#sin: plot drop

[alxastrx]

When you're one of the most selfish mc who only saves people because it's part of a job you never wanted and did not get to chose or you would've died, who took your co-workers' morals and ideals because you didn't have any and desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, be it with the heroes or the villains, who's activelly haunted by one the most tragic past to have been created and suffer from a psychosis so bad (dare I say schizophrenia) that even your enemies acknowledged that you are mentally ill and objectively flawed in your judgement, never hesitated to try to kill anyone and has the most egoistic reason to be a good person but the fandom still thinks you're just a kind crybaby "I don't know what a gun is" homosexual twink.

[circulact]

PLOT DROP 09 ; OH, DÍA TERRIBLE Y MAGNÍFICO, CUÁNDO EL SILENCIO DE LAS TUMBAS SERÁ ROTO.

El tiempo lo cura todo y el servicio fúnebre de Maude Caddel no es la excepción. La tensión termina disipándose, la presencia de Amelia Melbourne, aunque fastidiosa, hasta comienza a sentirse tolerable. El final de la velada se acerca cada vez más y finalmente reconoces luz al final del túnel, hay sensación general de suficiencia porque una vez más has superado una prueba más del Círculo. Clemente reconoce que la conclusión es inminente y se apresura por llamar la atención de sus invitados, se posiciona al medio de la sala de estar y el silencio se apodera de la atmósfera, absolutamente todos ceden su atención al dueño de casa. “ Me gustaría agradecerles a cada uno de ustedes por estar aquí. Sé que Maude lo habría apreciado. ” Es imposible no conmoverse al presenciarlo, el cariño y melancolía es palpable en cada vocablo que abandona sus labios. “ Antes de que se vayan, y si me lo permiten… Me gustaría compartir una pequeña anécdota con ustedes. ” Un murmullo recorre la audiencia, todos aceptan la petición con facilidad, es lo menos que podrían hacer después de todo. Los ojos de Clemente viajan al cielo, quienes se encuentran más cerca luego afirmarán haberlo escuchado referirse a su mujer difunta: Mon Bijou, esto es para ti. 

Lo siguiente que se escucha es un estruendo sonoro que repercute por toda la casa, apenas existe tiempo para sobresaltarse antes de que la sala de estar se sumerja en completo caos. Los gritos provienen de todas partes, se entrelazan entre sí creando una discordancia que logra desorientar, las personas se empujan unas a otras intentando crear más espacio para los recién llegados: El departamento de policía de Dover se adentra al lugar por la fuerza, siendo escoltados por dos rostros que no serás capaz de olvidar nunca: La detective Varela y el detective Jeperson. Absolutamente nadie entiende lo que está pasando, las voces de Clemente y la familia de Maude exigen explicaciones a Jeperson, otras personas intentan huir por ventanas, el pánico se posiciona sobre cualquier tipo de racionalidad. Sin embargo, una vez que logras enfocar tu atención, te percatas que el objetivo nunca fuiste tú ni tus compañeros. Frente tuyo, los policías esposan a la mismísima Amelia Melbourne bajo la mirada severa de Amaranta Varela. Estás bajo arresto por el asesinato de Otis Melbourne, uno de los policías anuncia fuerte y claro, y no eres capaz de ver tu propia sorpresa reflejada en las facciones de Amelia cuando están escondidas por cortina de cabello, no hay indicaciones de que entienda alguna palabra mientras los policías le recitan sus derechos, tú también has dejado de escuchar después de lo primero. Los policías comienzan a arrastrarla a la salida, no existe delicadeza o suavidad en movimientos, al punto en que te sentirías mal por ella si pudieras sentir algo más que conmoción. En el último segundo antes de que Amelia desaparezca de tu vista, la observas levantar la mirada y puedes jurar que esboza una sonrisa que logra helarte la sangre. 

INFORMACIÓN OOC.

Los pnjs de todos los apartados se encuentran en esta actividad, así cómo miembros del círculo de otras generaciones.

