward. For speaking. You’ve never had that before. Something builds inside of you. You flutter around the joint digits, panting against the mirror, fogging up the glass. 

“Are you gonna come for me?” He breathes. You nod vaguely, too busy on the tension thinning inside of you. “Come on our fingers. Make a fucking mess.” 

“I—“ You wrinkle your eyebrows. Your skin buzzes and buzzes. “Matty—” The thread snaps. You straighten with a moan, shoving your free hand on your mouth to hold it in as ecstasy razes through your body. His arms tighten around you. He’s real and comforting as you crash from your high. “God,” is all you manage to say after it, a small giggle slipping from you. 

Matty kisses your cheek, then your neck, tickling. You wrinkle your nose, laughing some more. “Perfect girl. Soon you won’t even need me.” 

You roll your eyes. “That’s not true.” 

“This’ll be weird,” he warns, then slides the four fingers out of you. You groan, a little uncomfortable. You feel empty without the mess, clenching around nothing. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. He pulls the camisole back over your breasts, though it does nothing to straighten out the fucked out look your reflection offers back. How strange to see what he sees. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers. You stand up on shaky legs. On the fuzzy carpet, a wet patch lays. 

—

You stare at Matty from opposite sides of the cafeteria. His friends talk loudly around him, throwing pieces of food at each other with rumbling laughs. He doesn’t partake, locking eyes with you, sucking on the spoon of his pudding indecently. He sticks his tongue out, licking it. You can’t stop following his mouth with a heavy gaze. His eyes are teasing. He knows the effect it plants inside of you. 

You throw one leg over the other, clenching your thighs to silence the feeling. Your friends talk about math class and the way Julia’s red lipstick makes her look like a whore, but it is null to your ears. Matty kisses his spoon. You stand up in a rush. “Sorry, I— I just remembered homework. I have to go.” 

“Oh,” Fanny says. “Okay.” You’re practically running out of the cafeteria before she finishes her single-worded sentence. You give a look back at Matty. He’s throwing his spoon on his tray, standing up. You grin, pushing the doors, thrill racing inside of you. You know he’s following. 

—

Some rock music you don’t know plays from Matty’s radio. You straddle him in the back of his van, a flowery sheet thrown over the seat. There’s carpet on the floor, and the smell of weed stuck in it. Hands buried in his hair, burning lips meeting his with frenzied need, you’re afraid of melting on him. It wouldn’t be your fault: his tongue is too skilled; his hands are too warm, tucked under your school uniform, teasing at the band of your bra; his hard cock is pressed too deliciously between your thighs. It’s a miracle you’re not burning already, candle wax dripping on his poor open hands. 

“Just a little bit more,” you pant against his mouth. “Then I really have to get to youth group.” 

Matty nods eagerly. Anything to crash back against your mouth, find your bubblegum lip balm again. “Of course,” he says, already leaning in. 

Your youth group is presently gathered at the Fischer’s house, speaking bible verses and missionary statements, lettered bracelets around their wrist. They’re licking complimentary chocolate off their lips as you bite Matty’s, tugging it before releasing it with a smirk. The groan he lets out resonates between your thighs. You grip his hair tighter, shifting your hips on him, desperately trying to get as close to him as possible, as though you could step into his skin. 

You should pull away. Should brush through your now messy hair. Should unwrinkle the shirt he’s tugged on and sneaked under. Should drive to youth group. Should listen intently, bible heavy in your hands. Should recite holy words. Should repent, or at least try to. should should should should should. It’s all that seems to be spinning in your mind these days, yet you never listen. 

Instead, you let Matty push your bra cup off one of your breasts, grabbing a handful of it. You moan in his mouth as he twists the nipple. He grins against your lips, does it again. You buck on him eagerly, and, oh, isn’t that interesting? You do it again, and again, surprised at how it hits your bundle of nerves, how it reverberates through your body. You make artless rolls, sloppy and slow, just to chase that euphoric zap. You let another whine out. 

You wait for the guilt to eat your stomach, climb up to your heart, devour through the flesh. Wait for it to be strong enough to shake you out of this haze. But if pleasure feels like this —flames licking your limbs, insides droopy around the wick— then it’s not a surprise catholic guilt isn’t enough to keep you on the holy path. 

All it took was some filthy whisper in your ear while you organized your backpack, tugging at your ponytail with two raised eyebrows and a grin, and you were walking five steps behind him, making sure no one wandered around the parking lot when you stepped into his beat-up car, following him in all the deliciously sinful places he brought you to head first, mind second. I have youth group, you warned, as though that meant something. He smirked. I’ll give you a ride. 

One of Matty’s hands drops to your hip. He clutches the material of your skirt, as though that would be enough to rip it from your body, make it unreal. The bass thumps through the van, shaking the floor. It echoes in you, travels to your head. You grind your hips to the rhythm. 

And it is a delicious rhythm. Euphoria waves and waves inside of you, a dance to the drowning song. You whine in Matty’s mouth. You practically drip on him, sticky wet to your core. 

“What’s the song?” You breathe against him, high-pitched and shortwinded. 

Matty’s head drops to the wall of the van, staring up at you through his spiderleg eyelashes. He rubs at your nipple, makes your face scrunch and break with a silent plea. Distracted that he is, he manages to answer, “Palisade by Mineral.” 

“I like it.”

“Yeah?” His fingers dig in your hip, making you rock a little quicker on him. Still, he looks a little delighted at your answer. Childishly glad. 

You nod. “It reminds me of my favorite band.” 

A crooked smile hints on his lips. “What is it?”

“Flyleaf.”

He cocks his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “Don’t know them.” Matty seems genuinely confused at that, as though his brain was a dictionary of band names, and the lack of yours didn’t compute. 

You twitch your lips. “It’s a Christian band.” It feels wrong to even say the word when you’re rubbing yourself on Matty, flesh pleasures rippling under your skin. His hand is still on your breast, pawing lazily at it under your shirt, for Christ’s sake. 

Matty has a breathy laugh, half-choked by the low sounds he makes. “Don’t mock,” you whine, though humor still lingers in the words. “They do rock.” Again, he laughs. There’s something beautiful about it, about the softness of his eyes and the openness of his mouth, vulnerable, almost throat-bared. You want to grab his cheeks, hold him in place like he never is and really, really look at him. 

His laugh is contagious. You giggle, defending, “I’m serious. My parents don’t even want me listening to them.” Teasingly, you add, “Say it’s gateway music to harder things, like regular rock’n’roll.” 

“Your parents are right. They’re all devil worshippers and bisexuals.” You snort, knocking your forehead with his. 

Matty’s fingers fall from your shirt. He grips your hips with both hands, taking control of the awkward movements you roll on him. Quick, precise things, pressing into him. Everything snaps into place. Heat blooms under your skin. Your head falls back, a groan spilling from you. 

“Matty,” you moan. 

He smiles at that, kissing your jaw, then leaning back on the wall of the van to look at you. “How do you know Flyleaf then?”

You frown a little, trying to make sense of your thoughts while this pleasure swims through you. “My friend Jade has the CDs. When I go to her house, I can listen to them.” 

He licks his teeth. Amused, and perhaps a little condescending, he asks, “Do you jam out, then?”

“Yes,” you answer primly. 

His hands leave your hips, spilling down your thighs. Long fingers swallowing them up, rubbing at the fading hickeys as if to bring them back to life. Without Matty’s assistance, you rock on him. You emulate him as best as you can, circling and bucking. He groans under you and victory spins in your mind, a little inkling of pride beside the drowning ecstasy. 

The stitching of your underwear rubs at your clit in the most perfect way and you bite your tongue; a force of habit as the threat of your parents are miles away. He’s rock hard between your thighs. It always tugs at your mind, how real it feels. He presses into you, and you wonder how it would be like if— how it would feel when— 

Matty is not done teasing you. His hands slip under your skirt, grabbing your ass and speeding up your movements. You moan, digging your nails in his shoulders. Cheeky, he trails, “Do you dance around in your little pajamas? Scream-sing? Make the floors shake from how much you’re jumping? Do you have choreographies?” 

“Something like that.”

He huffs, a little grin teasing his lips. “I’d like to see that.” There he goes again, vulnerable and open and pretty. You have the urge to bite him to the core. 

You laugh. You look down at the sticky, bucking mess where you meet. “Now?” 

“Yeah,” Matty says. You twist your hips on him and he stutters, clenching your ass, groaning.  “Or— Or, you know what, maybe right after.” 

A giggle blooms out of you. You bend down to kiss the middle of his throat, right over his Adam’s apple; because it’s there, because he offers it so freely. Something in you aches to bite him, swallow him up. “Get me a Flyleaf CD. Maybe then.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” You roll your eyes.

Your thighs tremble from the effort, but you continue with just as much fervor, as much eagerness. You’re undeterred, single-minded— anything for the low thrumming building inside of you. A familiar feeling tingles in your toes, slowly licking up. You roll harder, pleading, hopeful. 

Your fingers move from Matty’s shoulders to his neck, hungry to get some skin. You dig into them, half-scratching. His head rolls on the wall. His face scrunches with a moan, pouty lips parted for you. 

A new song drums from the shitty car radio. It slashes through the blur of pleasure, takes hold of your liquefied brain. “What’s this one?” It comes out breathless. 

Matty opens his eyes, as though he needed all his senses to make sense of the song. “When You Sleep, my bloody valentine.” 

“I like it even better.” 

He smiles, warm and honey. “It’s one of my favorites, too.” You do a particularly artful buck and he cries, his head falling on your shoulder. “Fuck.” 

Euphoria buzzes up your limbs in warning. “I really have to get to youth group,” you pant. Though you do not slow, and even less stop, instead a renewed fervor to your moves. 

Matty tilts his head, kisses your neck. “Just a little bit more.”

“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing,  “just a bit.” Just a little bit, just a tiny, small, inconsequential bit, just more. There’s no wrong in it. His hand flies back to your breast, rubbing the nipple. You bite your lip, screaming, “Shit, Matty.” Your back shivers. 

You’re desperate, rocking on him with abandon. You don’t care for technique, just sheer speed, following the throbbing, screaming need inside of you that is just there. 

“I think I’m gonna—” You shake your head, pleasure too grand to make sense of the next words. 

Matty straightens from your neck, staring directly at you, panting. “I know. Me, too.” He pinches your nipple. You cry. Your toes curl. Pleasure thrums louder, following the dizzying music of the car. “Come for me,” Matty pleads. “I want to see you. Please, angel, just—” 

Your entire body shakes as you crash down from your high. You scream his name, a high-pitched cry, tongue loose in your mouth. Euphoria sings through you. All your limbs loosen and a slack, happy smile falls on your mouth. 

Your hips halt, exhausted from the effort, but Matty grips them and makes a few more sloppy rolls before whining, “Ah, fuck.” He comes with a shiver, and your name hot in his mouth. 

You stay there, unmoving, catching your breaths in the crooks of each other. He’s warm under you, around you. A known feeling, breathing. 

You giggle, dazed-happy. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Dry humping?”

“Yeah. Just without touching like that. It’s kinda—” You stop, embarrassed, suddenly not wanting to say. 

“What?” Matty trails, amused and curious. 

“Kinda like sex,” you whisper, flushed. The position, the feeling, the closeness. It really is almost sex. Though, you remind yourself, not sex at all. Of course. Matty doesn’t have time to answer that you add, “Does it feel good for you too?”

He snorts. “Yes.”

You chew your lip. Smaller, lower, you wonder, “Am I good at it?” 

Matty straightens, meeting your eyes. “I have come an embarrassing amount of times in my pants for you to not be.” 

You smile, proud. Glad. You lean in to kiss his nose. “Drive me to youth group?”

He pats your hip. “Alright.”

You attempt to straighten your clothes in the front seat, trying to iron out the wrinkles of your shirt with the palm of your hands. It’s a wasted effort, but you manage to look somewhat presentable by the time you’re a few houses from the Fischer’s. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell Matty, cheeky, and he snickers. You leave him with a wink, throwing your school bag over your shoulder. 

You walk into the room breathless and apologetic, already rambling. “Sorry I’m late. I was tutoring this kid and he wasn’t understanding the material and— it just lasted longer than I thought it would. I’m so, so sorry”

Betty smiles at you, benevolent. Guilt twists in your heart, but it’s distant. “No problem. We were just getting started on Lamentation.”

It hurts your cheek to grin so wide. “Great.”

—

You take demure bites out of your dinner, chewing and chewing until your jaw aches. It’s better for digestion, apparently. Passes straight through. Your mother sends you periodic looks, making sure you follow her advice. 

The chicken is dry and tastes like ash in your mouth. Still, you chew, trying to hide a grimace. Your stomach growls, but you wash it all down with water. 

“Did you hear about the Montgomery girl?” Susan, a neighborhood friend of your parents, exclaims. Her neck is flushed red from the wine.

Your father shakes his head, a somber expression on his face. “Such a shame.” 

“I don’t know what I would do if my Jade acted out like this,” Susan continues on, clicking her tongue in judgment. You frown. “I heard she was caught in the car.” 

“Surely not,” your mother says, clutching her pearls appropriately. There’s a sick tone of glee sticking to her teeth nonetheless. “In public?”

“Sexual deviants,” your father mutters. “It’s that damn TV. No one shows good Christian values anymore.” 

“Very true. People aren’t raised with the same standards these days. They just let kids act however.” 

“Now,” your mother starts, “Let’s not go shaming poor Sharon. She did what she could. Bailey just isn’t a very good girl.” 

“Rotten,” your father adds. “Remember when she was, what, 8 years old? At the birthday party? She practically ate all the cake.” 

“Devoured it!” 

“Sin starts young,” Susan snorts. “Gluttony isn’t treated with enough severity. It might seem like just a cake at first, but it quickly falls into premarital sex.”

“Who said?” You ask. The three adults turn to you, startled to hear you speak. 

“What?” 

“Who said she had premarital sex?” Your mother’s eyes practically bulge out from hearing you say the word. 

“Her mom came to the pastor looking for guidance,” Susan answers curtly. 

“And the pastor said Bailey was having sex in a car?” Your mother gasps, calling your name in reprimand. You ignore it. You stare at the neighbor, awaiting her answer.

Susan pinches her red neck, hand draped over her pearls. “Well,” she says, a little embarrassed. “No. Georgia said.”

“How did Georgia know?” 

“She heard it from someone.” 

“Who?”

“Well, aren’t you just a curious little thing?” Though Susan says it with a smile, it rings like a bother. You understand the underlying tone. It means shut up. It means you’re pushing. It means be good. 

You stare at Susan until she grows even more unsettled, unsure. Until she straightens in her seat, tries to play a confident front. You lick your teeth, shrugging. “It just sounds like we’re shaming her for something we know nothing about.” 

A heavy, tense silence crowns the room. Your parents look at you like you’ve grown a second head, like they itch to inspect your body until they find the devil’s birthmark; a concrete proof you’re a demonish changeling. You stand your ground. 

Your father rakes his throat. “We’re not shaming her. We’re concerned.”

You cock your head. “It’s not really our business, though, is it?” He purses his lips. You finally smile, digging your fork in your plate. “I’m just saying.” 

Your mother stutters. Susan takes a long sip of wine, staining her teeth. You bite the plastic chicken, swallowing without chewing. It goes offly down your throat. Everything does these days. Your parents’ teachings most of all. 

—

Your hands are buried deep inside of Matty’s dark mane. He tastes like cigarettes; smells like it too, the gray cloud lingering around him even when he’s done. Maybe it’s some sort of alarm call, some holy smoke signals. Maybe you should listen. 

You don’t, of course, licking into his mouth instead, lips meeting in a torturous frenzy. The bell will ring soon. You’re on a time limit. 

Matty has you pressed against the wall of some unpopulated corner of school, an awkward detouring staircase no one takes. Still, there’s a thrill humming in your veins. That someone could. Lost students, walking aficionados, fellow dirty make-out enjoyers. That they would find you, good, Christian girl, lip-locked with resident atheist Matty Healy, his hand on your tits. 

He gropes it unabashedly, his other hand digging into your hip. His knee presses between your thighs, just slightly, more to fix you to the wall than try to get you off. You feel a familiar heat build in your belly nonetheless, grinding into him every time his palm rubs your nipple. 

Thank God for skirts. Yours rised up your thighs, uncovering inches of silky skin, up to fading hickeys Matty devotedly left you. One in particular lies precariously low, always in danger of being exposed with one strong gust of wind. You wonder if he’s done it on purpose, if he wants to teeter that fatal edge, if something in him yearns to brand you and let it be known. 

“There’s got to be an empty classroom somewhere,” he says, leaving your lips just long enough to grunt the words before diving back. 

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’ve got choir in ten minutes.” 

He makes a displeased noise, groaning, “Fuck that.” 

“Come over tonight,” you breathe into his mouth, then tilt your head for another dirty kiss. 

His hand pinches your hip. He breaks away, licking your jaw, then saying, shortwinded and regretful, “Can’t. I’ve got a party. My mates’ll kill me if I miss another one.” He’s back to leaving wet kisses down your neck, rubbing his thumb over your peaked nipple masterfully. 

“Oh.” Your lips pull down. Disappointment digs into your heart. 

It’s fine. You can take care of the problem he’s growing inside of you yourself. Sure, your fingers never reach quite as far, never fill you up quite as deliciously, never work quite as efficiently, but it’s fine. It’s not as though you’ll miss him or anything. 

Matty’s head rises from your neck, seemingly sensing the shift in mood. He stares at your pout, though it might be more about the swollen, red mess he’s made of your lips then the shape of them. 

“You can… come too,” he says hesitatingly, perhaps even a bit shy. “If you want,” he immediately adds. 

You snort. The mere idea is a ridiculous concept, some clownesque farce. The girl that’s never had a lick of alcohol partying with his rowdy friends? That’s a likely sight. 

“That’s silly,” you say, but at least your lips don’t frown anymore. A smile spreads across them instead. “Can you imagine me at a party?” 

“Yeah,” Matty says seriously. 

You’re startled by his genuineness. You tilt your head at him, frowning. “And what would I do?”

He shrugs, grinning now. “Whatever you want. Drink, smoke, hang tightly in a corner doing neither.” You roll your eyes. “Hang out with me,” he adds bashfully, voice low in his voice. That idea is strangely appealing, your belly swooping at the thought of his tipsy frame leaning into yours, whispering his complex, drunk thoughts on the shell of your ear. “I might even let you kiss me.” 

You deadpan. “You’re too generous.” 

“I know,” he smiles, mischievous. He pokes your side. “Come on. Come. At least you’ll know what you’re staying away from.” 