No es necesario incluir el plot drop en todos los threads, sin embargo les animamos a emplear algunos datos conforme vean qué esto es pertinente.

[sskk-manifesto]

What a good episode. Maaaaaan

[idkwhatimdoingbutslay]

dear, hello salutations, love, sincerely, from, goodbye chapter 14 will be postponed to come out tomorrow (sorry gang), but my peace offering is a sneakpeak/spoiler/unedited cat fight between someone and someone else :))

[buriedinbetrayal]

[malevna]

es consciente de que hay demasiado sin decir, que palabras no se saben enunciar en complejidad de dinámica en la que se encuentran y es por ello que en esos momentos se conforma con delicadeza de abrazo, con aferrarse a hombros ajenos mientras recarga la barbilla contra el hombro derecho y simplemente siente presencia que no había existido en aquellos días en los que incertidumbre se había sembrado en la inevitabilidad de palabras complicadas dedicadas por matriarca que a veces sentía no podría conocerles de nada, no realmente. ' no quería pensar, en nada. ' confesión se desliza con demasiada facilidad y es consciente de ello sin embargo no le da importancia, de hebras la caricia se traslada con suavidad a mejilla ajena, reposa allí por un par de segundos en el momento que suspira bajito, cabeza ligera a causa de ambrosía. ' está bien, está bien. ' asiente suavemente con la cabeza, entrelaza dedos con los ajenos mientras se mantiene cerca. ' pero dime dónde estabas, por favor. ' porque hay mil interrogantes y no sabe bien, tampoco si quiere todas las respuestas, aunque de todas maneras se anima a iniciar.

¿dónde estaba? la pregunta se repite como un eco en su mente, sintiéndose ahora aún más culpable por alejarse, por dejar que los vocablos de melodía días atrás tuvieran en él un impacto mayor. está a punto de responder, pero las palabras se quedan estancadas en su boca cuando siente que se acerca, el contacto en su cuello bastando para que busque uno propio también, manos que llegan a su cintura y le abrazan desde ahí. la echó de menos, esa es la realidad que evidencia en su accionar. suspira, la mira todavía preocupado por la respuesta que obtiene, su ceño suavemente fruncido. “dios, malena. eso es mucho.” y vaya que él lo sabe. las palabras que le siguen y las caricias en sus hebras logran que cierre los ojos unos segundos, que incline ligeramente la cabeza hacia ellas. al cabo de unos segundos, vuelve a abrirlos, regresando su atención a lo importante. “vamos, deja que te consiga un poco de agua. por favor.” la cercanía le es suficiente para hablar en un susurro. se echa un paso hacia atrás y le toma de la mano, dejando un suave apretón. “la necesitas.”

[gojorgeous]

"creature of myth."

pairing: vampire!gojo x fem!human!reader summary: when you receive an offer of marriage from a mysterious wealthy lord, it’s too good a deal for your family to turn down. but nothing could be so perfect... right? content: MDNI (18+  ONLY), dark content, nsfw, gets dubcon/noncon in some spots, yandere behavior from gojo, implied death/k*lling of a character (not reader or gojo), arranged marriage, victorian au, plot that ends with porn lmao, spooky dooky vibes, blood, blood sucking/eating, praise, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, virgin!reader, discussion of virginity, cherry popping, pain, pet names (princess/love), reader is highkey clueless about sex, discussion of masturbation, ideas of masturbation as “sinful”, very minor religious themes, fated “mates”, gojo is highkey insane, coercion and manipulation, like SO much neck kissing, ooc gojo??? (had to alter his character to match a victorian vampire lord LMAO). a/n: PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. THERE IS DARK CONTENT AHEAD. is this a gojo fic or a twilight fic?? Going back to my roots fr fr. straight down to the “SAY IT, SAY IT”. this fic is also way too long my apologies bbs. i hope you like a hefty side of plot with your porn. parts of this fic feel way too cheesy to me but sometimes i eat that up, yk?? this fic was inspired by this amazing work by @rice5x ! and, finally, thank you all for the support on my most recent fics. i'm just getting back into being active on this blog and it's been amazing reading each and every comment/reblog/ask. they genuinely fill me with so much joy. keep them coming hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. banner art by @ndsoda on twitter. wc: 11.6k (sowwy)

You remember perfectly the way your mother’s jaw dropped when Satoru Gojo proposed to you. You’d never seen the man, and you still hadn’t. He’d asked to marry you via messenger, a simple letter delivered by hand with a list of all the things he’d be willing to pay for your hand. Offers of money, land, protection, connection- anything so long as he got you. You’d thought it was a joke. Your father nearly took a shovel to the head of the poor messenger, thinking the letter was some kind of cruel prank, some sort of targeted disrespect. You’d only started to believe when you really looked- saw the Gojo crest embroidered on the man’s suit, the fine leather of his boots. If it was a prank, somebody had spent a great deal of money and effort to pull it off. 

You’d asked for proof nonetheless, and you’d gotten it. Documents signed and sealed with a well-known waxen crest, gifts that could only have been purchased by a wealthy lord. The one thing you never got was the lord himself. He refused to see you, to come down from his mysterious castle on the hill. It didn’t surprise you. He rarely deemed town worthy of his presence. He had a reputation as a recluse, as a man who only ever liked to see and never be seen. What little glimpses people got of him were usually through the dark window of his carriage. Still, his appearance preceded him. White hair, light eyes… “haunting” said those who had the luck to see him. Those who went to work for the lord tended to return… changed— if they returned at all. 

You accepted, of course. How could you not? You were a peasant family with no status or wealth to your name. The promises Lord Gojo had made would make your parents into aristocrats all on their own. But that left you wondering… why did he want you? You offered him no benefit. If anything, you sullied his bloodline. The question scratched at the back of your mind. It came to you while you ate breakfast, while you washed your clothes, while you weeded in the garden. Some part of you told you that you needed the answer before you ever stepped foot in that castle. You needed that answer, but you’d never get it. 

Your wedding wasn’t even a wedding- just a piece of paper that had already been signed and witnessed, once again delivered by a familiar messenger. You signed at your dining room table and… that was that. You were married. 

Later that night the carriages arrive. Men flood your home, all dressed in blue velvet, the Gojo crest embroidered on their chests. They seem puzzled when you tell them you’ve packed all your belongings into a measly three bags. 

You say a quick goodbye to your parents, drawing them into stiff embraces. You love them, and they love you, but you can’t bear to see their faces as they send you away to a man who couldn’t even show his face for your wedding. 

The carriage ride is somehow longer than you’d thought it would be- apparently, the castle’s size makes it seem deceptively close. The trip is rocky and twisty and altogether unpleasant as you steadily make your way toward the castle gates. By the time you reach them you think you’ve probably dozed in and out of consciousness at least half a dozen times. 

The castle is even more intimidating up close. Spires that swirl into the clouds, sculptures that stare, doors that look more suited to being locked than opened. It’s… terrifying. 

When you finally roll to a stop, you move for the door. When you swing it open you get your fair share of strange looks from your attendants and remember that you should have waited for the footman. Your face heats as you climb out anyway, unwilling to subject yourself to the further humiliation of waiting for assistance. 

Your feet hit gravel and all you can do is stare- up, up, up, to where the castle’s peaks disappear into the fog. When your eye flashes to a window on the east side of the manor you think you see a swaying curtain. You tuck your arms around yourself and shiver, but it’s not from the cold. 

You nearly stumble over your feet on your first step inside. The entrance hall is larger than your former house, with ceilings that stretch so high you can hardly make out the figures on the frescoes that adorn it. Silver and blue drape everywhere, the Gojo family colors. You swallow when you see a chair that is most definitely worth more than your family’s annual income. 

The floors are marble and when your worn heels clack against it, you only feel reminded that you don’t belong here. That question pricks in your mind again as you pass portraits of every Gojo heir to have lived in the last three hundred years. Why me? Why me? Why me? 