You bite your lip. You shouldn’t find the proposition this tempting— but again, there’s many things in your life you shouldn’t find tantalizing. The boy holding you in his arms, unruly hair in the cracks of your fingers, most of all. 

“How would I even get there? I’ve got a strict bedtime.” Which he is well aware of, considering your mother interrupts your messing arounds like clockwork. 

“Sneak out,” Matty says easily. “I’ll pick you up.”

Sneaking out. It’s terribly wrong. Your parents trust you. Have put several thought out rules for a reason. It’s years of education that you would be breaking through. Years of character— good, tame, obedient— that you would wreck. 

But then, you’ve already started, haven’t you? What’s one more night? 

As though to convince you while you deliberate in that overthinking head of yours, Matty bends back into your neck, spreading open-mouthed kisses on your collarbone. He climbs up the bone, tugging your cardigan aside, revealing inches and inches of skin slowly, carefully. The white bra strap doesn’t deter him; he pushes it off your shoulder, tenderly pressing his lips to the red mark it left. 

His hand grabs at your breast, his knee grinding ever so slightly against your underwear, like a promise of what he could do. A small moan escapes your lips, eyes closing in pleasure. He smirks against your skin. 

“Come on, angel,” he whispers. “Please.”

An amused laugh breaks through the euphoria. You feel impossibly giddy. “Fine. Since you said please.” 

His head snaps up, grinning at you. He’s so happy you think you might melt from the sight. “Yes?” 

Your eyes dance. “Yes.” 

Matty bends down to kiss you, smile still crowding his mouth, eyes zeroing on yours. “Well, I believe we still got five minutes.” He tastes like cigarettes and honey; your favorite sugar. 

—

“How great is our God, sing with me.” The voices ring all together, some angelic, melodic music accompanied with soft piano. You clutch your hands behind your back, harmonizing, trying to remember the lyrics as your mind still scrambles from the heavy kiss mere minutes ago. 

Your stare swipes across the bored looks. You find Matty’s almost instantaneously; it’s scary that you do, that you spot him so easily in a crowd. As though you were always subconsciously searching for him. As though you were two magnets attracting, attracting, attracting. “How great is our God, and all will see.” 

He grins at you knowingly, teasingly, as if you’re sharing a secret. You can’t help smiling back, trying to bite back a laugh. The taste of him still lingers in your mouth. He winks at you and your heart sings. 

“How great, how great, is our God.”

—

You wait anxiously by your window, throwing furtive glances to the cross still reigning over the room. You bite your nails, walking in circles, trying to soften your steps so they don’t ring all the way to your parents’ room where your mom surely has a fretful sleep. A pebble knocks on the glass. 

You straighten, opening the window with shaky fingers. You stick your head out, peering down to Matty’s smiling face, a few more rocks in his hands. Glee is written all over him.

“How do I get down?” You whisper. 

“Use the trellis.”

The ivied wood looks like an unsound structure, but it has held Matty’s weight numerous times. Looking up to mutter a quick prayer— a habit more than a decision— you stick your leg out, perilously swinging it until your foot hits the wood. 

The rest of your body follows awkwardly. With a death grip, you claw at the trellis. You descend slowly, step by step, heart racing in your chest. You’re electrified. 

You jump the last couple of feet, landing on the muddy grass. It stains brown your Mary Janes; you’ll have to clean them when you get home, make sure your mother doesn’t see. 

You twist around with a proud grin as though to show yourself off. All in one piece, breathing and alive and out of your house. You feel like a reinvented Rapunzel. 

Matty smiles at you. He rakes his eyes over your body, coming back up with a teasing smirk. “Cute outfit,” he says, reaching a hand out to tug at one of your bows. 

You scowl. You tighten your pretty pink bow on the left. You wear your regular church skirt, rolled-up at the waist to show off the lace at the top of your white thigh-high socks. It’s what all the bad girls do with their school uniform, collecting detentions in return. 

Most importantly, you dusted out your frilly, lacy white top with spaghetti straps. It made your mother nearly collapse when she first saw it, claiming the stripe of collarbones and cleavage uncovered as unchaste, demanding you throw it away. You promised to do so, but shoved it in the back of your closet instead, behind boxes of old childhood stuffed toys. You’re still not sure why you kept it. Perhaps, in a way, you knew you would need it eventually. 

It’s the most scandalous thing you own. 

“Is it not a party outfit?” You say, self-conscious, peering down at your attire. You do contrast ridiculously with Matty and his ripped jeans and leather jacket; drenched in black, looking like caricatural danger. 

“No, no. It’s just— very clean.” It’s strange to be described like this. Your thoughts tumble with the word dirty and all its synonyms, yet Matty doesn’t seem to notice the filth caked on you. Something in your chest warms. “It’s, you know, a party. You might have a beer thrown on you.”

“Well, I’ll fit in, then. Rowdy and dirty like the rest of them.” 

Matty chuckles. He slings his arm over your shoulder and guides you to his car parked several houses away. “Sure will, angel.”

You finally get to Matty’s dirty van. It’s more of a dangerous box on wheels than anything else. You step into the passenger seat and immediately get a whiff of weed. There’s something reassuring about the smell, something familiar. It hits your nose, you see the brown carpet, and suddenly there’s the knocking idea to make out with Matty in the back of it, like a trained reflex. 

You buckle your seatbelt neatly. Matty presses play on the stereo. All Around Me rings through the car. You grin, looking at him with this pathetic glee. “You bought the CD?”

“I made a promise.” 

“D’you like them?” You bite your lip with the eagerness of a puppy. There’s something elated to have him see you. 

“They’re not bad,” he admits. “Real close to real rock’n’roll. I can see why your parents are terrified.” He shrugs, “Bit horny too.”

You gasp, slapping his shoulder. “Matty.”

“What?” He laughs. “I feel you on my fingertips? I can see you all around me? Thickening the air I breathe?”

“You make everything dirty.”

“It’s in the text, darling.” You roll your eyes, though, you have to admit, he’s not entirely wrong. 

Matty spreads his hand on your thigh. His palm warms you up, two callused fingers dipping in the inner side. You flush, dormant heat waking up from his ghost touch. “Are you ready?” He asks, suddenly serious. 

You laugh, “It’s a little late for that. I’m already out of the house.”

“No,” Matty shakes his head. “We could go back in if you want. I could eat you out until you pass out.” 

You consider him. It’s not a bad plan, far from it, but there’s something about his readiness to do so that makes you want to please him. You give him a cheeky smile. “I didn’t climb that trellis for nothing. Let’s go.”

“Alright,” Matty says, but his smile practically breaks his face. He turns the key and drives down the road. 

—

You stand neatly on the porch with a straight back. You’re in your church pose, something strict and firm, spotless to defend early against criticism. Your finger reaches for the doorbell, ringing it. 

Matty spins his car key around a digit. He laughs. “Oh, you’re so cute.” He opens the door, stepping in. You flush and follow inside. Your heart races.

Music attacks you, some loud, drum-filled thing that blasts through cheap speakers. The house smells of smoke. You wrinkle your nose. People are scattered everywhere, blue solo cups in hand, rolled up paper hanging loosely from the tip of their fingers. The floor is sticky. At least you don’t feel guilty for your muddy Mary Janes dragging on the floorboards. 

There’s a carefreeness to the scene, to the bodies dancing in a corner of the living room, to the lips meeting frantically against a wall in plain sight, to the limbs splaying and knotting and draping on a couch like some four-headed monster. 

You wrap your arms together behind your back, terribly aware of how out of place you are. Your silly outfit is not just in contrast to Matty. Everyone has something black, or ripped, or wrinkled. Dirty shirts and short skirts and combat boots. You’re a splotch of white in this infernal painting.

“Are you okay?” Matty says, dipping into you so you can hear him over the music. You nod faintly. He opens his mouth to say more, but someone interrupts, screaming;

“Matty! Shit, mate, I didn’t fucking think you’d make it.” A tall man approaches, catching Matty’s hand to smack their chests together. 

“No faith in me,” he tsks. “I said I’d be there.” 

“Well, you haven’t been the most reliable recently.” His eyes find you. He grins, narrowing in on you until you feel pinned in place. “And you must me why.” 

Your eyes widen. Behind your back, your fingers pick at your skin. “C’mon, Ross, give it up,” Matty rolls his eyes, and you’re a little glad he answered for you. 

“Nice to meet you,” you nod, reaching a hand out, ever polite. Manners drilled into you ever since you were young, impossible to disentwine from you, even when it’s ill-fitting. And it clearly is, because Ross makes a little amused snort as he shakes your hand, asking your name. 

“You must be thirsty,” Ross says, though mostly to Matty. There must be something written on your face, something hinting that you don’t partake in such activities. “C’mon. Everyone’s in the kitchen.” Ross jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchen, then turns around. 

Matty rests a loose hand on your back, guiding you in the crowd. Your skin lights from his merest touch. You tilt your head to watch him, fluttering your eyelashes at him. He catches your look, smirking. He faces straight ahead, but his tongue digs into his cheek, smug. You have to bite back a laugh when you emerge into the kitchen. 

A few people gather on the counters, sitting on the marble or mixing a free pour drink. The room is quieter, shaken up with laughs instead of bass. A blunt is being passed around. You wrinkle your nose at the smell. It vaguely reminds you of Matty’s van. 

“Here he finally is,” someone exclaims when they spot you. It’s another tall guy, cigarette tucked behind his ear, boozy cup in his hand. He’s got a loose smile on his lips. His eyes dance with amusement. “Nice of you to show up.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Matty rolls his eyes. “Ross said the same.”

He presents each of them to you, spotting his best friends George and Adam out of the crowd. You’ve seen them vaguely before, familiar faces hanging around him and a cloud of smoke. You grin at them, trying to mutter some sense of aloofness. It comes offly on your lips, a see-through mask.

You reach your hand out, and there’s the same amused look on their face as Ross as they move their cups out of the way, taking yours and firmly shaking it. They hum your name when you tell them, tasting its sweetness, memorizing it. Their eyes trail up and down your outfit, resting on the two bows on your hair. You regret them almost instantly, finding your thumb and pinching it instead of ripping them off. 

Matty gives them those easy handshake-hugs men seem to fall into. There’s a sense of pieces fitting together when Matty greets all of his friends. The room makes place for him, embracing him amongst the small crowd. He pulls the kitchen together, makes the sticky solo cups carnage a righteous war painting. Makes it make sense. 

“I got you your fucking wine,” George says with a hint of disdain. 

He picks a bottle of red wine out of the bridge, holding it out for Matty. It’s just as ill-fitting as you, misplaced in this sea of cheap beer and vodka-soda. There’s something comforting to the idea, to Matty’s carelessness as he grabs the bottle by the neck. 

He twists the screw top wine and takes a deep mouthful of the wine under the cheers of his friends. He licks his red lips clean, chuckling as he catches the droplets rolling off his chin. “Do you want anything to drink?” Matty asks you. The wine lingers vaguely in your direction. 

You wrinkle your nose. “Just water,” you say, and you hold your breath for some eyeroll or deserved grumble. Nothing comes. Matty nods. He opens a cupboard of the kitchen familiarly, grabbing a glass. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Adam nods at you. You jump, almost surprised to be acknowledged and not blurred into the background. 

Your lips up. “Thanks. You, too.” You take the glass of water when Matty comes back. He stays near you, a protective presence lingering, though he doesn’t even touch you. 

George takes a sip of his beer. “So how did you two meet?” 

You clench your hand around your glass. “Um. At church.”

Laughter roars through the crowd. You stand tight, awkwardly staring at them. Matty sighs beside you. The laughs die, a sort of shared incredulous look taking its place instead. Beady, multicolored eyes pin you in place. 

“Oh, shit,” George finally says. “You’re serious.”

Ross shakes his head, tsking, “Only Matty would manage to pick up chicks in church.”

Matty makes an offended noise, slapping his shoulder. “I’m not fucking picking up chicks in church.” 

“What’s this then?” Adam pingpongs his eyes from you and Matty, lingering in the space between. Or the near lack of it, shoulders brushing, an instinctive closeness. 

Matty opens his mouth, then closes it, staring at you. Waiting for you to declare this strange, unnatural thing between you. Give it a name. Make it real. Your heart races. “We’re friends,” you finally settle on. And it’s not untrue. Still, you take a sip of water right after, washing down the bitter taste. 

“See,” Matty comes back to his mates. “Friends.”

“Uh-huh,” George snorts, clearly seeing through both of you. “Sure.”

“You’re all a bunch of dickheads,” Matty says, and once again suffers the resounding snickers. There seems to be something brewing still, taunts and mockeries until they draw the confessions out of you. You ready for the impact.

Thankfully, a girl comes in and saves you from what surely is a line of further questioning, bursting into the kitchen to ask, “Beer pong?” The boys cheer, following after her. Matty stays with you. 

“They’re not usually this annoying,” he assures. “They’re even great sometimes.” 

“It’s okay,” you laugh, brushing his concerns away. You’d like them even if they were usually this annoying. Because they’re his friends. Because they’re his. Because he has this soft, wonder look in his eyes when he talks about them, to them. You don’t think you’d defend any of your friends to anyone. You don’t think you have friends at all. 

Though, of course, you have Matty now. Decretated it to a party and everything. It seems you’re more stuck together than you thought. 

—

His lips are stained red from the wine, pulled in a loose smile as he tipsy-giggles. There’s a freeness to his limbs, a jointlessness the alcohol strings out of him. He’s flushed in the cheeks. He’s pretty. Matty takes a swig of his bottle, licks it off. You want to kiss him. 

You stand alone in the kitchen, your own small cocoon away from reality. Out there, beyond the walls, there’s a heated Olympics of beer pong, cheers and cries and the swoosh sounds of balls falling into liquid resonating back to you. Even further away, the consistent noise of rock music thumps back faintly. An underwater resonance, almost unreal.

Matty leans against the island counter. He makes you laugh, draws out those embarrassing snorts out of you. His eyes grow proud every time he does, talking and talking until he gets another hit, as though placing the needle of the turntable at the fated vinyl groove of a favorite song over and over again. 

Another swig. You follow the movement, intrigued. Matty arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” He asks, annoyingly knowingly. 

You’ve finished two glasses of water, but there’s an unquenchable thirst inside of you, grumbling beside the everexisting hunger, the scary desire. 

You know you shouldn’t let yourself get tempted by sins. It’s already bad enough that you indulge in Matty, that you allowed to get talked into coming to a party. Wine is your savior’s blood, and nothing else. 

Still, you bite your cheek, feeling them heat. “Maybe,” you admit slowly. It’s embarrassing to go back on your words, but there’s a sense of safety when it’s just you and him, when there’s none of his friends who would surely be a little too amused at your drunk church girl act. 

Matty draws a hand out for you. You catch it, letting yourself get pulled towards him. He smiles down at you and your chest warms. Comfort settles in your bones; you grin back, tipping your head up. 

“Just a taste,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. Just a dip of lips, innocent and inoffensive. Like the communion wine, tasted and licked off. 

Matty smirks at you. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, tugging you even closer. Your breath catches in your throat. You stare at his lips as he takes another mouthful of his wine, parting your own instinctively. Your belly somersaults. Fuck the wine. You want him to kiss you. You want him so thoroughly it scares you sometimes. It thrills you the other half. 

Matty dips his head into you, nears his lips, parts them, and lets the wine fall into your mouth. You gasp, tasting the dark flavor, tasting him. Your mind spins dizzyingly. It’s sharper than the eucharist; realer, better. Droplets fall from your lips, but you just catch his, careless, hungry. You lick the leftover taste of wine from his tongue. You want to swallow it whole, swallow him whole. Heat plants in your belly, blooming and blooming. 

Matty parts from you with a laugh. He catches the runaway drops of wine with his thumb, wiping your chin and dipping it in your mouth to clean. You do so instinctively, dutifully, sucking around his finger. Your stare meets his dark eyes. You feel faint. 

His hungry look falls to your rising chest, the inkling of cleavage you’ve uncovered for this party, panting for him. His eyes zero in on the cross, everpresent, evertainted. He clicks his tongue. “Sorry. I’ve stained your little outfit.” 

You look down at your top. Bright red drops on your white shirt. You won’t be able to wash it off, won’t get rid of this night, of him. You already plan the place you’ll hide it in your closet; because you know, secretly, you won’t want to throw it away. Not when it’s now intimately attached to this memory, to his cloudy eyes, to the bitter taste of wine and him on your tongue. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Now I fit in.” 

He huffs a laugh. “Sure, angel.” His arm falls loosely around your waist. He takes a step in your direction and you do the opposite.

“Don’t call me that,” you say petulantly. “They’ll see right through me.” Your back hits the counter. 

“But you’ve got those wine drops. They couldn’t possibly mistake you for a good girl with stains on your shirt.” His hand catches your hip and he hoists you up on the counter, sliding between your spread thighs. Your skirt rises up dangerously, but you don’t bother straightening it. It’s not like he hasn’t seen the silky skin before, hasn’t touched and licked and bit it. There’s still the faint shape of bruises on them because of him.

“You don’t think I fit in?” You ask him, fluttering your eyelashes at him, comically pouty. 

Matty’s hand falls to the uncovered skin of your thigh, pinching there. His eyes dip to your pouty lips, as though an invitation he’s difficultly resisting. “You’d stand out anywhere, love.” 

“You’re a charmer.” 

He tsks. “I’m charming,” he corrects you. He raises the bottle of wine, letting the cool glass rest on your naked thigh. You jump at the cold feeling, shivering. “What did you think of your taste?” 

“I don’t know,” you whisper conspiratorially, amusement dancing in your eyes. “I’d need another one to really decide.” 

Matty smirks at you. “Anything you want.”

—

“There’s no way you’re making it! Give up already!” 

Your eyes narrow on the blue solo cup, ignoring the insulting cries around you hoping to get you down. They’re aiming for your head, to sneak under your skin and get you to mess up. Truthfully, they don’t need any trashtalking to throw you off your game. You’re three downed beers in and the circle of the cups seem to narrow each throw. You haven’t made a single shot since the very first cup. 

“Don’t listen,” Matty breathes in your ear.  “C’mon. Prove them wrong. You can’t let them be right.” You shake the stress off your shoulders. “Do the shot.” He gets louder, chanting, “Do the shot. Do the shot. Do the shot.” Spectators join in, singing with him, drumming on the table. 

You purse your lips, tilt your wrist, and throw. 

The ping-pong ball falls neatly in the cup. Swoosh. George bends down to blow on it, but it’s useless. You’re already screaming in victory. The party rumbles with shocked cheers, half of your chanting supporters not ever believing in you. You throw yourself in Matty’s arms with a happy cry. His grin hits your cheek. He lifts you up, sways you around. You hear your laugh over the boos of the competing team. 