Your footman deposits you in your room, a place more lavish than you’ve ever seen. You have a four poster bed with a canopy of blue velvet, a window that overlooks a sprawling estate, and more square footage than you’ve ever dreamed of. 

“Pull this if you need any sort of assistance, ma’am.” 

You turn to see your footman referencing a silver cord at your bedside. You assume it’s one of those contraptions that rings a bell in the servants’ quarters. You try to hide your amazement- you’ve never seen one in real life before. 

You clear your throat and give your most ladylike nod. “Thank you, um-” you pause, your brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your name.” 

Your footman appears stunned to silence, like he’d never expected you to care about his existence, much less his name. He recovers quickly, though, and forces a small smile. “Thomas, ma’am.”

You smile and it’s genuine. “Thank you, Thomas.”He bows and makes a beeline for the door, but you have one more question. “Oh, um, Thomas-” He freezes, turning slowly on his heel to face you. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

You cringe at the title. The sound of it creeps across your skin, foreign and… wrong. Why me? Why me? Why me?

You clear your throat again. “Do you know, um, well-” You shift, trying to word your question properly. “Do you know when I might see the Lord?” 

There is a pause, a moment of tension and silence, and then an answer. “No, my lady.”

Thomas does not stick around for more questioning. The door clicks shut behind him and then you're left with only the sound of retreating footsteps. 

You’re stunned to say the least, mouth still halfway open, more questions on the tip of your tongue. Should you seek him out? Was that proper? Would he come to you? Would he meet you for dinner, perhaps? Surely he would come to your room tonight to… consummate. Would that be the first time you lay eyes on him? When he’s over you? 

You sigh. There’s nothing much to be done about it now. You find your way to the bed and sit down hesitantly. It feels like a crime to rumple such primped and polished cotton. You do it anyway- it’s going to happen sometime, right? You fall back against the mattress and don’t fail to notice how utterly comfortable it is. The silvery patterns on your canopy swirl and bend together. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night, anxious for the morning… and it’s only mid-afternoon now. You had time for a nap, right? Your eyes are closing before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea and then you’re swept away into a world of warm darkness. 

You wake with a start. Your first thought is that it’s dark now. Your room is pitch black except for the stream of moonlight passing through your stupidly large window. Your mouth feels dry and your skin is cold, like you’ve just woken from a nightmare. If you have, you don’t remember it. Perhaps that’s a blessing. 

You sit up, combing a finger through your hair and laughing pitifully when you realize that you left your shoes on as you slept. You hope Thomas didn’t walk in to find you in yet another unladylike position. A glance at the foot of the bed reveals he might have. Your bags have arrived- all three of them. You eye them with a combination of longing and contempt. They don't match this place. They’re worn and used- everything here is shiny and new. Still, they’re all you have, and all you have left of your life before. All you have left of home. 

You stretch your arms above your head, nearly groaning at the burn in your muscles. The carriage ride did your body no favors and you suspect you’ll be sore for many days to come. 

You rise, no longer content to lie in bed. You’ve had your rest and, from the state of darkness outside, you suspect your new husband might be joining you soon. The thought twists a certain tightness into your gut, but you push it aside. If that was the price you paid for all he gave your family… then you’d pay it gladly. 

You start with candles, finding a box of matches at your bedside. You light every candelabra you can find. The room, the castle, seems so perpetually… black- like it soaks up every ray of light it touches. Even when you’ve finished it doesn’t feel like enough. You make a note to ask Thomas for more in the morning. 

You find a meal, carefully prepared and preserved, on a table near your dresser. Judging by the fact that it’s still warm, you conclude that it can’t be much past mid-evening. You originally intend to pick at the food as you unpack, but one bite has your mouth watering. It is the most delicious thing to ever touch your lips, complete with dessert waiting on the side. You clean your plate before moving onto your bags. 

You lay your clothes out on the bed. A few dresses, riding pants, undergarments, an assortment of ribbons and bows. At one time these items had been the finest things you owned- now you owned a castle. 

You find an armoire that looks like a master sculptor carved its edges and grab a dress, intending to hang it. Instead, your dress hits the floor when you part the doors to find the hangers already full. Your lips part. Luxury dresses of silk and satin line the rack, fading into some that appear more casual outfits of cotton and linen. You stretch a hand out, curious and utterly… amazed. To think your new husband had gone to all the effort… Your hand brushes purple silk and- 

“Do you like them?” 

You screech, jumping to face the voice at your back. It takes a moment for your eyes to find him, leaning casually against one post of your bed. Your breath is stolen for a second time. Snow white hair, piercingly blue eyes, pale soft skin… you know who he is even without looking at his dress, at the air of authority he claims. He’s your husband… and he is the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

He laughs, then, and it’s a warmer sound than you’d thought it would be- rich and full. A sound that seeps into your bones and settles in your soul. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but the twinkle in his eyes makes you think that perhaps that’s a lie. 

Your heart pounds and your eyes flash to the door. It’s shut. You didn’t hear it open, nor did you hear it close behind him. You also didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear breaths, didn’t hear him. 

He follows your gaze and laughs again, though it sounds a bit… strained? 

“I have a habit of being unintentionally lightfooted. I apologize.” 

Your heart is still pounding but you find it in yourself to have some decorum. You snap your jaw shut and bow your head slightly in respect. “You must be Lord Gojo. Forgive me for my insolence.” 

There’s a beat, and then footsteps– ones you actually hear this time. You clench your jaw when he stops before you and then nearly gasp when he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. 

“Satoru, please,” he winks and you think you might stop breathing. “I am your husband after all.” 

You force yourself to nod, to swallow, to act normal. But how can you in the presence of a man that looks like… that? There’s something too unreal about him, too perfect. It’s almost… unsettling. 

“Of course… Satoru.” 

He straightens and shows you a close-lipped smile that digs a dimple into his left cheek. You have to look away to avoid stumbling over your own feet. 

“So, do you like them?” Your brows furrow- “The dresses,” he clarifies. 

“O-oh.” Your features relax into an easy smile. You turn back to your armoire, running a hand along another gown. You don’t think you’ve ever touched something so… finely made. “I like them very much. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

There’s a little chuckle as you turn to face him again and you have to steel yourself before you meet his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, too mesmerizing. You think you could probably lose yourself in those eyes forever… 

“No need to thank me. If they don’t fit, we’ll call for the seamstress in the morning.” 

You nod softly, still lost to the situation. There’s a beat of silence in which your husband does nothing but… look at you. His eyes roam freely and the hair on your arms stands under his gaze. He traces the lines of your nose and jaw and lingers on your pulse. Can he see just how fast your heart is pounding?

“Did you… get dinner?” It’s a stupid question, you know, but you don’t think you can bear another second of that look he’s giving you. “I fell asleep and found a plate. I hope I didn’t prevent a proper meal…” You trail off. Perhaps you shouldn’t have pointed out your own shortcoming? 

He gives you another smile and you swear he inches just a little closer. “You did no such thing. I’m… perfectly satisfied.” 

You nod, glad that he doesn’t seem upset at the very least. Your lips press together, unsure of what to do or say. You’ve never had a husband before. Wasn’t he supposed to just sort of… put you on the bed and… do it?

Your eyes flit to said bed and your husband must see because he hurries to continue. 

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, hm?” His eyes flit to your armoire and back again. “Wear the blue dress with the lace to breakfast, yeah? Been dying to see it on you.” He chuckles like he’s just told some sort of amusing joke.

Your brows furrow. That was… not the topic you’d been expecting. “You’re not…” You feel your cheeks heat and tighten your jaw. “Not staying the night?” 

His lashes lower a fraction and those eyes pierce you again. You don’t think you could move even if you wanted to, even with him prowling closer, each step eating up the space between you. He doesn’t stop until you’re nose to nose and you can feel his breath fanning over your cheeks. It’s cold somehow, chilling, and you shiver. He smirks. 

“Not tonight.” 