“I fucking knew it,” Matty says, light and excited. “I fucking knew it.” The laugh bubbles out of you, easy and familiar. 

You won’t win the game, but this goal is enough. 

—

Your hands hook around Matty’s neck, loose and sloppy. You move your hips to the rhythm, let your arms flurry around you. You jump to the drum-heavy parts, looking like scattered limbs pushed around. People knock against you, never apologetic. Sweat sticks to your skin. You grin at him, knock your forehead on his shoulder. 

Matty’s laugh resonates. He puppeteers you, spinning you around his finger, throwing you off a joint hand and wrapping you back in his arms. He scream-sings the lyrics in your ears. Sounds bury inside of you.

You sway to the piano, grinning so wide it might rip your cheeks. His hands are warm on your lower back. Your fingers greedily dig up into his hair, burying home. An imprint of you on him; he leaves the dancefloor unruly, with the shape of your hands in his curls. Your name branded, secretly. You like it. 

—

“Sprite,” you say, impossibly solemn. 

George nods, twisting the Sprite bottle cap with equal seriousness. He splashes it out, then looks at you for confirmation. You’re implacable. He pours some more until you nod decidedly. 

“I found orange juice,” Adam says. He digs out a bottle from the very back of the fridge, coming back towards the sticky counter with his treasure. 

“That’s my mum’s, and it’s mango-passion fruit juice.” 

Adam shrugs, uncaring. “Eh. It’s fruit.”

“In the cup!” You shout, pointing towards the glass with a ridiculous amount of different liquids. You’re making the perfect drink, allegedly, but it’s more a collection of tastes than any attempt at mixing. Really, there’s a growing chance that it will be entirely awful. 

George, dutiful, pours the juice in the cup. “Where’s the grenadine?” He asks. 

“It needs more rhum,” Adam suggests. 

“Sprite!” 

—

You sit on Matty’s lap, practically dripping on him. Your back melts on his front, your head dipped on his shoulder, your legs hanging from his spread thighs. You’re an eight-legged monster you caught a glimpse of when you first entered the party, frowning at the agglomeration until you finished the bottle of red wine and understood. You’re giggly and spacey now, but most importantly needy, practically clinging on Matty. 

You drink a vodka-juice, and you reach it out for him instinctively, though he always refuses, restating he’s driving. Matty put grenadine in it to make it pink and sugary for you. His free hand warms your hip, spreading possessively over the bone.

His friends are a cacophonic orchestra around you, screaming over the music, talking over each other, laughing at a joke from three people away. You don’t care what you look like in front of them, a secret glimpse of everything unsaid in your friend declaration. Your skirt has risen up enough to reveal a flash of hickeys, but you don’t have the overthinking, overbearing mind to fret over it, tugging at the skirt. You doubt it really matters to them anyway; they must have seen much grander things than a hickey. 

You like them. They’ve got the same humor as Matty, the same cadence to their words. There’s a melody to their stories, an inherent rhythm. You like it, like that they sound like him. 

“So,” Adam starts, sounding even goner than you. “Church?”

You snort at his introduction. “Yeah.”

“How’s he like?” Adam adds, vaguely gesturing towards the two of you. There’s a morbidly interested look to his friends; everyone waits for the answer. 

You giggle giddily. “He’s a poor Christian,” you confess. 

“I’m not a Christian,” Matty repeats, his fingers digging into your flesh as a warning. You roll your eyes. Your skin buzzes pleasantly. 

“He’s a great atheist,” you correct for his sake. “He laughs and snorts at all the inappropriate places.”

His hand rises up to your stomach, tightening his hold on you. “They’re laugh-worthy,” Matty explains to you, and you shake your head dutifully, the religious example. 

“You liked Song of Solomon perfectly well,” you tell him, upping your nose. 

“That’s because it’s dirty.” Matty tightens his fingers, digging his stare into you. His words are dangerous as he says, “And I loved Genesis.” A memory of his fingers curling into, bringing you impossibly close to a cliff, as his melodic voice told the fatalistic story of Adam and Eve flashes back to you. You stare up at him, smirking. 

A girl steps into the living room, falling on the couch beside Ross. She drops her head on his shoulder, pouting. 

“Are you okay?” Ross laughs, clearly seeing through her pity act. 

“Delaney’s not coming,” she explains. The crowd resounds with regretful noises. You frown. 

“Who’s Delaney?” You ask, gone enough to be uncaring of what you look like. Out of the loop, ill-fitting. Delaney means something to everyone but you. 

“She’s our friend. Really cool girl,” the girl explains helpfully. “But she’s busy with her stupid job today.”

George smirks, flicking his eyes towards Matty. “She gave him that insane blowjob.” The hair rises on your skin. You freeze. 

Matty makes a clicking sound. “Shut up.”

“That’s what you said,” George defends, throwing his arms in the air. You relax in Matty’s arms. He doesn’t seem to care much about her, even if she supposedly gave him head worth telling about. You wonder when she did. If it was recently. 

The girl rolls her eyes. “She’s more than a fucking blowjob. She said she might come by late if the party was still going.”

“It will still be going,” George assures, confident in his hosting skills. 

The girl shrugs, less assured. “We’ll see.” 

An argument seems to be brewing, but Matty taps your thigh. He declares, “I need a fag.”

You stand with him, following him before he even asks you. Three feet apart and you might crack and die from the distance. Still, you think, he’s just your friend— plus the unsaid, of course.

—

The smoke lingers around you. You steal the cigarette from Matty, pulling your lips around the stick, inhaling in. Suck it like a straw, you remember him saying. Or, follows right after, leaving you flushing. You follow his command anyway, breathing out gray smoke without the hint of a cough. 

You hold it out for him after, which he takes as he peers unhappily at you. “You shouldn’t be this used to it,” Matty explains. “It’s bad for you.”

“You shouldn’t have taught it to me, then,” you retort cheekily. 

“I barely did.”

“Shouldn’t have made it so tempting,” you volley back easily, just as smug. “Every time I kiss you, you taste like cigarettes. You can’t expect me not to be already a little bit addicted.”

“You make it sound like you’re addicted to me,” Matty breathes out. His gaze devours you, like he knows. Like you don’t even have to confirm his hypothesis, like he’s well aware of your strange obsession with him. Like he can see the filthy thoughts flying in your mind any time he dares exist near you. 

You hum noncommittally, acting nonchalant. “Maybe,” you give in. “Maybe I just like the headrush.” You take another drag, letting the nicotine adrenaline bloom up your head, buzzing and buzzing. It’s a boneless feeling, something that leaves you grinning helplessly. 

Matty gets scared of your shivering body in nothing but your camisole. He takes his arms out of his leather jacket, pulling it over his shoulder. You clutch it gratefully; you hadn’t realized you were cold until you held it over your body. 

Your eyes fall back on him as the rush subsides. You reach your hand out to him; he grabs his Marlboro cigarette, sticking it back where it belongs: his mouth. It wraps around it. You tilt your head. 

“How was it like?” You ask, filter truly gone. 

“What?”

“The insane blowjob,” you answer easily. Matty chokes on his cigarette, coughing out smoke. You wait it out, watching as he smacks his chest. 

He rakes his throat, hesitant. “Fine.”

“Come on,” you laugh, “You can give me more than that.”

“This feels like a trap.”

“I’m genuinely curious,” you defend. “I don’t—“ You flush. “I don’t really know any of this. Sex. Pleasure. I’m just— It’s a lot of void. For me.”

“So you want to know how it felt?”

You stare at him, unflinching. “I want to know how she did it.”

A shudder passes through Matty. He licks his lips. Rests his cigarette between them, takes a long drag. Finally, he settles his gaze on you. 

“It was— It was a bit like this, I guess.” Matty takes your wrist, puppeteers two fingers out, and sucks them inside his mouth. 

Your breath hitches. Your free hand clutches his leather jacket, pulling it tighter over your shoulders. You stare at his red lips as they stretch over your digits. 

Matty licks his tongue on your fingers, sucking his cheeks in, bobbing his head. It’s a wet, pornographic sound. Your cunt clenches around nothing, ready for something you’ve never known. You feel heat droop in the deepest parts of you, staring at him, shortwinded. 

Matty’s dark eyes catch yours. He’s shameless, swallowing around your fingers. He releases them with a pop sound, kissing the tips of them delicately. Your skin flushes. 

“There,” Matty finally says, satisfied. “That’s how you do it.”

Your heart races, calling for him, for it. Your eyes narrow on his lips, crashing against them before you have the sense to think. You catch his waist, drawing him closer, kissing him harder. Matty answers eagerly, a low groan in the back of his throat. 

He’s everywhere. Climbing up your sides. Licking into you. Biting your lip, drawing it out. Whining in your mouth. Your body sings for him, utterly ready. 

“I want you,” you whisper against him. Matty mumbles, catching your mouth with a renewed hunger. “I—“ You start again between two breathless kisses, tongue mixing perfectly, “Matty, I need you.”

The words resonate. Matty’s fingers dig in your waist, impatient. He breathes suggestively,  “George has a guest room.”

Your smile breaks your face. “Let’s go.”

—

You burst into the guest room. The door slams against the wall as Matty devours your lips. His hands are in your hair, pushing the leather jacket off your shoulders, falling down your back, gripping your waist, clutching your hips, drumming up your ribs. A savage, desperate tempo takes your flimsy bodies. He licks into your mouth with a hungry tongue. Your heart races, thrill buzzing up your legs. 

You sneak a hand under his black shirt, clawing at the skin of his back. You trace the ridges of his spine with your fingertips, up and down, and Matty shivers in answer. You fall to his waist, gripping his side, pulling him into you more. You hope your handprints will brand him somehow. 

He pushes you against the wall. A moan resonates from you that he hurries to swallow up. His hand grabs a handful of your ass over your skirt. Another low sound slips from you. You part your legs; his knee settles in instinctively, like a return home. It hits your clit, denim rubbing faintly, and a hot coil of pleasure swoops in your belly. He bites your lip and tugs it. 

“Pretty girl,” Matty whispers roughly at your whines. He leans away from your mouth to stare down, catching an eyeful of your heaving breasts. He smirks, teasing as he says, “But what’s a good girl like you doing with stains on her top? Let me fix you up, darling…”

Cheeky, he slips under the hem of your camisole. Calluses dance on your skin; your hair rises, hyperaware of him. He gets near your first rib, showing off your midriff, before you push his hand down. 

You know what it would lead to if you let him take it off. He’d lick at your tits, kiss down your sternum, and fall to his knees for you. He’d lap and nip and fuck until your brain was putty in your skull and coherent, multisyllabic words were a faraway concept, and then he’d wipe his chin and drive you home. Which would be good, of course, and you’d go to sleep tingling and happy, bone-deep satisfied, but you wouldn’t have touched him. 

That’s what you want— what you need. For all the little fears and insecurities that the idea brings you, the desire to please him, to say thank you, to learn is greater, beating in your chest. You want to give him the best blowjob he’s ever had, want to blow all the other girls he’s met out of his head. Be the one, the only one. 

Matty is too enthralled in you to catch your subtle hint, leaving wet kisses on your neck as he now trails his hand up your thighs. He starts at the lace of your socks, finding your smooth skin and stopping at your underwear. His hand palms the wet patch with a pained grunt, lazily rubbing at your clothed clit. You bite your lip, panting in the quiet of the room. 

The floor shakes from the speakers downstairs. Music lulls under the floorboards, a strange background to the quick and hot breaths filling the room. You push Matty’s hand against all your screaming, begging judgements. Curse him for always being so talented at driving you wild. 

“Remember that fantasy I had? I want to do it,” you say, pushing off the wall and walking into him. He steps back to leave you room, frowning a little. “I want to see you. To feel you.”

The back of his knees hits the desk chair. You push him on it, falling neatly on his lap next. You stare him down, confident, certain.  “I want to suck your dick.”

His hands find your hips easily. Matty’s dark eyes devour you. They linger on your swollen lips, leveled with him, practically inviting him. His breaths quicken. You brush two hands through his hair, pouting, blinking condescendingly in mock-act of him. “Will you let me do that?” 

He makes a choked sound from the back of his throat. “Fuck— Yeah. Yeah, whatever you want. Please.” He catches your lips again with a groan. 

You kiss him back eagerly. It’s safe, to be in his lap, to grip his hair, to tilt your head and meet his mouth. Known. A learned and practiced thing, so inherent you could close your eyes and make up the shape of his lips from memory. You would know; you think of them on your late nights when he can’t sneak out, hot and sweaty and bothered, two fingers dipped inside of you. You imagine his lips, and his tongue, and his fingers, and all the spots of your body that miss them, and it’s so real you’re almost surprised he’s not smirking up at you when your eyes part open after an orgasm that’s just not quite what you needed. 

Matty slips under your skirt, grabbing a fistful of your ass again, dragging you closer in his lap. You grind against his hard-on; a moan falls from your mouth and plants down his throat. He smirks against your lips, does it again. 

“Matty,” you trail in warning. Though it transforms into a groan as he puppeteers your hips just so while you say it, losing its edge.

“Just a bit,” he promises, but there’s something cheeky in his tone. Your head falls back as he bucks you on him. Pleasure drums up your ribs. 

You’re hot and buzzing and ecstasy sweeps inside of you. A low, known thrumming resonates. Your clit rubs against him, over and over, and you know the mind-melting orgasm you can get from it. It’s been your favorite recent activity: the closeness, the reciprocity, the power, the moans he makes, the fact that it’s almost, seemingly, more. A veil of sex, with half the damnation. 

Matty’s fingers twist in the band of your underwear, clenching around it as he moves you faster, harsher. There’s a focused look in his eyes and you know he doesn’t really mean it when he says just a bit. 

You take his wrists, ripping them away from you and in the air. Matty holds them palms up, a virtuous sign of innocence, with the smug, amused look to contradict it. You pant. Your body bemoans, your betraying hips tingling to move and chase that pleasure again. 

“You’re not very good at listening,” you chastise. 

Matty clicks his tongue. “I’ve always been a do-what-I-want guy.” 

An idea prickles at the back of your head. You stand up from him slowly, ignoring your uncomfortably wet underwear. He pouts at you. You take a step back, and he tries to reach for you again, but you hold him away by his wrists. 

“I’ll just have to make you listen, won’t I?” 

Matty loses his smirk. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even procure another cheeky comment. He waits, the moment hanging in the air. Waits for your next move. Waits for the new game board. Waits for a footing of some kind. Tension sparks between you. 

You let go of one hand, reaching up to your own hair and pulling out the left pink bow. The satin tickles your skin. You smirk at him. 

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“What I want.”

You round the chair, bending down to your knees. You draw his wrists together behind his back and wrap the satin ribbon around them. You tie a pretty bow, perfect loops and tails, all proportionate. You smile, wishing he could see. 

You crawl on your knees around the chair, back in front of him. Your eyelashes flutter at him. “Fuck,” he whines.

He pants, staring down at you unblinking, as though each second missed would kill him. As though he’s engraving the sight in his brain. You smile. Your hands graze his thighs. He shivers, makes another low noise. 

You know that he could take it off easily. It’s flimsy material, and it’s a poor knot, and it’s a ribbon. But he stays there, hands in place, giving you free range, and there’s something about the vulnerability to do so that makes you want to please him even more. Give him some sort of reward, a worthy thank you. 

He’s always honest, and open, and willing. You guard your heart fearfully, hold your thoughts under your tongue like your mom always told you to do. But he waits, open-palmed, throat-bared, hands-tied. 

It’s a tragic story. Almost biblical. 

But as much as you want him —in your hands, in your mouth— you still— you don’t really know how to do any of it. Your knowledge of blowjobs stops at a stupid, graphic joke Jake Finn made sophomore year and Matty showing you on the balcony just now. 

Your lips twitch. Your head falls on his thigh, an innocent look he should be able to see right through in your eyes. “Father,” you whisper with a hint of mischief. Matty’s breath hitches. “I need guidance.” 

Matty breathes from his nose harshly. He attempts to gather himself. Gravelly, he says, “Get me out of these.” His wrists tug on the restraint, though not enough to break it. 

You shake your head, scrunching your nose at him. “I can do it alone.” You raise your head, tilting it to kiss his thigh. His head falls back with a pained noise. You giggle. “Please, please, Father. What should I do?” 

He looks back at you with dark eyes. You smirk. You’ve got him. 

There’s an implacable sense of authority in his voice. For all his rebellions, he plays the role quite well. Grand and solemn and holy, of all things, he says, “Are you gonna be good for me?” 

A spark of excitement hits you. You lick your lips, nodding at him eagerly. “Yes,” you assure. You shift on your knees. “The best, Father.” You mean it in more ways than one. It’s pride, and it’s hubris, and it’s a grandiose speech. But you need it nearly as much as you need him, need to blur all those other girls from his mind. 

“Good girl,” Matty coos, and the praise hits true. You clench your thighs, biting back a low moan. Matty smirks knowingly as he adds, “Always so devout.” There’s a sick thrill at being called pious when you’re kneeling for a profane man. The juxtaposition slicks your underwear, spins your mind. You’re anything but, but he manages to make the words true by saying it. He reinvents the universe from the flick of his tongue; maybe he really is a God.  

“Take me out,” Matty says. It rings as an order, sure and lashing. You shiver.

You climb your hands to his hips, unbuttoning his black jeans. Your fingers shake as you do so, sloppy and imprecise. Your heart beats in your skull, the knowledge of what is coming knocking at your brain. You draw him out. 

His cock stands hard and up in front of you. You’ve seen it before, of course, but never from so close. Your lips part in fascination. Precum leaks from his tip and there’s something filthy about the sight. You want to catch the drip with your finger and suck in your mouth, but you don’t dare do it. You’re not sure what the next move should be, what ways to touch. 

You flick your eyes back to him, silently asking. This time, he’s much more gentle when he offers, “Wrap your hand around the base.” 

Your fingers fly to his cock. You circle his length. You’ll replay in your mind the gasp he lets out as soon as you make contact for a long time. Oh, you decide suddenly. You’ll have fun with that. 

Before he suggests anything else, you draw your hand up. A tantalizing, torturous pace. Matty twitches in your hand, moaning. “Start slow,” you whisper. You jerk back down. “I know that.” It’s a knowledge engraved in the back of your mind, reminded in the raspy sound of his voice when he first said it. 

“Yeah—” He nods for fault of finishing a sentence. You pass your thumb over his tip like you’ve seen him do. His hips jump, a hiss slipping from his mouth. “Fuck, that’s—”

“Father, you shouldn’t swear. It’s not godly.”

Matty meets your eyes, seeing right through the teasing smirk you offer him. Here you are speaking of God with his hard cock in your hand. “You’re right,” he breathes. “What example am I giving my— Shit, fuck.” You’ve sped up your movements at the most inopportune time, it seems. 