His head dips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he’s bypassing your mouth altogether and- his lips connect to your pulse. His mouth is cool, just like his breath, and you shiver uncontrollably under his touch. 

His touch is just a fleeting moment, just a wrinkle in time, and then he’s gone. His footsteps are quiet brushes on the hardwood and the creak of the door even seems tamed in his presence. 

“Goodnight,” is all he says, and then he’s gone. 

You climb into your bed an hour later wondering what in the world just happened. 

~  

You do wear the blue dress to breakfast and you can only gape in the mirror when you realize that it fits perfectly. It has you second-guessing yourself. Had you sent your measurements in advance and forgotten about it? No, you’d only sent a handful of pieces of information to the Lord prior to your marriage and you remembered all of them very clearly. Everything had gone through a messenger, everything had been clear and direct– you would have remembered sending your measurements– you didn’t. So had he just… guessed? 

That seemed impossible with how everything fit you like a glove, but it was the only explanation you had. The only one that made sense. 

When you join Satoru for breakfast it’s in a sitting room as lavishly decorated as the rest of the castle, but perhaps organized to be a bit more… liveable. He has no plate in front of him, only a tin cup that hides the contents of whatever he’s drinking. You assume coffee or juice. Perhaps he’s just not a breakfast person. 

“It fits!” he says. His hands clasp together in front of him and he smiles again, dimples and all. 

You nod and fight the heat that bubbles beneath your cheeks as you take your seat. “Yes, perfectly.”

A plate is set before you and a glance up reveals it’s Thomas serving your breakfast. You smile, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, for a small piece of comfort. Instead, you get his averted gaze and quick retreat. Your brows furrow, but before you can say anything, Satoru is back to speaking. 

“I hope Thomas treated you well yesterday?” 

You glance up, but Satoru’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on your footman. His smile is bright, but it’s anything but friendly. You fight a shiver. 

You glance at Thomas. He’s perfectly still, perfectly straight, but you think you see a muscle clench in his jaw. You clear your throat. “Y-Yes. Thomas was very helpful.” When Satoru keeps staring the boy down you add, “-and very respectful.” 

That seems to satisfy. Satoru breaks his stare and some of the tension in the air instantly eases. He shoots you another dimpled smile, this one with a little more warmth. “Perfect.” 

There’s a beat and then he’s standing, draining whatever he has in his cup and then straightening his jacket. “Well, I have some work to do. I’ll see you for dinner?” He’s grinning again, like it’s so normal for a man to abandon his bride on their wedding night and then again the morning after. All you can do is nod. He chuckles. “See you then, princess.” And then he’s gone.

~

If this is to be your life you don't know how you will survive it. You spend the day milling about. Through the gardens, through the castle, through the stables. Thomas is never far behind, but any attempt at conversation is nipped in the bud by hit shortness. It’s like he fears coming too close. He’s never closer than a couple paces except when he has to bring you something, only to retreat again as soon as possible. The other servants barely pay you any mind apart from giving you a respectful greeting and then immediately averting their eyes. There is no work to be done, no guests to be had, no parties to plan… and no Satoru. You don’t see your husband once on tour around the grounds. You ask Thomas where his office is only for him to vaguely point out a window in the east tower. You don’t see so much as a ripple in the curtains. 

Dinner comes around at the pace of a snail. When it’s finally time to get dressed a lady’s maid whose name you don’t even catch arrives to help you lace your dress. As soon as your corset is deemed tight enough she’s back out the door with a curtsy. Thomas leads you to the dining room and your eyes roam the whole way. Even after having spent the whole day exploring, there are halls and corridors that you’ve yet to step foot in. 

The dining room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the place– filled with singular items that could feed entire families for years. Somehow, you think you’ve already grown accustomed to such things, since the only thing you truly care to look at is your husband. Satoru’s already seated, but he stands when you enter, looping around the table to pull a chair out for you. 

You give him your most genuine smile, accepting a kiss to your knuckles in greeting before you settle. “How was your day?” you ask as he takes his seat again. 

He chuckles. “Perfectly fine. And how was yours, princess?” Your nose crinkles. That’s the second time he’s called you that. Something about it feels wrong. You’re still getting used to being a lady. Princess feels even worse. 

“It was… good.”

You watch a perfect white brow arch in the candlelight. “Oh? Just good?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the corner– to Thomas. 

You hurry to elaborate. “Well, I just– I can’t help but feel as if there’s not much… use for me.” Servants flood in, some carrying wine, others carrying trays that hold more food than the both of you could ever possibly consume. 

That brow arches impossibly higher. “Use?” His lips crack into that smile again, but it’s tight this time. Too tight. “You have no use. You only enjoy yourself. Surely Thomas has told you that.” 

A plate of steaming food plops in front of you. Even its heavenly smell can’t quell the sudden dread in your gut. “Of course! Of course he did.” Your stomach twists and you decide that perhaps now is not the time to press the subject. “I’ll just… I’ll try riding tomorrow.” You hate riding, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. 

Satoru’s smile thaws into something less menacing. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” 

You nod eagerly. “I’m sure I will.” 

You grab your fork, eager for a new subject. From what you can tell, dinner is roast chicken and vegetables, though it’s the luxury version as everything seems to be. The spices are intoxicating and the green beans are even arranged in a pretty little pattern that makes them look too good to eat. You do anyway. The first bite nearly makes you moan, but you chew slowly, delicately, trying not to let your upbringing show.

It’s not until several bites later that you realize you’re the only one eating. A quick glance reveals your husband has no platter, no chicken or green beans. He’s only… watching you. You clear your throat, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. 

“You’re not… eating?”

That permanent smile grows a little wider and you can’t help but feel as if there’s something… menacing about it. “Ate before I came.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oh. Were you on the road?” 

You think you see something wild flash in his eyes. “No.” 

The rest of dinner passes slowly, almost painfully. Satoru doesn’t eat a bite, doesn’t even look enticed. You wonder how that’s possible when it smells like a spice bomb went off in the dining room. 

By the time you’ve cleared your plate you’ve discussed everything from the number of horses in the stables to kinds of crops grown on the estate. It’s comforting to know a little more about your new home, but it’s not enough. 

“Is there a library?” you ask. You’re on dessert now. It’s the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had and it takes everything in you to hold back a moan each time it touches your tongue. 

“Of course.” Your husband’s eyes flicker to Thomas again and you’re honestly starting to fear for the poor footman’s life. Everytime you ask a question it’s like Satoru is angry it hasn’t already been answered. “It’s yours to use as you please.” 

You smile lightly. “Perfect. Thank you.” 

He softens a bit at that. “Is there anything specific you wanted to read about?” 

You shrug. “The estate, I suppose. I should know my home’s history, no?”

His eyes get that wild look again, that sparkle that you know speaks to nothing good. “Oh, absolutely. I have some personal favorites to recommend. I’ll leave them aside for you?” 

You swallow and give him a shallow nod. “That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

He chuckles. “My pleasure.” 

When dessert is finally over, you stand slowly. Satoru’s not far behind you, saying he’ll walk you to your room. Your heart leaps at his words. Will he stay with you tonight? 

He offers you his arm in the hall and your mouth runs dry when you feel the corded muscle beneath his jacket. By the time you reach your room, you’re thinking of tugging him in behind you. His denial to stay with you last night was not only confusing, but… off putting. Nearly offensive. Did he not like how you looked? Did he think something was wrong with you? 

You muster all the courage you possess and force your lips apart. “Will you stay with me tonight?” 

His eyes spark again and you hold your breath. He presses closer. This is it, you think. His lips hover over yours, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. And then he dips his head, his mouth pressing to your pulse. 

“Not tonight,” he whispers– and then he’s gone. 

~

You wake suddenly. It’s the middle of the night, you gather. The light streaming through the window is weak enough to only be that of the moon. 

Your heart is pounding and your skin is slick with sweat despite the chill in your bones. A nightmare, you think. It must have been a nightmare. 