You tsk. “You’re just not learning your lesson.”

“I’m a bad example.” 

“If you keep going, I might come out of this unholier than when I came in.” Mischief tacks your tongue.

“We couldn’t have that, could we?” Matty tries to volley back, but it’s more a pant than a taunt. You lick your teeth, satisfied. 

You stroke him with a sure hand. The precum glistens, spread down his length. His curly hair flaps over his forehead, sweaty and flowing wildly. He pulls his face down with furrowed eyebrows as you jerk him. Your mouth waters. Every choked moan he makes for you makes you shift on your knees, try to quiet the growing need inside of you. He’s too pretty. 

You’re decided, desperate. You need him, a sick, demanding thrill hazing your mind. Your head bends down, narrowing in, but he tuts, “Ah ah.” You freeze, flicking your eyes up at him in question. He’s cocky as he presses, “Shouldn’t you say Grace?”

Your eyes fall to his dick, understanding. You don’t even have the time to think that you already let go of him. You join your hands together, resting your elbows on his knees, closing your eyes as you recite, “God is great and God is good. Let us thank Him for our food; by His blessings, we are fed. Give us Lord, our daily bread.” You open your eyes, meeting his hot gaze. He watches you, heavy breathing. A smirk hints on your lips. “Amen.” 

Before Matty has time to retort a cocky quip, to regain control of the situation, you bend down again and wrap your lips around his tip. A gaspy, choked sound comes from the back of his throat. His hips jump, pushing into your mouth. You suck on it. His head throws back as he moans. You giggle, licking the tip, finally circling your hand around his base again. 

“What now, Father?” You whisper, stroking him with a lazy hand, kitten-licking him. 

“God,” Matty whines as his head slams back forward, watching you with disbelieved eyes. 

You hum. “Mmh, what does he want?” 

Matty makes a breathy laugh. “Open your jaw more.” Dreams of him pulling your chin down, readying your mouth for him flash back to you. You shake your head, keeping focused. You know if you free his hands, you’ll lose control. 

“Is that his holy message?” 

“Yeah.” You open your mouth as wide as you can, thrusting him deeper and deeper with each bob. You try to remember the feeling on your fingers, try to imitate his droolful explanation. You run your tongue on the underside of his cock like he did, grinning proudly at his groan. “You look so fucking hot.” 

Your eyes lock with his, happy to your bones. It can’t be true— you feel spit and precum run down your chin. Still, you double your efforts eagerly, trying to be the bestest and prettiest girl for him. 

His breath is labored, coming out in whiney huffs. “Move your hand—”

He hasn’t finished his sentence that you’re already stroking him lazily. You pop him out of your mouth, saliva stringing to your lips, to ask, “Like this?” 

“In synch with— Fuck.” You suck him back into your mouth, moving your hand in tandem with your head. He pants harshly. His hips rise to meet you, and you gag, releasing him. He throws you an apologetic look. “Sorry.” 

“Should I go deeper?” 

“Yes— Yeah.” You laugh, bending back to swallow him up. His shoulders flex, as though he aches to touch you, pass a soothing hand through your hair. Instead, he says with wonder, “Whatever you want, angel.” You moan around him, shifting on your knees. Matty smirks. “You like when I call you that?” His eyes flick down to the mess of your mouth. He groans from the back of his throat, choked as he revels, “While you’re swallowing my cock?” You smile at him. You do like it, no matter what you usually argue. 

Taking a deep breath through your nose, you widen your jaw. You keep your hand at the base of his cock, trying to fit him even deeper in your throat. He hits the back of it and you gag again, pushing him out. You jerk him quickly as you catch your breath. 

“You’re drooling everywhere,” Matty coos. You laugh, wiping your chin clean, spitting the rest on his cock. You jerk it down his length. He moans. “Shit. You’re like a fucking wet dream.” 

“I want to be good for you.” 

“You’re always good.” It’s not true. You’ve been nothing but immoral these days. But the way he says it, sure, flicked off his tongue like there wasn’t even a place for debate, makes your head spin. His hips rise again, this time no apologetic look as he begs, “Deeper.” 

You suck on his head, giggling. “Magic word?”

“Please.” 

You hum. “We might make a decent man out of you yet, Matty.” He laughs, but then you open your head wide and take him into your mouth, and now he’s more whining than anything else. You try to keep your gag reflex under control, stroking what you can’t fit with your hand. 

“That’s it,” he moans, rolling his eyes back in pleasure. “My perfect girl. I like you like this.” His head dips to look at you properly. “Do you like it? Like being on your knees for me?” 

“Yes.” And it’s true, no matter how filthy it makes you. There’s power to it. There’s a strange lust to see how much it affects him. You affect him.  You flutter your eyes at him, licking his tip. “Father, I fear I’ve been corrupted.” 

He laughs. “Yeah?”

“There’s this boy,” you say teasingly. “He just won’t stop making me naughty. You’d be ashamed of the way I act for him.” 

“I hardly believe that.” His hips thrust up into your hand. “Not when you’re so pretty like this.” 

“I’m being a very dirty girl,” you shake your head, and for once, there’s none of the usual guilt about it. Being forsaken is a faraway concept. In this room, the only thing that matters is the shade of your knees when you’re done. 

“Good. I think you should be even worse.” 

You giggle, swiping your thumb over his tip. “Is that your penance?” He nods, out of breath. You tilt your head, cheeky as you tease, “And how do you suggest I do that?” 

“Suck me again,” he demands, but you stare at him unimpressed, slowing your hand down in warning. He jumps. “Please.” 

You hum, licking across his length, then sucking indulgently on the tip. “Like that?” His eyes are dark. He flexes and unflexes his arms, reminding himself of the bow tying them. You snicker. For all his usual teasing, laughing and cooing at you, he doesn’t seem to enjoy his own medicine. “Use your words,” you taunt just to add oil to the fire. 

“In your mouth, please.” You could keep going, speed up and slow and lick and never give him what he wants until he’s shaking under you, but you miss him in your mouth, too. Greedy and starved, you push him past your lips. 

You bob your head quickly, suddenly eager to see him unravel. For you. Because of you. He hits the back of your throat over and over, but you breathe through your nose, blinking away the prickling tears. Pornographic, sopping sounds ring through the room. One hand settles on his knee, gripping it. It shakes under your fingers. 

“Ah, shit,” Matty cries, meeting you halfway. He can’t seem to look away from you, dropping his head back then being jolted with realization of what is going on, immediately dipping to watch you. His lips are swollen from licking them so much, his cheeks flushed. He looks ready to burst from his skin. 

You giggle, sucking your cheeks in like he did on your fingers, maintaining a steady pace. He bucks into you wildly, spilling pretty noises from his mouth shamelessly. They burrow in your ears, strike directly to your burning core. Your knees are sore but you continue, undeterred, focused on undoing him completely. Make him feel what he does to you. 

He twitches in your mouth. “Fucking hell,” he says, sloppily fucking into you. “I’m— Shit, I’m close. I’m gonna—”

You pull away from him. He cries in protest, looking down at you with a pained frown. You lick from his base to his tip. “Beg for it.” 

Matty doesn’t even think. “Angel, please, I need—”

“No,” you smirk, and there must be mischief written all over your face because he stares apprehensively. “Not to me. To God.” 

“Are you—” Disbelief is written all over his face. “Are you kidding me?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head, letting your lips trail back and forth over his tip. He makes another pained noise, blinking to keep from being overwhelmed with pleasure. “Ask Him.” 

Matty breathes harshly from his nose. He considers you, considers your mouth just an inch away from where he desperately needs it, and throws his head backwards. “God,” he starts. You laugh again, delighted. He ruins your faith, you ruin his. It’s only fair. “Hi, God. Sorry I don’t talk often. Can I please fucking come? I’m gonna fucking burst if you don’t let her— Oh, my God.” 

His head throws forward as you swallow him up. Your bobs are sloppy. You’re tired and sore deep in your bones, spit and drool and precum spilling everywhere between you. Your hand is drenched, your cheeks red with runaway tears. Still, you dedicate yourself to please him, running your tongue on his underside until he cries. 

“Oh, my God, fuck!” He repeats, shaking, and then comes with a scream. 

You’re surprised when he spills, pulling away with a gasp. The ropes of cum hit your chin instead, landing on your chest next, spreading down your skin. Only when he’s done, moans quieting slowly, do you kiss his tip just like he showed you. You put him back in his jeans. 

You look down at the mess. Your pretty camisole is stained again. Between your collarbones, your golden cross is coated in white. 

Matty catches his breath difficulty. You stare up at him. Catching his eyes, you take your cross between your lips, licking it clean. It’s salty on your tongue. You spit it back out glinting, drool dripping from it. Spotless. Cumless. He whines at the sight. 

“I wish you could see yourself,” he whispers. “You did so well for me. My best girl.” 

His best girl. You grin proudly. “Was I really the best?” 

“Yeah, you fucking— You’re like a fucking dream, angel.” 

You tsk. “I just had your cock in my mouth and you’re still calling me angel.” 

“Only because you like it.” Well, you can’t argue with that. 

You stand on trembling legs. Your knees crack, thighs burning in complaint, sticky and wet with your juices. Now that you’re free to think just a little more clearly, you realize how much you need him. To your core, to the beating muscle in your chest begging for him. 

“Let me show you how good you felt,” Matty says lowly. “Get me out of these.” His hands pull on the bow, still careful not to break it. 

You smirk, climbing your hands up his shoulder. “I remember you saying you wouldn’t even need them.” 

His eyes grow dark. “C’me here.” He spreads his thighs, leaving you a pretty perch to settle on. 

You straddle one, wasting no time to rock on it. You’re wet and needy, so fucking turned on you think you might boil under your skin. You won’t last long at all. 

The leg and the soft material of your underwear is heavenly on your swollen clit. He flexes under you and you moan, dropping your head on his shoulder, panting. Everything in you buzzes. You feel like you’re going insane. 

“Doing so well for me, baby,” he coos. “Fuck yourself on my thigh. Use me.” You whine, rocking faster. 

He’s warm under your fingertips. He’s tough, and real, and you miss him even when he’s right there. You want to seep under his skin, sleep tightly between his heart and his rib. You lick at his neck, kissing and nipping. A red splotch looks back at you once you pull away. There. Your mark on him, like a delible I was here. There’s a possessive thrill shooting up your spine. Maybe you finally understand why he bruises your thighs so much. 

Your movements speed up. You straighten, throwing your head back. Everything is intense, but nothing is enough. Matty dips to your chest. He licks and sucks at your cleavage, cleaning the cum off your skin. You moan at the feeling, at the knowledge. “Matty—”

“You’re so close,” he promises, nipping right above the hem of your camisole. You’re overheating. “Just a bit more.” What a lie. 

“It’s not the same,” you whine, bucking on his thigh desperately, finding growing need, but not release. Your eyebrows furrow. Your hips grow sloppy. “I can’t do it like you.” 

“Let me out.” He’s deadly serious. You vaguely shake your head. You’re in control. “Please, please, angel. Let me out. Let me please you. Let me make you come.” He makes a noise of frustration, flexing and unflexing his thigh underneath you. “I’ll make you scream. I promise. You know I will. Just let me out. I’ll give you what you need.” You pout, mulling on his suggestion. He narrows in on the weakness. “I need it. I need to see you. Come on, love. I just want to please you.” 

With a huff, you bend to your side, reaching behind him to undo the bow. The ribbon falls to the ground. Matty grips your hips the next instant. 

It’s fast and hard in a second, a delirious pace he settles you on. Your cunt drags over his thigh, wetting his jeans. You can’t stop moaning and, for once, you let the sounds leave your mouth freely. He seems eager to hear them, licking your chin and catching your lips for a head-twisting kiss. 

Matty pulls away to reach for your camisole. He pulls it down to uncover your chest, bending back to continue his artwork, sucking and licking at your nipples. You cry. Your hands bury in his hair. 

“Fucking drench me,” he begs. His hand sneaks between your legs, pulling your underwear to the side. He moves his fingers away quickly after, as though he had something to prove. 

Your clit hits the rough denim directly. It’s a sharp strike of pleasure each time. You buck wildly, trying to find that ravaging euphoria you need. Each furious stroke gets you closer. His hand burns your hip. Everything in him makes you hot and sticky. 

“Matty, I’m—”

“Come for me,” Matty pleads, running his tongue on your hard nipple. Ecstasy threatens the edges of you. “Fuck, come on my thigh. Fucking make a mess.”

“I’m—” Your mouth drops open with a silent cry and you come. You shudder against him. Pleasure waves through you, unreleasing that aching need. It hazes your mind more than the alcohol you just drank, more than a hit of cigarette, more than listening boredly in church. You’re tingling from your very tips, alive. 

“Oh, God,” you say. You blink the blur away, finding him grinning at you, sweaty and flushed and fucking delighted. 

“Told you I only needed my thighs,” he bites, cheeky. You grin. It was entirely true. You regret turning down his pleading request that day in church. You laugh, holding both of his cheeks with glee. 

“I can’t believe I did that,” you admit. You lower your thigh-high socks just to see the bruise on your knee, prove it’s real. You gasp suddenly, worry seeping in, “Oh, no,” you breathe, hand covering your mouth. “Will George be mad?” 

Matty laughs, throwing his head back. “He’s done worse in my room.” His hand rubs at your hip, soothing. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I can’t let you walk out with wine and cum stains on your top. That’s too much bad, even for me.” You giggle, nosing his cheek, then stand up. There’s a wet patch on his jeans and you flush when you spot it, though he only grins proudly. 

You’re jelly on your feet. You’re sticky-happy. Matty’s hand warms yours as he tugs you out of the bedroom and into a bathroom.

—

The road comes to a stop. A single street lamp lights you, drooping over Matty’s car. You stare up at it, then at him. His dark curls falling wildly around him, his red cheeks, his plump lips; everything invites you in, draws you to your doom. There’s a lesson to learn, to memorize, humming faraway. You prefer to indulge, to be caught red handed and shamed. As long as the before thoroughly drowns it out. 

Matty’s taste faintly lingers on your tongue.Your legs are loose and slack from another thunderous orgasm. He’s everywhere, and still you want him closer, deeper, longer. 

The identical houses stretch on infinitely. You recognize yours by the broken step you fell on when you were five, a vestige of you, a way to prove you exist. Matty kills the gas. 

“I hope you had fun,” he declares. You give him a purposeful onceover, smirking. Matty rolls his eyes, though pride still hangs in them. “More than that.”

“I had fun,” you agree. “I like your friends.”

“I like them too.” It’s so easy for him, so inherent. He loves his friends and he doesn’t even have to question the meaning of it, doesn’t have to overanalyze every interaction and how safe it can be to question a tweak of sentences. He gets to declare it, gets to mean it. You’re envious, faraway somewhere. 

“I like you,” you say, because you mean it, because vodka and wine still linger somewhere inside of you. Matty flushes.

“I do, too.”

You grin at the whisper, at the confirmation. He hasn’t known you for very long, yet he means it all the same. A friend, a more than. How you like him. 

Emotion overwhelms you. Your heart races, beating and beating against its bone prison, begging for something you can’t quite figure out. You don’t try to, instead listening to the familiar thrill fluttering inside of you. You unclasp your seatbelt, throw a leg over the console, settle on his lap. 

Matty doesn’t seem surprised that you straddle him, instead resting his hand lazily on your waist. It swallows your skin, big and sure, meant to dip and dig and curl. You shiver just at the thought, at the possibility.

I like you, hangs in the air. And more…

You give him a fiery, needy kiss. There’s a burning desire to consume him, to keep him firmly lodged in your throat as you walk the path to church. You kiss him like it, gripping his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, his hair. Anything you can get your hands on, anything to make him tangible. 

Your tongue is hot as it meets his. You tug on his hair, tilting your head, meeting him better. He tastes like cigarettes and you, and the knowledge makes you burn. You want him so deeply you might choke from the lack of him. He needs to be closer, deeper. You make an unsatisfied groan, dropping your hands to his belt. 

Urgently, you paw at his pants, trying to get it off with shaky fingers. Your insides throb and clench around nothing, pleading for him. You’re tired of fighting inherent instincts, of battling guilt and morals. You want to feel good— great. Want to eclipse any doubt. 

Matty breaks from your lips, but you’re undeterred, licking down his cheeks as you unbutton his jeans. You bite and suck at his neck, leaving your very own purple bruise, marking him the way he always seems to do you. Different. Changed. 

Matty’s head drops on his seat. He sighs desperately, makes a low groan, and pushes you away from him. You pant, hungrily pulling at the hem of his shirt. He stops it with a heavy hand. 

“Not here,” Matty says, shortwinded. His dark eyes almost seem regretful to say so. “Not for the first time.”

You catch your breath slowly, deeply. You wipe at your mouth. Nod faintly. “Right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no—” You laugh. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t—” You grimace. “I wouldn’t want to do it in a car. For the first time.” Matty nods. 

“Soon, maybe?” Matty whispers nonetheless, a promise and a beg. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Maybe soon.” The words hang in the air, meaningful. 

You open the driver’s door, falling out of it gracelessly. You straighten with a proud smile, flash your teeth at him. Your white outfit is still stained; an opposite mirror of his. “Goodnight, Matty.”

“Night, love,” he says, amused. 

You turn around and run to your house. The trellis ivies up terribly— terrifyingly— far up. You stare at it convinced, taking a step with a purpose. 

[pedgito]

Ooh ooh I have an idea! Perv!Eddie losing his mind when his girlfriend admits she has a choking kink...but what he doesn't realize that her kink involves choking him. - @munson-blurbs 💚

author’s note: i put this off for so long and i’m sorry!! this idea was rattling around in my empty ass brain for ages and i finally decided to sit down and write it, i hope you enjoy!

cw: 18+ (minors dni), choking/breath play, degradation, dom!eddie (mentioned), slight perv!eddie, unprotected sex, eddie being so subby it’s ridiculous, if i missed anything lmk!

word count: 1.1k

“Come on now,” Eddie says patronizingly, crawling up the bed by his knees in nothing but the dark jeans he dawned almost every day, belt forgotten in a corner of the room, “out with it.”

Eddie’s never steered away from anything—the nastier, the better. He was almost always controlling the dynamics, which you didn’t mind at all. But, the thought that was floating in your head, what you really wanted, it was almost terrifying to say out loud. Eddie wouldn’t judge, he never did—but there’s a small part of you that thinks he might be completely turned off by the idea, regardless of how badly he always wants you.

The most power you have is riding him until he’s begging you to come, hands on your hips like a death grip and aiding in the hurried rock of them.

“Yeah—need you to come all over my cock, baby.” Eddie begs, “Fuck, always squeezin’ me so tight.”

And it works every time, but even then, you never really feel like you’re in control.

“Promise not to laugh?” You swear him to it, pinky held up as a binding contract. Eddie smiles darkly, teeth peeking through.

“Promise.” He replies, linking his larger finger around your delicate one, rough against your soft skin.

“I…was thinking about like, breath play.” You tell him, words feeling foreign as they fell from your mouth.

“Choking?” He deduced, hooded eyes widening at the idea as he leans in a little further from where’s bearing the weight against his open palms on the mattress, nose rubbing yours teasingly before he leans back, mourning a quiet, “Oh baby, we can do that.”

In his eyes, you can see that he’s definitely not on the same wavelength. You offer a shy shake of your head, tipping your chin up to look at him, puffing your chest out figuratively as you counter him with—

“Not me, Eddie.” You explain. “You.”

Eddie pulls back slightly, surprised.

“Me? You wanna—“ Eddie breaths out a laugh, teeth dragging against bottom lip as he sizes you up, eyes dragging over you enticingly, “think you can handle that, sweetheart?”

You tilt your head in annoyance, eyes narrowing at him.

“I think you should be asking yourself that.”

And Eddie is truly, woefully unprepared.

He’s always got an edge to him, an advantage in most of your sexual situations, both in strength and experience, but he’s never been this easily subdued, and willfully so.

You sink down onto him with a careful calculation of your hips, muscles already shaking from how thoroughly Eddie had lapped at your cunt, devising you to nothing but sounds, words failing you completely. It was almost his favorite thing, second to being buried inside you so deep, squeezing desperately at the apex of your hips, flesh bruising under his fingers where his rings pressed in a little too hard.

He gives a soft slap to your ass, a reminder that he still had every chance to flip you over and take you how he wanted.

Your touch is soft at first, fingertips rubbing against the skin of his neck, slight stubble there from his lack of shaving that week. He tipped his chin up, giving you more room—challenging you.

“Don’t be afraid,” Eddie says menacingly, “I can take it.”

And that’s where the pressure gets tighter, following all the right steps to keep things safe, but definitely enjoyable—and based on the way Eddie’s eyes light up, you’re mimicking it perfectly.

You rock your hips slowly, letting out a purposefully depraved moan as slap your hand against the wall, aiding in the assist to keep you upright, otherwise you’d have already fallen against him and let him fuck himself up into you the way he liked—fast, hard, leaving you breathless.

His lips are parted slightly, flush and red from how he’d abused them both with your mouth and your pussy, glistening with a mix of spit and you as he grunted softly, barely audible if you weren’t so attentive to the sounds he was making.

“More.” He encourages, your eyes connecting with him briefly as you nod, applying more pressure. “Oh, fuck—“ He forces out, eyes squeezing shut momentarily. His hips snap up harshly, creating a brutish rhythm as he lets himself feel consumed by you.

“Like you when you look like this,” You comment hotly, voice thick with arousal, “fucking pathetic.”

Eddie nods knowingly, the words spurring him further.

Your hand leaves the wall momentarily, body straightening as your fingers find their way to his lips, thumb pressing gently over the bottom one until he lets you in, mouth closing around the digit to suck.

“You’re worse than me,” You laugh softly, voicing ringing in his ears like an angelic melody, “and so much fucking needier.”

“God, it’s—“ His voice is garbled, strained against the hold you had on him, thrusts faltering quicker than you expect, “gonna come baby, I’m so sorry—so good, I can’t—“

“Yeah?” You tease, nodding when he finally opens his eyes, face contorted in a mix of anguish and pleasure, groaning desperately, the rock of your hips quickening ever so slightly, his touch burning hot against your skin, “Fuck, wanna feel you come inside me, Eddie. Can you do that?”

He nods quickly, obediently. His fingers wrap around the wrist attached to the hand squeezing his neck, giving one last final thrust before he’s moaning out loudly, mumbling a weak warning as he comes, sounding more like a weak plea.

“I’m ruining you,” Eddie notes through heavy breaths, “and thank fuckin’ god for that.”

You lift yourself off of him ruefully, gasping slightly at the loss of contact, moving up his chest, his cum dripping out slightly and pooling against his skin—Eddie doesn’t even care, too mesmerized by the idea of you—that he had you.

“More of that, please?” Eddie asks sweetly, hands traveling up your body until they cup around your face, cheeks heating up underneath his touch, “Mmm, there she is.”

You shove at his face playfully, turning your head to kiss at his palm lightly.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” Eddie says with a smirk, “not after all that.”

“I just wanted to try it out,” You admit, glancing at him briefly before you eyes fall to his chest, tracing the tattoo there, “s’not your thing, I know.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie shakes his head, looking far more elated than usual, “I don’t need control all the time.”

You smile, huffing out a soft, pleased noise.

“Besides, it would break my heart if we never tried that again.” Eddie admits, “I don’t think I’ve ever come that fast.”

Plus, Eddie’s just a little too greedy when it comes to seeing you fall apart above him.

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

[tokiwarcube]

Hello! I've discovered your blog recently and your writing is really good! Can I request nsfw headcanons for dethklok (if you don't write for all of them it can be either Nathan, Pickles or Murderface) about the reader being a Dom? Nothing to harsh but maybe just leading them or taking initiative after a difficult day.

If you're not comfortable with this it's okay! Thanks for reading anyway, have a great day ♡♡

Hello my love! I realized about halfway through that you had actually wanted headcanons (the cons of writing in an area without WiFi, I suppose.) so this ended up turning into a set of drabbles... but please, feel free to resend this if you want headcanons still, too! <3

Nathan Explosion

Silence, marred only by the labored breaths of your lover, clouds the room with a lustful air so thick its almost suffocating. His chest heaves from his kneeling spot on the floor, sweat glistening in the dim lighting. You can’t see his expression from your place above him — His hair falls down against his chest in rivulets, obscuring his face with a dark shadow. Although you suppose you could hazard a guess, with how long you’ve been at this.

“Nathan.”

His dick twitches between his legs at your voice, and he leans forward on his knees just a fraction. A single drop of precum runs down his shaft at the movement — achingly hard after your hours of teasing. And yet, he refuses to ask for what he wants. Instead, his larger hands move up your calves, up and up towards your thighs. It’s slow, cautious. You watch for a moment, savoring the submissive trepidation, before growing tired. The ball of your foot meets his chest, pushing him back firmly, and his hands drop to his lap for what seems like the millionth time tonight. Black tresses sway, revealing the flush adorning his cheeks and his averted eyes. Whether it’s from shame or embarrassment you can’t quite tell, although the reasoning doesn’t really matter to you.

Only the fact that he’s still not following the rules of your arrangement.

His chest heaves beneath your touch, fingers twitching in his lap. A pause. And… nothing. You sigh, dropping your foot and leaning forward. Carding your hand through his hair you wrap your fingers around the strands, pulling firmly to force his eyes to meet yours. And oh, what a sight it is.

His pupils nearly swallow his eyes whole — loving and needy. His bitten lips part, panting worsening under your unwavering gaze. Open. Close. Swallow. He leans forward yet again, although this time, his hands stay at his sides — he’s learning, but not quite fast enough for your taste.

“Words, Nathan.”

Pickles the Drummer

The party on the other side of the wall falls into a dull thrum, voices muffled less by the drywall and more from the needy groans that bleed from the throat of your lover. Your index and middle frames his cock, wet and twitching with every word you murmur into his ear, and his hips roll feverishly against you. As much as you’ll allow, anyways. His hips are all about all that he can move with how you’ve caged him against the wall, forearm pressed tightly against his chest to keep him pinned. You suspect you might bruise a bit tomorrow with how hard his hand grips you, although with the show he’s putting on for you, you can’t find it in you to complain. His head knocks against the wall, exposing the column of this throat, and you have half the mind to bite down on the tender skin. You file the thought away for later — tempting, but then you’d have to pull your gaze away from him, and how could you miss a sight like this? His tie was loosened long ago, top buttons of his shirt undone and pants pulled down to his mid thigh for just that extra bit of room.

And of course, for the extra risk.

Anyone could walk by and see how malleable he is in your hands, how easy it is for you to take him apart — the evidence would be undeniable. Disheaveled, flushed, panting, and humping your hand like a dog. You smile and lean forward to ghost a kiss across his lips, faint and sweet, but pull away before he can actually reciprocate. The mean move draws a whine from his throat, and you press him just a bit firmer against the wall in warning.

“Stay quiet baby, don’t wanna get caught tonight.”

Skwisgaar Skwigelf

Candlelight glimmers off the stark white walls, casting dancing shadows and heavenly light against your limbs, intertwined. It brings with it a sort of warmth — a stark contrast to the sweat-slicked, cool skin of your lover. You run your hand slowly up his spine before winding your hand meanly through his hair, coaxing him into an arch as you thrust forward. The strangled moan he releases is heavenly, and his hand comes up to cover his mouth soon after. The tips of his ears flush just as rapidly — from embarrassment? Pleasure? You’d hazard its a bit of both, as when you pull back to thrust again he drops the silencing digits to instead scramble for purchase against the satin sheets. The fabric scrunches in his white knuckled grip, warping further with each of your own movements.

Strands held tight in your grasp, pulled more taught with each successive thrust, he’s held too stiff to bury his head in the pillows — treating you to all of his pretty little noises. Every gasp, then moan, then whine as you pull him apart bit by bit. His hips rock back against your strap eagerly, finally chasing his high of his own accord, and you grin.

“Go on baby, give me a show.”

Toki Wartooth

It’s not often that you get him like this, all splayed out and pretty. His cheeks are flushed, eyes hooded as he gazes up at you. He leans up, searching, and you can’t help but give in and kiss him yet again, lips tilting upwards into the connection. It’s sweet, not unlike your typical kisses with Toki — but the tenderness in your movements is novel for the bedroom. The laziness, saccharine and heady, as you work your hand over his cock — taking him apart bit by bit.

Toki has always maintained some level of control in the bedroom — it’s taken a long time to get him to this point at all. Plenty of patience played a role in that, and while you don’t think you’ll ever reach the same level of bruising grips and commanding words that he brings to the table with you, you savor the modicum of submission he’s trusted you with. You run your hand down his side, gently quelling his bucking hips, and his breath shudders against your lips.

“Such a good boy for me, huh, baby?”

Willliam Murderface

William is deceptively strong — it’s a fact that most, including himself, don’t realize. You take the time to appreciate the muscle along his arms, tensing with every harsh thrust you grace him with. His fingers flex in the curls of his hair, forearms covering his expression, although he can’t seem to control the whines that fall from his mouth. You grin, gripping his hips a bit tighter for leverage, and pressing just a bit further into him. It’s a fine line he walks — cover his face, or his noises? He’s always been sensitive, but this? Oh, you could keep him pinned beneath you all day, panting and whining just like this. You think he could cum untouched if you just angle yourself just a bit—

You take his wrists in your hold, bunching them in your hands before thrusting forward yet again using his own body against him for leverage. It’s then that you see his expression, drooling and flushed under your touch. His eyes widen at the movement, and then the pleasure, mouth parting invitingly. You have half the mind to run your thumb along his waiting tongue, just to see what he’d do, but instead you savor his dazed expression. You smile again, peering down at him from beneath your eyelashes.

“Eyes on me baby. Let me see that pretty face, yeah?”

[d0g0r0t]

Bc Toby is literally my bbg you should totally write him with an s/o who takes care of him and is just super nice to him and, it can be sfw or nsfw I don't really mind either

(I'll give you a cookie pls I'm not normal abt him༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ)

Toby x caring reader

TW: NSFW

He wasn't really sure how to process your kindness at first. He couldn't tell if you were faking it or not

But over time when he realized you were true his heart melt

He would be supper shy and awkward around you cause you were so sweet and kind

You would do the littlest things for him and he would look at you like an angle while your doing it

Asking you for things was so easy yet so hard. He knew he could ask you for anything but he was so nervous around you.

You were just so... nice..

He didn't deserve you.. all the things he's done and he gets you? You were to good for him

He's never experienced someone like you. You reminded him of his sister and your kind nature. It made him dizzy with emotions

Even your name sounded so sweet

He would try his best to keep his tics under control PRAYING he doesn't hurt you and bruise your beautiful skin

Sometimes when you two are alone he gets really sappy. Leaning into you, digging his face in your chest, wrapping himself completely around you as your fingers run threw his thick curls

He feels bad when you do simple things for him that any human should do. Brush his hair, help him remember to take a shower or brush his teeth, cook for him

He feels like he's almost using you and he just sinks into himself but after you told him you want to he felt a little better

The moment he sees anyone get even a little rude with you he's on them like a dog, screaming and barking at them. Stepping in between you guys and growling like a protective hound.

The moment their delt with he's getting on your level and using the softest tone asking if your ok and if you need anything

He pushes his emotions back alot until he blows up. But he never snaps at you, he just can't. He'll get really needy if he does show you a bit of aggression. He's at your knees and whimpering how sorry he is for just feeling the wrong thing even tho you have no idea what he's on about

He gets really jealous when he sees you being nice to other people but doesn't step in knowing your nature and your need to care for others

___________________________________________

NSFW

The first time you two got intimate he was literally TREMBLING.

He was scared he might get to rough and accidentally go to far

When you guys were in bed he just stared at you for a few moments trying to process a girl like you under him like this

When he started up he was already whining and whimpering. He was shaking trying not to grip at you to harshly

But over time he has himself wrapped around you moaning in your ear as he pounds himself into you

He's fucks you at a steady pace not going to fast or to slow unless you tell him to

His hips would buck every now and again as he feels your heat squeeze his member letting out desperate whimpers

He rips the sheets from how hard his gripping them as he watches you ride him because he would rather tare the sheets then your skin

Watching you do such acts on him makes him completely red in the face and his body flush and heat up like crazy.

After he finishes he let's out a little gasped and apologizes for cumming so soon and not letting you finish

He will DESTROY his body until you cum to

He's not letting you go unsatisfied after what you've done for him

___________________________________________

IM SORRY IM GETTING THESE OUT SO SLOW ONFG!(#;@[*$[!%

[nico-di-genova]

strollonso + marriage proposal.

Genuinely, thank you so much for sending this, it is such a simple request, and yet the idea of them married has now fully consumed me.

Warnings: NSFW, they are fucking nasty style.

The thing about them is that they’ve never been normal. Not when Fernando kissed Lance for the first time post Bahrain, all sweaty and roaming hands, crowding Lance against the door of his hotel room and then standing before his father the next day saying Lance was already like family. Not when Lance went down on him for the first time, choking himself on Fernando’s cock while the man sat on the phone with his engineer discussing set-up of his car. Normal was not something that came to them easily, Lance supposed their proposal wouldn’t be any different.

He just hadn’t expected Fernando to ask him right as he was bottoming out.

Right as Lance was muffling a moan into his pillow and gripping the plush material in his hands with white knuckles.

“Marry me,” Fernando grunts, and Lance hardly hears him over the blood rushing through his ears.

He moans as Fernando thrusts with practiced ease.

“Yes or no?”

Lance cannot even follow the question. He’s too busy thinking of how Fernando’s cock feels inside him, too busy arching and pushing back for more. Fernando gives it to him, leans forward so he can rest a hand on the mattress next to Lance’s face pushed into the pillow, his other hand gripping Lance’s hip tight enough to bruise.

When Fernando begins thrusting at a brutal pace Lance lets him. He lets punched out noises fall from his lips and tangle in the sweat soaked sheets beneath them.

When he comes, it’s with the shape of Fernando’s name in his mouth.

"You did not answer,” Fernando muses afterward. Lance’s head is resting on his bare chest, his fingers threading through sweat soaked strands of jet black hair.

“Answer what?” Lance mumbles, fucked out and limp against Fernando – like a sack of potatoes Fernando had once teased, boneless and immovable. He was falling asleep, his voice groggy with the promise of it.

“Marry me,” Fernando says again, a statement instead of a question.

“Later,” Lance grumbles, curling closer to Fernando.

He is rarely the little spoon, what with the size difference between them, but his thigh slots perfectly across Fernando’s hips and his head can rest nicely beneath his chin if he maneuvers enough. He can feel Fernando’s come dripping out of him, his own drying against his stomach, but the need to give into the oblivion of sleep is stronger than the need to shower.

“But yes?” Fernando asks, to which Lance makes a noise that might have been agreement, at least he aims for that.

It’s not romantic, certainly not how Lance thought his proposal would go. For one, he did not think he would be the one proposed to. In his mind there had been an expensive trip to Bali, rose petals in the sand, a girl who he’d get down on one knee for with a prenup and a ring. But the girl never had a face, nothing distinguishable about her other than the dress she wore that would flutter in the breeze and her giggle when Lance slid the expensive rock onto her finger.

This is better, half asleep against his childhood hero with his limbs still aching from how hard the man had drilled him into the mattress. Feeling warm, content, wanted – not just for his trust fund but because he was also really good at sucking dick.

Maybe it was a self-deprecating thought. He didn’t care. He falls asleep like that, with Fernando’s fingers in his hair and wrapped in the scent of him. When he wakes, it’s to the man easing him out of the bed and into the warm bath that waits with steam rising in tendrils from the water. It’s easy to let himself be taken care of, to let Fernando massage the knots from his shoulders and clean the come from his body. Easy in the same way it is to let a nameless driver cart him around Montreal or let the rotating staff dust his frequently empty loft, different in that Fernando presses kisses to his neck, his shoulders, his spine, the crown of his head and tells him how good he was.  

Lance rests his cheek against the curve of Fernando’s neck while water is poured down his back, soap lathered into his hair, whispers of praise warm against his ear. Fernando uses his own shampoo, his soap, so that Lance no longer smells of sex but of citrus and sandalwood.

Fernando doesn’t mention marriage again, but he does dress Lance in a pair of his own boxers and eases him into bed with a gentleness that Lance has learned to associate with post-coital bliss.

It’s the sun that wakes him up next, and Fernando’s hand thwacking against his face when the man shifts in his sleep. He smells of Fernando and is wearing clothes are too small for his frame, and it’s familiar. At some point, it became almost normal.

A month later he gives Fernando a ring, a silver band rimmed with a strip of carbon fiber from his own car and his name engraved in Hebrew on the inside. It matches the font that’s inked across his ribs. Hurt a hell of a lot less though and cost him significantly more. His dad’s accountant questions the amount, asks Lance if he bought a new place, and Lance just shrugs it off – says he bought a snowboard or a car or a race track just to see the way the man’s lips press into a thin line as he jots something into the books.

“I’ll marry you,” he says, when he slides the ring in its velvet box to Fernando across the table of the taco place they’re at. It comes to a rest beside the chips and salsa.

Fernando stares. There’s a stray piece of cilantro sticking to the corner of his downturned mouth.

“If, uh, if you still want me to. I’ll marry you.”

“A ring?” Fernando asks, motioning at the box with the overfilled end of the taco in his grip. A stray piece of carne asada falls, plops onto the paper lined basket beneath him.

“Yeah, it’s stupid, but you know-“

“It’s not stupid,” Fernando cuts him off, annoyance lacing his tone as he sets the taco down next to the escaped piece of meat, “Don’t say that. It’s not stupid.”

Lance blushes, ducks his head, stares down at his own untouched taco and the box that Fernando still has not reached for. There’s chip crumbs sticking to the velvet. His dad would have a conniption if he saw, the same way he did when Lance would show up to events in a suit that was too big on him with an untucked button-up peeking out from beneath the oversized fabric. His dad would hate that they were even eating here, which is maybe precisely why Lance had chosen it. Something bold, something his, something that wasn’t stamped with the Stroll name and wrapped in a pretty package.

“It’s not stupid,” Fernando repeats, “But it’s for me?”

Lance feels his palms go clammy, feels suddenly like he is getting hit by a bus. His appetite leaves him with the whoosh of breath from his lungs. They hadn’t talked about it since Fernando proposed the idea when he was balls deep inside him. When Lance was moaning his name into the pillow and choking on his own tears from the pleasure. He feels suddenly stupid, hollow, the same way he feels when reporters ask him why he bottled it into the wall on the easiest part of the circuit with condescension lacing their tone. Like they could do any fucking better.

“You- fuck.”

“Lance?”

“You didn’t mean it did you? Oh, man, uh. I’m- fuck.”

Lance doesn’t cry, at least not in public. He’s become well trained in blinking back tears and biting off the quiver in his voice that gives him away. But he comes close, feels the stinging heat of them building in the corners of his eyes and has to blink violently until his vision clears. Fernando watches him, watches as he fights against the rising tide of not good enough, stupid, never enough that rises inside him suddenly and rapidly and threatens to drown him while he swallows down the bile and sour cream taste that’s building at the back of his throat.

It takes him longer than it should to stop the shaking of his hands.

“Sorry,” he says when the world settles a little beneath his feet, when he doesn’t feel like he’s going to say something spiteful just so he can see Fernando’s expression twist with the same hurt he feels. It wouldn’t work anyway, Lance has thrown nearly every well aimed bullet Fernando’s way and they land, but they never seem to hurt.

“Let’s just- let’s just forget about it, yeah? It was a dumb thing, I don’t even-,” he reaches to grab the ring box but is halted by Fernando’s hand over his own. Fernando’s fingers wrap around his wrist, strong, sturdy, unyielding.

“Stop calling it that. Let me answer, yes?”

Lance nods, braces himself for the inevitable rejection, for the floor falling out feeling and the rush of wind in his ears and the impact of his body against the pavement. It’s not a strange feeling, to be dumped by his hero and hung out to dry, doesn’t hurt any less the second time around though. He just wishes Fernando would be mean about it, the niceties hurt more, he’d rather it just be quick – it’s what he would have expected from the man anyway – a sharp dagger to the side or the bite of a blade against his throat, not the gentle press of the knife sliding between his ribs in some false semblance of mercy.

Fernando brushes his thumb along the inside of his wrist, over his pulse point, parallel to the surgical scars left from his accident. He sometimes gets phantom twinges, the memory of a snapped bone, but nothing now. Now he just feels empty.

“I did not ask you properly,” Fernando explains, sounding, strangely, sad.

“I didn’t answer properly,” Lance counters, nodding to the box that still sits between them, unopened, next to the chips and a bottle of hot sauce like it is another spare condiment. It cost him a quarter of a million, and Lance threw it down like it was the spare jalapeno sauce the waiter had left them.

“I should have,” Fernando presses, exasperated, like he’s frustrated that Lance is not understanding him, “it’s important to me. This. Us.”

Us.

Lance feels like that twelve year-old boy standing in the Ferrari garage when he says, “I don’t understand.”

Like he’s watching the race unfold with noise muffled by the earmuffs over his head and his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder. Like he can see it all, close enough to smell the rubber and the gasoline, but far enough away that it still seems unobtainable. Fernando may as well still be in that car, separated by a screen and Lance’s idolization for all the difference it makes now.

“You want to marry me, yes? Honest. This is- this is you? Your choice?”

“Who’s else would it be?” If Lance has a gun held to his head it’s one that he hasn’t spotted yet, metal pressing against his temple, and he’s somehow mistaken it for a kiss.

Fernando’s lips press into a thin line, the curl of his lips curving further downward.

“I’m sorry, Nando.”

“Stop being sorry. You do not need to be sorry. I am sorry. How I asked, when I did, it was…wrong. I should have waited. I should have asked correctly.”

Fernando’s grip on his wrist tightens, instinctively, enough that Lance winces when it shifts something beneath the skin, and he feels the hint of pain. More of a familiar ghost than anything real. Fernando pulls away anyway, sudden, leans back in his seat and tucks his hands beneath the table like his touch has somehow burned Lance.

Slowly, Lance understands.

“Wait- you- baby did you think I wanted a proposal? Like down on one knee ‘will you marry me’, proposal?”

Fernando arches an eyebrow, “You do not?”

The floor stabilizes slightly, stops feeling like it’s going to fall out beneath him. Lance breathes and when he exhales a laugh accompanies it.

“No, Fer. Fuck no. Please no, actually.”

“But you got me a ring,” Fernando points out, points at the jewelry itself, like rings and proposals must always go hand in hand. Like they’re supposed to be the blushing bride and groom. Like there’s not a seventeen year age difference between them and their first kiss wasn’t accompanied by Fernando spitting the name ‘princess’ into his mouth like it was a slur.

Lance can’t stop laughing.

Fernando still can’t seem to find the joke.

“This is not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny.”

Funny that his boyfriend became his fiancé when he was fucking him so hard Lance probably wouldn’t have even remembered his own name. Funny that he bought a ring before they’d even discussed it when their dicks weren’t out. Funny that Lance mistook Fernando’s chivalry for abandonment. It’s funny in a way that isn’t, and so he can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him in heaving breaths and spills across the table, the floor, the whole of the crowded restaurant. He knows what he must look like, wide grin and crinkling eyes, and the familiarity of his face nagging at the brains of those who turn to stare at him.

He doesn’t care if they recognize him, or, more realistically, Fernando. He doesn’t care and it’s one of the first times that he thinks it and realizes it’s probably true.

“Stop laughing.”

“I can’t,” Lance wheezes, “We’re both so fucking stupid.”

Fernando rolls his eyes, shifts in his seat, waits until Lance’s laughs fade into breathy little huffs and passes the time by picking at his now cold taco. Lance watches him, watches the twitch of his lips and knows Fernando is biting back laughter too.

Finally, he leans forward on his elbows and says, “I want to marry you. Of course I want to marry you.”

He pushes the ring box further along the table with an index finger, until it’s touching Fernando’s plate. The man looks from the velvet box to Lance’s finger and travels along his arm until there’s nothing between them, but the table and the chips and Lance’s name engraved in Hebrew on a solid gold band.

“Do you want to marry me?”

He doesn’t have to wait for Fernando’s answer, it comes in the darkening of the man’s expression, his pupils blowing wide with want and the way he hooks his foot around Lance’s ankle beneath the table.

“Come with me. I will show you how much I want to marry you, Lance Stroll.”

Three months later, Lance wears a matching gold band, Fernando’s name engraved across the inside and resting warm against his skin. When people ask if he’s married, always as a joke, always assuming the impossibility, he laughs and tells them yes. Fernando wears his on a gold chain tucked beneath his nomex. It is the last thing they take off before getting in their cars, the first thing they put back on when getting out.

“Mine,” Fernando will whisper to him at night, Lance’s fingers pressed to his lips and warm breath ghosting along the ring.

“Yours,” Lance will say when he loops Fernando’s chain around his index finger and pulls until the man comes to him, and there is no separation between them at all.  

[violet-1atte]

Kinktober Day Eight: Master/slave - Minho/Hyunjin

Tags: dom!Minho, sub!Hyunjin, subspace, master/slave dynamics, cockwarming, exhibitionism, fingering, degradation, name calling

AO3 Link

Hyunjin’s knees ached from the hard ground and the air on his bare skin made him shiver. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there. Minutes, hours, the whole day ? Honestly, when he was in this position, time seemed to lose all meaning. He was an object, made only to serve and please Minho. The ache in his back and the soreness of his knees only served to remind him that he was doing good. It made his mind feel fuzzy, like it was full of soft cotton and fluffy clouds. He was floating, ready for any command Minho, his master , gave him. 

Suddenly footsteps filled Hyunjin’s ears and his heart jumped in his chest. The anticipation he always felt when Minho approached would never be topped by anything else. Nothing could compare to the heat that built in his gut whenever his master came to him. 

“Mm, so obedient. Thank you for waiting,” Minho said with a gentle hum. He ran a hand through Hyunjin’s black hair and as much as Hyunjin wanted to respond and press into his touch, he knew he hadn’t been given permission yet. Minho continued caressing his scalp for a moment before he slid his hand down his face and hooked his fingers under his chin. “You can look up at me now.” 

Minho tilted Hyunjin’s head up and he turned his gaze upwards, meeting his eyes. “There you are.” Hyunjin couldn’t hold back the dazed smile that formed on his lips. Minho could be so mean to him, but he could also be incredibly sweet. Hyunjin loved both, but he couldn’t help preening at the tone of his voice at the moment. 

“Are you ready to prepare for our guests, slave?” he asked. He caressed Hyunjin’s jaw with his thumb as he spoke. 

“Yes, Master,” Hyunjin said obediently. He flexed the fingers of his hands, which were still held behind his back in a pair of handcuffs. Now that Minho was here he was suddenly more aware of all the aches in his body. But he held as still as he could because he wanted to please Minho. 

“Good. Do you remember what our plan is?” 

Hyunjin nodded, but quickly remembered to give a verbal reply as well. They had gone over everything that morning. Discussed their limits again, what was okay and what wasn’t, what they would do specifically, and who would be there. Everything was planned out precisely, and all Hyunjin had to do from this point was follow Minho’s instructions. 

“Perfect,” Minho said, brushing his thumb over Hyunjin’s lips. 

Hyunjin fidgeted a little and Minho’s eyes narrowed a little bit. Hyunjin’s stomach seemed to swoop and he bit his lip, stilling his movements. “Are you uncomfortable like this?” Minho asked, tilting his head. Hyunjin considered whether to lie or tell the truth. Minho would want him to be honest though. 

“A…a  little bit, Master. I’m just sore,” Hyunjin admitted meekly. He glanced to the ground but Minho gripped his jaw and forced him to look up. 

“Look at me when you talk, slut,” Minho snapped. 

Hyunjin shuddered and looked back up at him. “I’m sorry, Master. I–I’m just a little achy, but I feel good serving you. That’s the best…the best thing to me.” To anyone else it might seem like he was just trying to butter Minho up, but he really was being truthful. 

“There we go. Thank you for telling me,” Minho said, his expression and tone softening. “You can get up now. I wouldn’t want my pretty slave to be all bruised up and sore, now would I?” 

“No, Master,” Hyunjin said, his lips turning up in a slight smile. 

“Mhm… So you can get up now. You stayed in position for long enough.” 

“Thank you, Master,” Hyunjin said happily. He struggled a little to stand up from his knees with how stiff his legs were and the fact that his hands were still stuck together with cuffs. Minho helped stabilize him, placing his hands on Hyunjin’s shoulders to lift him. Hyunjin’s breath caught in his throat at the action and his head once again had that fluffy, cotton feeling. He knew he was hard even without looking down, and had been for a long time. But he wasn’t allowed to touch himself without permission, and he was a well trained slave. He rarely disobeyed his master. 

“Let’s get these off. Then you can start getting ready,” Minho said, slipping his hands behind Hyunjin to undo the handcuffs. 

Hyunjin let out a soft sigh as his hands were freed from their confines and he was finally able to stretch his sore muscles. “Feels much better,” he said with a smile, rubbing his wrists. “I’ll start getting ready now!” 

“That’s a good boy.” Minho cupped his cheek and pet over his cheekbone with his thumb. “Once you finish everything I’ll get you ready as well. So I want you in my bedroom, on your knees in front of the bed. Understood?” 

“Yes, Master, I understand,” Hyunjin replied with an eager nod. He gave Minho a deep bow before moving off to prepare everything. 

Some people might frown upon what he was doing or think it was an unkind arrangement. But Hyunjin enjoyed it. It was an agreement he consented to. He could back out at any time. But he had no plans of doing that. There was something so fulfilling about it, even when it came to tasks like cooking and cleaning. Hyunjin’s chest warmed with pride any time he was able to make Minho a meal that satisfied him, especially when he got to feed it to him directly. 

By the time Hyunjin was done, the entire house was sparkling and smelling of savory dishes, he rushed to the bedroom and got on his knees in front of the bed. There was a mat on the floor so his knees wouldn’t bruise this time and as soon as he got in position his limbs tingled and his head was airy and light again. It felt so good to be like this. 

Minho entered the bedroom soon after and he gave Hyunjin a catlike smile. “You’ve done well today, slave,” he praised and Hyunjin preened, biting his lip. 

“Thank you, Master, I’m so glad you think so,” he responded eagerly. 

“Of course. I’m so proud,” Minho said. “So well behaved.” 

Hyunjin could have melted into the floor right then. 

“Let me make you all pretty for our guests now. Stand up and lay down on the bed.” 

Hyunjin easily complied, scrambling quickly to switch positions and lay across the soft mattress. He watched as Minho grabbed a box from the closet and pulled out a set of red lingerie and a butt plug with a gem on the end. Hyunjin’s cheeks burned at the sight and his stomach flipped. He would be in that in front of everyone. “You’ll really look like my perfect slave, won’t you?”

“Yes, Master, yours,” Hyunjin breathed. 

Minho smirked as he approached the bed. “Mine,” he said, punctuating the words with a squeeze of his thigh. 

Minho grabbed the lube from the bedside drawer and after getting Hyunjin to spread his legs, began opening him up for the plug. He let Hyunjin moan freely this time so Hyunjin didn’t hold back, whining and panting with every press and curl of Minho’s fingers. His cock went from being soft to rock solid within minutes of Minho fingering him, beads of precum leaking onto his abs. Minho teased him by spreading his fingers wide and dragging the digits over his prostate. And Hyunjin still wasn’t allowed to come. 

Once Minho had secured the plug in Hyunjin’s stretched hole, he helped him put on the lacy lingerie. Panties with a heart cutout in the ass showed off the plug and silky garters hugged the flesh of his soft thighs. Hyunjin’s blush matched the red of the lace. “Such a slutty looking slave, aren’t you?” Minho said teasingly. 

Hyunjin whimpered and his knees went weak. “Y-yes, yours to show off.” 

“Mhm. I can’t wait,” Minho hummed. “Our guests should be arriving soon. Go wait for them.” 

Hyunjin gave Minho a nod and a bow and then scurried off to wait for them in the living room. He was on his knees again, arms behind his back. The perfect position of submission. 

Soon after, the doorbell rang and Minho went to answer it. Chan walked in first, Jeongin following shortly after him. They greeted Minho with smiles and hugs (from Chan), and then began glancing around. Chan’s eyes landed on him first and Hyunjin’s entire body burned from the attention. “Ahh there he is.” 

Jeongin and Minho looked at him then and Minho grinned. “Isn’t he just the prettiest?”

“I’m surprised you got him to be so well behaved,” Jeongin mused. “He used to be such a brat.” 

Hyunjin’s fists clenched behind his back and he forced himself to keep from squeezing his thighs together when his cock twitched. They were talking about him like he wasn’t even there. An object only for their admiration. 

“Oh it took a lot of training, trust me,” Minho responded with a laugh. “But now he does whatever I say.” 

Hyunjin burned . Everything they said was true and it made arousal swirl in his stomach. 

Minho led them to the dining room to sit them down, and soon after the others arrived. Jisung and Felix next, followed soon after by Changbin and Seungmin. Having such an audience made Hyunjin feel like some art piece in a museum. He could feel their stares burning holes through him and their whispered words, giggles, and points only made him dizzier. 

Eventually, after a few moments of greeting and socializing, Minho turned his attention to Hyunjin, still sitting dutifully on the carpet, and beckoned him over with a curl of his finger. “Come, slave, we’re starting dinner. You know what to do.” 

Hyunjin knew exactly what to do. He stood up and made his way to the table, sparks going up his back at the pleased sounds everyone made. He heard Jisung mumble, “ Fuck,” under his breath and Seungmin leaned over to Changbin to whisper something in his ear. Hyunjin first went around the table, serving each of them expensive wine and making sure everything was ready and available for them to eat. They never stopped staring.

Minho looked all too smug with their reactions, the lazy grin he was showing never leaving his face. “Sit,” he said, patting his thigh twice. Hyunjin maneuvered around the table to sit on his lap and squirmed a little to adjust his position. Minho’s hand immediately went to his waist and he dug his fingers into his side. “Feed me.” 

This was easy. Hyunjin did this often. He grabbed the chopsticks and grabbed a piece of meat and lifted it to Minho’s lips. His stomach warmed as Minho’s lips closed around the chopsticks and he closed his eyes, letting out a small, satisfied hum. “

“How was that so homoerotic?” Jisung whispered, to which Seungmin responded, 

“He’s literally sitting on Minho’s lap and is dressed like a little slut, how can it not be?” 

Hyunjin’s cheeks burned at his response and Minho smirked, placing a hand on Hyunjin’s thigh. “That was delicious,” he said sweetly, giving Hyunjin’s thigh a squeeze. Hyunjin whimpered, and it was obvious by the expressions of everyone at the table that they all heard it. “Isn’t he a good cook?” Minho asked, looking around the table. 

“May rival you,” Chan said with a chuckle and Hyunjin positively melted at the praise. He was a good slave for Minho, he did good. 

“Maybe not that far,” Minho said, shooting Chan a glare, even as he opened his mouth for another bite Hyunjin prepared for him. Hyunjin was a good cook, but he had an even better teacher. 

“Master is definitely the best cook,” Hyunjin said softly. He nearly giggled at the reactions from everyone at him so openly calling Minho “Master.” They’d only heard it a few times and every time the reactions were the same–mixed reactions of arousal and shock, red faces, open mouths. A whimper if you were Jisung. “He trained me well.” 

“Of course,” Jeongin supplied. He turned his eyes to Minho. “He wouldn’t be able to do anything on his own without getting trained, would he?” 

Minho chuckled as Hyunjin squirmed in his lap. More embarrassment pulsed in his chest and went all the way down through his stomach to his toes. “I’m afraid not. It’s really a good thing he listens so well. In fact…I think I’ll eat on my own now. Why don’t you serve me another way, hm?” 

Hyunjin knew exactly what Minho meant. They had planned this all after all. He gave Minho a sharp nod and a, “Yes, Master,” before he got off his lap and crawled under the table to kneel between Minho’s spread thighs. 

“ Good ,” Minho drawled. He reached down underneath the table and unzipped his pants so he could pull his cock out. It was semi-hard from Hyunjin being on his lap and that filled Hyunjin with an unreasonable amount of pride. “Cockwarm me while I eat dinner with my friends.” 

“Wow,” Hyunjin heard Changbin mumble from the table along with a few soft gasps and accompanying moans. Just the command only followed by the reactions had Hyunjin’s head and body buzzing. He could barely think, all he knew was he needed to do what his master told him. 

Hyunjin opened his mouth and put his lips around the head of Minho’s cock, going down almost to the base in one go. He rested his head on Minho’s thighs and breathed deeply through his nose, allowing the feeling of Minho’s heavy cock on his tongue to lull him even deeper into his headspace. 

For the rest of dinner, Hyunjin stayed like that. The sound of their conversation faded out as his mind went numb from cockwarming Minho. Occasionally, Minho would shift or roll his hips forward and Hyunjin’s eyes would water as he gagged a little. But he never pulled off. He wanted to impress Minho and impress everyone that was there, even though they all seemed to be ignoring him. The lack of attention only made him slip further and further, until he was in a dream-like state. Please Master, do good for him, good slave, good …

Hyunjin barely registered when everyone got up to start leaving until Minho curled his fingers in his hair and eased him off his cock. “Up, boy, everyone’s leaving,” he said, his voice soft in a way that kept Hyunjin in the same headspace. Drool ran down Hyunjin’s chin from having a cock in his mouth for so long and he didn’t even bother to wipe it up as he crawled from under the table and stood up on shaky legs. 

He followed Minho to the door with the others and gave them all a deep bow. “Thank you for coming,” he said softly. He wasn’t even sure if he said it out loud, but the way Minho smiled told him otherwise. 

“You should bring him around like that more often,” Changbin said. 

“Maybe. I’ll have to discuss it with him first though,” he said, scratching the back of Hyunjin’s head. “I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. I definitely did.” 

“It was fun!” Felix said with a warm smile. “Though next time I want more interaction with Hyunjinnie.” 

Minho glanced at Hyunjin’s face and grinned. “Noted.” 

After they all left and Hyunjin and Minho had said goodbye and thanked all of them, Minho turned to Hyunjin and pet his hair. “Hey there, Hyunjin,” he said softly. “You did good. That was a lot.” 

Hyunjin nodded, a soft smile on his face. Minho sighed fondly. 

“Let’s go get you changed then get you something to eat. I want you strong and healthy, right?” 

Hyunjin perked up a little. “Yes, that sounds wonderful, Master,” he said happily. 

“Good. Let’s get moving then.” He smacked Hyunjin’s butt and Hyunjin responded with a yelp before heading off to the bedroom to get changed. 

[racoonpookiedepartment]

My “Kinktober” day 3

Chris’s Accident (hands + uniform)

Chris Redfield was a soldier working for the BSAA, while he was an extremely strong soldier, he was also very angry almost all the time.

it was easy for him to quickly get frustrated, you were his assigned (Male) nurse and you saw him in every emotion there was

You've seen him when he was upset, when he was angry, when he was sad, when he was confused and mostly when he was in heat, you'd always know because of the puppy eyes he'd give you at certain positions

Besides that he would always make sly flirty comments about how he loved seeing you in your uniform and whenever you had to be handsy, he always complimented your hands. He would go on and on about how soft they were and how much he liked when you touched him.

Chris was very simple, for almost any problem he had, he would vent to you about things that upset him and even when he was angry. It was just being close friends with him. but to him it meant much more, you didn't realize it until you started to see how he was reacting recently.

he started to come in for the smallest of injuries, even coming just for "check up" you got the feeling that he did it on purpose because he knew you'd have to touch him all over to find his “injury”

he came in again for a small injury and you knew you were about to get a wild story from how he walked in, his face was already red with anger. He came into the room and closed the door behind him. You listened to him rant and you patch up some scrape he got, and after he was done you asked if he had anything else that needed to be checked. He had a bad fall and wanted you to check his thigh for a bruise.

as he stood up and you kneeled to unbuckled his pants, you glanced upwards and Chris looked away with red cheeks. you pulled down his pants and even as he was soft there was a large bulge in his boxers, you had to stay professional so you didn't comment on it

"ok this might sting" you warn, you gently rub up and down his left leg, he had no reaction. you switch over to the right side and he grunts when your hand passes over his right thigh

"fuck, be gentle would you?" he suggested,

"i did tell you it might sting" you reply, you grab some solution and take some of it into your hand

"this will be cold, but you'll feel better ok?" you warn, chris nods

"Just go slow ok?" he asks, you nod in agreement and slowly rub the sore spot on his thigh, you expected him to curse and maybe even grip onto something but, he reacted much differently. he grunted, but not the pain kind, the gratifying kind

"dont stop.. fuck" he muttered under his breath

"Feeling better already?" you ask sarcastically

"much...better" he replied breathily, you couldn't not notice but he was getting hard, you were inches away from his crotch afterall. he looked down when he noticed that you noticed his boner, he quickly put his hands over it and turned out of embarrassment

"s- sorry, i didn't mean to do that" he muttered

"its fine, not the first time that's happened" you reassured, he turned back when you said that though

"Wait really? who?" he asked, you didn't expect him to get possesive about that

"well, half the people that come through here" you reply, chris turned back around

"so.. you don't mind?" he asks

"not at all" you state, you realized you were still on your knees and changed your position

"can i ask you something then?" he questioned

"Sure, what is it?" you reply, you got seated in your chair and chris on the examining bed. a few seconds passed before he spoke again, he twiddled his fingers and took a breathe before asking

"am i.. am i the biggest?" he asked, the question caught you off guard you even choked on your drink

"I'm sorry, the biggest what?" you asked

"am i the biggest bulge you've seen?" he asked, you were thinking of how to professionally answer the question without losing your job

"Well, i can't accurately comment on your.. size, since it's only a bulge" you reply

"want to see it accurately then?" he asked with a smirk, unfortunately while on the clock you have to decline.

"i.. How about we finish helping your thigh, we can continue this conversation another time" you state firmly, Chris sighs in disappointment and stands back up. you go back to rubbing the cold solution on his thigh and him grunting at the feeling, this time you notice a wet spot growing at the height of the bulge and chris was shuddering slightly, you stopped rubbing on the solution and just looked up at chris, his eyes were wide shut like he was concentrating.

"Chris?" you called, you were thinking off a few reasons why he was shuddering and none of them were good.

"Hey.. why'd you stop?" he asked when he opened his eyes to see yours peering back his bulge jumped.

"Chris i can't continue the procedure like this- your sentence was cut off by him pleading

"no no, please don't stop, please" he begged

"i.. okay" you didn't have much to say, so you do as Chris asked and keep rubbing his thigh.

Chris's groaning got harsh and the wet spot only got worse, there was a rule that you were allowed to "take care" of a patient if their erection was in their way, so you did just that.

Chris threw his head back immediately when he felt your cold hands wrap around his thickness

"Fuck.. fu- ng FUCK" he groaned as he painted your face, you didnt expect him to shoot that hard from just rubbing his thigh.

"Sorry I didn't mean to… Cum on you like that" he apologized, you couldn't really respond with how his fluids were all over your face but you waved it off. You did open your mouth to speak but some of the fluids dropping into your mouth stopped from speaking

Chris took notice and smirked. He was getting softer but he was still dripping, you found yourself licking at every drop that would slip down to your lips and you couldn't stop

“Taste good?” chris asked with a smirk, you reluctantly nodded

“Open wide, you get the last drop” he stated, you opened up your mouth and Chris squeezed the last drop of cum out of his cock and it dripped onto your tongue. After you swallowed Chris smirked again

“We should do this more often” he offered

[hotluncheddie]

Okay so I can’t get over the idea of Eddie being very possessive over chubby Steve n just like… grabbin those love handles. All the time. 1) so everyone knows Steve is *his* and 2) bc eddie LOVES Steve’s loves handles n loves grabbing them and feeling that spot on him and 3) because Steve goes feral for it too, loves feeling like he’s Eddie’s and loves knowing that when Eddie grabs him there he’s feeling particularly possessive of him 😈 n Steve’s just like 🥵

ughhhhhh 👹

that’s sooo juicy bestie!!!!!

because maybe as steve softened and his sides started to bulk and spill over his waistbands a little more, it was just a small thing, a little touch here and there. and then they get a little more prominent and eddie’s touches get a little more prominent. eddie’s eyes going a little dark when he does, jaw clenching and unclenching. hands landing there when he steps up behind steve to kiss his neck in the kitchen, or look at him through the mirror while steve’s getting ready (checking that the shirt he’s pulled still fits, eddie crowding in close, lingering if the shirt doesn’t quite anymore).

eddies arm dropping there when steve sits next to him on the couch, they don’t go so much to his hair or his shoulders anymore, no now it’s that lovely squish at his waist and hip. it’s the same when steve straddles eddie’s thighs, if he sits in his lap.

maybe the damn breaks one day when eddie’s really gripping them, using them as handles while steve is on his hands and knees, soft and open and dripping on the bed. eddie squeezing this place he loves most ‘fuck, fuck’ he’s panting, they’re both a little delirious ‘so fucking hot stevie, these, right here’ and he grips so hard steve thinks it might bruise. steve really hopes there’s bruises.

maybe steve takes a little to accept how much eddie likes it, maybe the growth isn’t too comfortable to begin with. those lightning shapes splashes of pink make these ghosts come out, past ideas of how he needs to be and how he has to look. but eddie listens and spends a night sucking hickies all over them, worshiping them, repeating how he feels about steve, how he needs him, wants him, always.

and like it’s become a thing, maybe full on pavlovian response. brain going a little fuzzy and gut stirring with heat bc steve knows that when eddie touches him there, he’s thinking about him, thinking about them together, thinking ‘mine’.

and like it reminds me of ur micro fic like if they go out, they’re in a queer space, u know eddie is all over steve. but he just always gravitates there. knowing now that steve gets it, what he really means by it. maybe in the club it feels a little like foreplay, like it’s a new, special time and space with the freedom to be in love. they’re obsessed with each other and eddie’s obsessed with steve’s body and everyone can tell and steve’s obsessed with that feeling of being so so desired, especially because he knows deep down it’s like body, mind and soul.

maybe steve’s at the bar and some guy comes over, starts chatting him up. steve goes along a little, answering this guys questions because it’s kinda fun. but the real fun is when eddie comes back from the bathroom, instantly in steve’s space. ‘who’s your new friend?’ and eddie’s smile is a little pointy, eyes a little sharp. he steps up close to steve’s back, caging him in. eyes on the guy but hands on steve. ringed fingers sliding up under his shirt, both hands splaying wide over the bare skin and holding those two handfuls so firmly steve feels his pupils blow, knows he’s gone pink. doesn’t really care that his speech slurs a little ‘ah this is uh.. sorry, what was it?’ because one of eddie’s hands had slipped around to hold his belly too, eddie mouth is hot and so close to his neck and ear. steve watched the guy walk away, with a huffy little eye roll that just adds to steve’s fun. but also so so grateful that the guys gone because he’s fucking hard and he just wants eddie. wants eddie to keep going, keep taking, keep touching. eddie squeezes, nosing behind his ear, steve whines. eddie’s lips brush up agains the shell, breath hot and heavy, steve’s eyes flutter shut. ‘mine’ eddie near growls, squeezing again and grinding agains steve’s ass. steve moans.

[sweetrottenendings]

"The Truth of Us"

Lawrence Oleander x GN AFAB!Reader NSF/W

TWs/Tags: Dead Dove, Blood, Wound opening(/fingering kinda), pretty tame ngl but it's Lawrence so be warned lol

Idk how I feel but I'm still gettin used to it lols writing smut is confusing

Lawrence has always been obsessed with your body- it's been clear since he took you and proceeded to fondle your spine, groping each vertebrae. He’s smitten with your heart especially, the way it pumps blood throughout you, the sounds it makes when he listens close enough. Those hands of his often press against where it would be on your chest, rambling about how desperately he wants to grab it- feel the wet organ squirm as he tears it out. You used to think he actually would, he honestly might have at the beginning- but he’s come to love you too much. The connection you two share is one he will never find again in life or death, there’s no way he can let that go just yet.

He lets out a shaky breath, tracing the pattern of a heart (the actual organ, not the cutesy shape we associate with it) with trembling fingers. “It would be so delicate.” He whispers. “I wish I could just reach into you and squeeze.” Although quiet, he no longer stutters when he speaks to you- coming to feel some confidence, considering the power he holds over you. Warmth floods your gut as he fawns, a sick lust bubbling in your soul. He’s really made you into a sick freak, hasn’t he? Anything to make life with him better, you suppose.

You let out a sigh as his hands reach to grip at your waist, rubbing the flesh between his fingers and pressing hard enough to bruise. His cheeks are a gentle shade of pink when he leans in to kiss you with chapped lips and you allow yourself to soften into it. He’s never really become good at kissing, his motions are always uncoordinated and sloppy with the occasional clashing of teeth- but that’s how you like it. The truths of his love fumble out with those kisses in which he can never bring himself to hide them, he’s so smitten that he can only meld his lips into yours like that of a schoolboy with his first partner. 

A hand reaches back up to that spot on your chest, he digs his nails into it and rubs at the marks.

“Would your heart taste sweet?” He muses, slightly breathless. “I can just imagine it- fuck I need it so bad-” A sweet whimper spills from him, his eyebrows furrowing as he imagines the taste of the wet, squishy organ on his tongue. You shiver at his words, imagining it yourself too. Although logically it isn’t possible- the idea of watching him take large bites out of your heart makes the budding arousal throb harder. The closest thing you can get right now is the awkward meshing of your tongues, you swirl them together causing drool to pool down your chins. Sticky, messy- everything Lawrence isn't but sometimes, he'll indulge with you. He just adores you so dearly in his fucked up little brain.

He pins your hands above your head (the hands you proved yourself worthy of keeping, thankfully) in a swift movement. With deeply blushed cheeks and lidded eyes he pants, chest heaving with each intake of breath. He's oh so beautiful, in all of who he is and it makes you so needy. Your legs are nudged apart with his knees so they lay gently around his waist. The aching length of his cock grinds into your core through each other's clothes and he whimpers at the contact, while you let out a breathy sigh.

“Mmph- I wish I could tear you open” He lets out a shaky sigh. “and just, lick every organ you've got.” The gory, lewd image causes his grip on you to tighten. You desperately lift your head up for another kiss, always so desperate to feel his lips on yours. He only indulges you with a peck before lifting the shirt you wear– the only clothing you really have besides underwear. Lawrence likes the vulnerability of it, but gets too flustered if you're completely nude, so it's a compromise.

As he lets go of your wrists you reach out to him, wanting him to follow suit in terms of nudity. He hesitates, he always does, still insecure in his body despite how much you love it.

“Please Law…” You whine, as sweetly as you can. “wanna see you, please?” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh, like you're a child asking for a second sweet, and lifts his shirt over his head. His skin has that slightly grey tinge, like it's had the life sapped from it (which technically it has.) and you stare at him in awe. You'll never get tired of seeing him- just as he'll never get tired of seeing you.

A hand goes to your left breast, grabbing what he can of the soft flesh and kneading it causing you to moan softly. He used to hate when you made any sound, frightened by having a partner that's responsive, but over time he's come to enjoy it. However you can't be too loud, it still irritates him- keep the volume just right and he'll be throbbing within you. “So soft…” He coos, gazing gently at you. “always so soft, squishy, fragile.” He giggles, leaning his face to yours, you feel his breath fan your lips.

“My fragile little flower, you wilt so easily don't you?” He asks with a hum, but he doesn't want an answer. He pinches the already hardened bud that is your nipple between his fingers roughly. It makes you squirm in pain, which makes him shiver in delight. The hand not in use slowly travels down your body, groping any flesh he can get his hands on. Your stomach, waist, hips- he grabs every part of you excitedly before sliding down to your panties where he feels the soaked patch you left. He groans, “Always so wet and needy.” A finger slowly begins to rub where your clit would be in little circles, and he relishes the small moans you let out. 

“You really are a flower, huh? So pretty, fragile and desperate for attention at every given moment~” He sighs wistfully, “And so dumb, no brains at all.” Although you feel ashamed, the mockery makes you throb with need. There's something about being so pathetic that you're compared to a plant that you enjoy- maybe it's the idea of needing to rely on him, forever. 

Both of his hands move to the waistband of your underwear, slowly peeling them down so he can see the way your slick leaves a little string between you and the fabric. His nails scratch you as he removes them, leaving little marks along his path. You try to cover your face out of embarrassment but a hand to your throat stops the motion.

“Don't you dare.” His voice comes out in a growl, filled with rage at the mere prospect of hiding from him. “Keep your eyes on me.” 

Without warning he's suddenly knuckles deep with two fingers in your pussy and you let out a gasp. He fingers you aggressively, nails occasionally scraping on the sensitive flesh of your inner walls. It hurts, it hurts so good. It makes you writhe and arch your back, squealing at the sensation when he curls his fingers to hit that spongy spot inside of you. 

“Law-” You gasp, words coming out between harsh breaths. “Need to- can I- please-”

He scowls, covering your mouth and quickening the pace of his fingers. “Be quiet.” 

He removes the hand and takes advantage of the space your arched back has made. He reaches around to it- the wound that encapsulates everything the two of you are. He prods at the wound on your spine, and digs his fingers into it until it splits- you scream. It hurts so fucking bad- and it makes you cum all over his fingers. The pain, the pleasure- Lawrence. It's just too much, and makes you a convulsing, trembling mess.

“You can never keep quiet can you?” He taunts, voice filled with rage which you can't tell if it's genuine or fake. “Always so loud, maybe I should cut your tongue and shut you up.” Your heart pumps with fear, but you know he'd never do it. Not now, when he's developed an affection for your voice that he didn't have before.

He withdraws his fingers from your cunt, covered with your cum and a few droplets of blood. The fingers go into his mouth and he swirls his tongue around them, savouring the taste in silence before hitching your legs onto his shoulders. The tip of his aching, leaking cock drags along your slit, coating it in the remnants of your orgasm. He moans at the sensation, prodding your clit with his tip and bucking into it slightly. You whine at the teasing, and he grips your jaw harshly. 

“Quiet.” You finally listen to him, managing to gather yourself enough to lower your sounds into near whispers. He visibly relaxes at this, smiling at your obedience. “Good, my sweet flower.”

His cock is sheathed into you with one fluid motion, pressed so deeply it nearly kisses your cervix.

“Warm- you’re always so warm-” He drawls, little bits of drool dripping from his lips. The warmth of your body has always made him break, it’s the only warm body he’s ever fucked- ever will fuck. You bite your lower lip to prevent from yelping, drawing blood which Lawrence lowers his tongue to so he can lick it up. He moans at how your blood tastes, and reaches back around to your open spinal wound to get more. You hadn't noticed due to all the sensations but there was a lot of blood- you’d be okay, but it wouldn't seem like it at a first glance. He dips his fingers into it, prodding as close to the vertebrae as he can. Your eyes water and you have to force yourself not to scream. Then bringing his fingers back to his lips. He laps at your blood like it's the sweetest treat he could ever find (It probably is.) and he lets out a languid moan as he practically fingers his own mouth.

“Fuck, I could just-” A shuddering breath, and muffled speaking. “I could just drink you dry.” He finally begins to thrust, fingers still deep in his mouth. It’s immediately fast, hard, aggressive- every strong emotion Lawrence can muster comes out when he fucks you. The confidence he’s found over time has made him a violent man to fuck, just like his violence in day to day life. Tears stream freely down your cheeks as you desperately try to keep your moans quiet, cute whines slipping out that he smiles at. You’re overstimulated, your senses are flooded and there's no escape because all there is is Lawrence. 

His dingy bed creaks with every thrust, the squeaks of the springs ringing in your ears in a way that makes you squirm. It’s an awful sound, but you'll put up with it if it means you get to see him like this. Lost in pleasure, lost in you and lapping your blood like it's a drug. Quickly another knot builds and you curl your toes in a desperate attempt to not fall apart just yet. The way you tighten around his cock makes him whine and fuck you faster, his hips stuttering as he comes closer to the edge. You want to cum with him, so you'll hold back as long as you can.

“Fuck- haah- ‘m close,” He groans, blue eyes staring deeply into your own eyes. “G-gonna cum, you’re gonna t-take it all yeah?” He begins to stutter as he gets closer, voice betraying the confidence he portrays. You nod desperately, “Yes! Please Lawrence- fuck!-” A squeal erupts from your throat as you cum, unable to hold back any longer. Although loud, he doesn't seem to mind it this time as the feeling of your orgasm sends him into his own. His body presses close against yours as he spills into you, pumping every drop of his seed as deep as he can. “T-that’s it- take it all-” Hot breath fans your face as he speaks, his eyes locked deep into yours. Blue is all you see, sinking you deep into his soul. (If he still has one.)

You both slowly relax after the post-orgasmic bliss settles. His body falls to lay on top of you, arms wrapped around you as he traces his fingers up to play with your spine once more. It’s not sexual now, instead it's like comfort to him. Feeling your flesh, your bones, the delicate curve of your spine. It hurts, but you instead focus on the comfort that is snuggling into his sweaty chest. He’ll fix you up later, give you some tea to make you relax. 

Maybe this is what you were made for.

[tortoisebore]

please please can we get a post of remus calling sirius baby for the first time bc im obsessed and want to know every detail about sirius’ outfit and how it went down

YES YES YES 👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹

Remus was too drunk for this. Well—maybe drunk was the wrong word. His blood alcohol level was probably still somewhere in the realm of tipsy, but his brain was sluggish. Slow-moving. A disastrous combination of desire and want and pure, unadulterated filth. His limbs felt heavy and too-long as he stood slouched against the wall, gripping an empty glass hard enough to be absently worried it would shatter in his hand. Watching.  Lily had described the place as a bar but it felt more like a club, all low, colorful lights and blaring music, an open space in the middle of the room and tall tables lining the walls. It was loud, Remus was just on the drunk side of tipsy, and Sirius was a fucking dream. 

All things considered, Remus had done a really great job of being normal up until an hour or so ago. He hadn’t lost his shit when Sirius appeared at his door in a giant gray coat with his hair up, tied messily off his neck, fully flaunting the faint bruise Remus had left below his ear two days before. That damn glitter was on his eyes again, catching the light and working in tandem with the faint smudgy black lining his lashes to make his eyes look less gray and more glowing, molten silver. Remus had nearly fallen to his knees, had nearly said 'fuck it' and yanked Sirius inside instead of following through with the going out plan, but he’d been very regular about it—just choked out a simple little ‘you look nice,’ swallowing hard when Sirius smiled sweetly and took his hand as they traipsed down the stairs and out of the building. 

Then they’d arrived at the bar, and Sirius had slipped his coat off, and Remus’ poor, piece of shit brain had immediately broken. 

So now here he was, fighting for his life standing around a table in the corner, unable to wrench his eyes away from the three-inch strip of bare skin on Sirius’ stomach while he waited for drinks at the bar. He was wearing a short, black tee shirt with an open back over some see-through, lacy thing that hugged his waist, showing off the tail end of the dagger tattoo on his stomach and the beginnings of the vines on his hips before they disappeared beneath straight-legged black pants that fit so perfectly Remus could have cried. He was leaned up against the bar artfully, tapping the toe of his platform boot against the floor, chatting idly with Marlene while they waited for the bartender. 

Remus thought he might be drooling.

Sirius had been flitting between the bar and the dance floor and their table in the corner all night, leaving Remus with a never-ending supply of drinks and all these evil, lingering touches, whispers near his ear disguised as kisses on his cheek that twisted his gut and made his fingers itch to touch and grab and hold. This thing between them was still new, only a couple weeks old, and Remus was really really trying to reign himself in, but god, he wanted to touch. Wanted to bite and lick and taste, felt drunk on desire more than liquor by the time Sirius came back with two more neon-colored drinks in sweaty glasses. 

“Yours,” he chirped over the music, finally, finally sliding in close and depositing Remus’ drink on the sticky tabletop. Remus eyed him as he sipped at his straw, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. It was blatantly obvious that Sirius knew exactly what he was doing, and that it was working. Remus glanced around, watched Marlene saunter off to join Dorcas across the room, and slipped a hand around Sirius’ waist, backing himself into the wall and pulling Sirius with him.

“You look…” he started, shamelessly trailing his eyes down and then back up Sirius’ frame, shaking his head with a sigh when every word he could think of fell short of the actual ethereal being currently pressed up against him. 

“I look what?” Sirius prodded, sliding his drink onto the table without looking, snaking his arms up Remus’ chest and around his shoulders, a smug, sly sort of smile tugging at his stained, cherry-red lips. 

Remus was too fucking drunk for this.

He managed to get a hand to Sirius’ jaw, tipping his head back just enough to brush their lips together, reveling in the hitched breath it pulled from his throat. 

“You look fucking perfect,” he muttered, letting Sirius lean in only to pull back. Remus’ vision was swirling, heart thundering in his chest when Sirius gave a quiet little whine of complaint, dragging blunt nails across the back of his neck. Remus gave in, let him press a too-short, too-soft kiss to his lips before tilting Sirius’ head to the side, mouthing down his jaw to get at that faint little bruise beneath his ear and nipping at it softly, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of his skin, speaking before he could think. “You’re killing me over here, baby.”

Fuck—his stomach dropped instantly. He’d never said that before, never used any kind of pet name for Sirius at all, and it felt foreign in his mouth, foreign to his ears, settled badly in his stomach when Sirius let out a sharp exhale and reeled back. Remus was prepared to pretend it had never happened, maybe blame it on those neon colored drinks that kept appearing in his hands—but the words died on his tongue. 

Sirius’ eyes were wide, flicking back and forth fast between his own, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. Remus waited, watched Sirius look down at his lips and then back up, and barely heard him breathe, “Say it again,” over the music.

He hesitated, studied Sirius’ face carefully to make sure he wasn’t reading it all wrong, and teased, “You’re killing me over here?”

Sirius shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The other thing.”

“What?” Remus asked, dragging a thumb down his jaw, the desire to sink through the floor disappearing into thin air as he watched Sirius’ pupils dilate, felt his fingers trip up to tug at his hair. “Baby?”

Sirius nodded, pulling him in close and speaking low. “Yeah,” he smiled, “that one.”

Remus kissed him, had to, pulled him in with two hands on the side of his neck and bit at his lower lip, tasted artificial cherry and vodka and felt his stomach drop when Sirius gave a sweet little whine, pulling back just enough to speak.

“Again,” he whispered, melting further into Remus’ chest, looking up at him with that smug little grin that made his heart stutter. 

“Baby,” Remus repeated, kissing him again, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, brain working overdrive, whirring loud in his ears. “My perfect, pretty baby.”

Sirius let loose a string of colorful curses that made Remus laugh before he was pulled in again. Sirius was seemingly entirely finished with teasing—kissed him hard and bit at his lip and slid his hands heavily back down his chest. He pulled away after several long moments, a deep flush staining his cheeks, and gave Remus a look.

“Don’t drink anymore,” he ordered, a secret sort of smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Remus’ skin tingled, heat racing down his spine.

“No?” he smirked, instantly grabbing for Sirius’ hand to keep him close when he stepped back. 

“No.” He reached across the table and grabbed an abandoned water on the other side—James’, most likely—sipping at it instead of the bright red drink he’d just brought over. "We should go to yours after this."

Remus was very, very on board with that.

The Outfit™️

[laura1633]

not a prompt but can you do a short post of charles having a good girl kink

Hi anon, thanks for the message 💕

I'm not quite sure what it was you wanted but I've written a short little drabble below the cut which might fit 🥰

The first time Max says the words Charles feels all fuzzy and soft inside, like someone has finally found the secret to making him pliant. The flush of red on his cheeks extends all the way to the tips of his ears and the moan that was hovering in the back of his throat melts into a string of little keening sounds.

“You really are.” Max rasps again, the Dutchman’s breath fanning right across Charles’ ear as he keeps fucking into him, “You are such a good girl for me, such a good girl.” 

And Charles - 

Well, Charles doesn’t even know where the words have come from. It’s not something Max has called him before but it makes his whole body vibrate, right from his core all the way to his fingers and toes. A nice pleasant glow that doesn’t go away for the rest of the night. 

When the Monegasque wakes up the next morning he knows with absolute certainty that he needs to chase that high again. He needs to hear Max call him his good girl over and over until he  is breathless and lightheaded. Except it’s not something they had talked about beforehand and Max doesn’t seem keen on offering up the praise again easily.

The Monegasque is nothing if not determined though. He tries being extra submissive, tries getting down on his knees and practically worshipping Max’s cock. He even tries making himself available 24/7. Max praises him lots of course but he doesn’t use the praising words Charles is chasing. The Dutchman tells him how amazing he is, how hot he is, how perfect he is but the words ‘good girl’ seem to have dropped out of the Dutchman’s vocabulary all together. 

So Charles goes a little further. Makes himself as pretty as possible. Tries to be a good girl, a really good girl. Slips into some lace panties and hopes to god that it doesn’t put Max off. 

It doesn’t - 

“Oh fuck Charles” Max is practically salivating as he peels off Charles’ jeans and comes face to face with Charles’ hard cock straining against red little panties. 

“You like?” Charles moans softly as Max dives in licks over the outline of his cock. 

“You look so pretty” Max is practically growling as if the sight of Charles all packaged up nicely has turned him a little feral. The Dutchman’s hands grip into Charles’ legs as he prises them apart and lays a trail of bruising kisses right up each thigh. Charles waits, his heart almost hammering a hole in his chest as he listens for those special words. 

And then they come -

and it’s like fireworks and celebration and music. The most beautiful sound Charles has ever heard. Max’s voice thick and rich and raspy, “Such a good girl for me.” 

Charles comes completely untouched, his whole body flushed as red as his panties as he lets out a desperate little whining sound. 

It doesn’t take much persuading after that. The words ‘pretty’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘good girl’ fall off Max’s tongue with ease and each time Charles whimpers and moans and comes with the same intensity, his whole body burning up under the praise.  

As the Monegasque lowers himself down on to his boyfriend’s cock he bats his eyelashes and chews lightly at his lip and waits…

… and Max doesn’t fail to deliver, “Such a good girl making me feel good. My good girl. So pretty” 

It’s like a song Charles wants on repeat for the rest of his life. 

[gilverrwrites]

Sometimes I wonder if Roman ever takes it easy on someone who sees something they shouldn’t (canonically the chances are low, but if we dream a little)

Like if you stumble across a “business meeting” that went particularly poorly, but you have that sweet little deer in the headlights esq innocence that Roman loves to ruin…well, it’s nothing a little bouncing on his cock won’t help you forget. Better let him do it in both holes just to be safe. Best to let him wash your mouth out too. It’s so much easier than the other option, so let him play with you until you’re too dumb to remember anything you saw…or anything but Roman, if you’re really lucky…and all will be forgiven.

Damn was this a head rush to read. Fuck me, literally. Good job bb, this was a delight to read. Warnings: Just like, everything. It's Roman, you know? Intimidation, dub-con, swearing, non-graphic mention of guns, unlubricated anal, denial, overstim, like this is way to many warnings for less then 500 words of yapping.

Like, he just takes one look at you, frozen in fear, watching his every move with those big wet eyes and immediately brushes off his men.

“Don’t worry boys, we got nothing to worry about from this one.” You cower as he struts closer to you, chest to chest, his fist in your dress as he meets your gaze with his own hot-blooded stare. “Why? Cause she gonna keep her mouth shut, and be my good girl, ain’t-chu, doll?”

Roman excels at a very specific brand of cruelty and intimidation that is easily disguised as compassion, it's enough to give a girl whiplash.

Example: when you’re on your knees, eyes darting around the room, scouring for an exit route, he'll take off his jacket and drop it to the floor for you to kneel on. Posing it like he’s concerned for your poor knees getting bruised and sore on the hard ground. Nothing to do with ensuring you get a good look at the duel pistols holstered to his sides.

Or when he starts stuffing his cock in your tight ass with no warning, no prep, and no lubrication bar your own wetness. He keeps you in place with a death grip in the roots of your hair, to distract from the pain of having your hole mercilessly dry fucked, of course. When he finally bottoms out you all but screech from the pain, but he rubs sweet circles into your back with his gloved fingers.

“Shit, you’re tight, baby.” He grunts like it’s a compliment. Obviously you are. “It’s like you were made for takin’ this dick.”

When you look back at him with tears in your eyes, you can feel how the sight makes his dick throb between your burning walls.

“Fuckkkk. You’re real beautiful, you know that?” He drags you closer, bending your body, forcing you to arch your back until your face is close enough for him to soak any tears that streak your face with his tongue. “You keep that up baby, I might just have to keep you.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

[Incomprehensible whining]

“Yeah? I’ll treat you real good, just let me use this sweet fuckin’ ass whenever I want. Yeah, you’d love it.”

As if you're in any position to say no to him.

What I can’t decide on is whether he would fuck multiple orgasms out of you, until you’re too drunk on his abuse to recall anything other than how good his cock feels buried deep in each of your holes.

Or if he’d keep you denied, punishing you any time you try to chase your own pleasure until you dare not even ask. Citing your self-denial as wilful proof that you’re loyal to him.

He’d probably still kill you after. Or make you an offer you can’t refuse *wink wink*

[izvmimi]

You feel fifteen again while sitting with your legs tucked beneath you, looking over one of Izuku’s injuries. Years have passed, scrapes and bruises and cuts and even a severed arm have all been healed yet so much of your love for him is wrapped up in the simple act of ensuring his safety and wellbeing. 

Your body is angled, leaning across the floor to inspect the love of your life's banged up knee just like you used to in a school skirt or sleep shorts or however. Wherever. Any time he needed. Granted, his injuries back then were far worse than this one is but the nostalgia remains all the same.

It’s a wonder how you managed to deny your feelings for him back then but that’s not the nostalgia you’re interested in wading through at the moment so you ignore it, focusing on the task at hand. The toughened skin is in good shape considering the distance he fell from while still working on regaining control of his reawakened Float quirk, old scars creating a sort of armor and leaving behind only a bit of road rash that likely won’t even add a new one to the collection.

Humming softly, you lean in closer and squint to make sure you aren’t missing any embedded objects. The wound is clean as a whistle which is yet another thing to be grateful about. You shake the bottle of disinfectant spray 

“You’ve been helping me out for a long time.” He lets out an exaggerated hiss that disrupts his speech, the squeaky spray of the bottle when you press the trigger handle down matching it in tone. “I might be starting to think you like me or something.”

A giggle bubbles from you, the diamond in your ring glinting beneath the overhead light when you adjust your grip around the bottle and place it aside. The bandage in your lap sits idle, waiting for your next move.

“I mean, I’d have to say I more than just like you, Izuku. We are legally married.”

The disinfectant air dries, the shiny spray growing translucent with each passing second, indicating it’s time to cover the little scrape. You fold back the paper wings, pulling them off of the adhesive, carefully using your thumb to press down the edges as you place it over the increasingly less red wound.

“Yeah but sometimes it feels too good to be true,” he admits quietly, green eyes glued to your every last move. Your fingers smooth any wrinkles out of the bandage now that it has been fully affixed and you meet his gaze, half smiling.

“Why do you say that?”

A shrug is his immediate response, as if he’s buying time to figure out what he really wants to say which is a bit unusual. Furrowing your brows, you sit up and walk on your knees to join his side, wrapping an arm around his sizable bicep. The touch comforts him and his shoulders slump, head falling to the side to rest on top of yours.

“Just…all of this. I know it has been a lot for you and I worry it’ll be too much eventually.”

Reaching across his chest, broader than teenage you could have ever imagined it being thanks to his meticulous workout routine, you cup his face and pull it downward so that you can look in his eyes.

“You’ve never been too much for me. Ever.” He nods once, a sweet, serene smile to mirror your own chasing the frown from his face. “Oddly, I’m kind of grateful to be the one who gets to do this forever.”

Laughing, he leans in to kiss you. The two of you are happy, so blissfully happy, it’s hard to believe the hard times you’ve ever been through occurred to begin with. He’s always been more than just Deku to you - he has been the love of your life for as long as you can remember and if that means patching up a few of his scrapes here and there, it isn’t the worst trade-off.

With how contentedly he sighs, you tend to believe he may agree with how you feel.

“You aren’t the only one, Mrs. Midoriya,” he confirms your gut feeling and scoops you into his arms the best that he can at the awkward angle of your bodies. Your husband rocks you back and forth, a rhythm that matches the one you were just humming. 

In sync, perfectly, as always. 

why are you like this