As you settle back into your sheets you swear you see a ripple in the darkness. You close your eyes. If your nightmare is real, you’d rather not see it coming.

~

The library is huge. It’s sprawling and smells of paper and leather and everytime Thomas lights a candle you flinch at the idea that one misplaced spark could end thousands of years of knowledge. 

The books Satoru left you are… perfect. Just what you were looking for. They’re all comprehensive volumes of the history of the estate, many of which reference each other. You’re stunned to see that several are written by very well-known authors of both the past and the present. You knew the Gojo family’s influence reached far, but not that far. You peruse the titles. The Gojos: A History, A History of the Gojo Crest, History of the Gojo Castle, Revisiting the Gojo Family: A Comprehensive History. Altogether you have well over a few thousand pages of information– but there’s one book that doesn’t fit with the rest. It’s relatively unassuming. A black cover with some sort of gold rune etched onto its front. When you flip to the title page it reads “Creatures of Myth and Where To Find Them”. Your brows furrow. You slide it to the side– must have gotten mixed in with the others, you think.

~

You ask Thomas to bring the books to your room. He does. Very respectfully. He sets them on your bedside table and then retreats like a kicked puppy with only a polite goodbye. You sigh. His behavior has only gotten stranger in the past few days. You think the servants’ coldness must have something to do with Satoru, but you can’t figure out why. Had he ordered them to stay away? Why would he? 

You decide it’s a question for another day and dive into your books. You spend hours, days, reading every chapter, page, and word. The pure amount of information is dizzying. Apparently this specific estate had been in the hands of the Gojo family since the eighth century (with several razings and consequential rebuilds). You also learn that Satoru was not only the most wealthy lord on the continent, but the most wealthy man. Even wealthier than the king apparently, though that fact was kept fairly under wraps to protect the crown’s ego. The estimates of your husband’s net worth made your head spin.

Satoru joins you for breakfast and dinner every day. You never see him eat a morsel. It’s… unsettling to say the least. It’s always just that tin cup, filled with something you could never quite see. You develop a pattern of waking in the night, too, with the overwhelming sense that something is watching you. Sometimes you could swear you feel the bed shift as you jerk awake. Each time you simply close your eyes and try your best to slow your heart, convinced your mind is playing tricks on you. 

Your days feel a little more productive with a book in your hands, but you’ve read them all three times over by the time a fortnight has passed. You find yourself packing them up to return to Thomas when a certain black cover catches your attention. You grab it from the pile and settle back into your seat. You’ve nothing better to do, right? 

You flip back the cover, revealing a familiar title. “Creatures of Myth and Where to Find Them”. You don’t recognize the author’s name. A quick scroll through the table of contents reveals nothing particularly interesting, but you pick a random chapter on ghouls and decide to start there. 

It’s fascinating. Nothing about the style is boring and the words fly by. Your silly little myth book is a page turner. By the time you notice the light has started dying you’ve read about ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and goblins– all of which have been a delightful little read. A glance at the clock reveals you have a half hour before dinner. One more chapter, you think. Your eyes skim the title. “Vampires [Vampyr]”. 

You skim the first paragraphs until your eyes settle on a line that catches your eye. 

“Contrary to popular belief, vampires are not always crazed blood-hungry monsters. Many live among humans quite comfortably and are able to avoid detection with a little well-placed effort.” 

You purse your lips. What a… terrifying thought. You skim a little further. 

“A vampire’s key characteristic is, of course, their desire and need to drink human blood as sustenance. However, a vampire can be spotted sooner if one is able to recognize their subtler traits. Vampires often have skin lacking any sort of flush. The lack of blood in their veins results in a sickly pallor, even after the most rigorous exercise. Their skin is also noticeably cold to the touch. At best, a vampire’s body will reach room temperature. Vampires can also be noted for their preternatural beauty. They will stand out as the most attractive person in any crowd. Finally, a vampire will have fangs. If one wishes to identify a vampire, one only needs a good look at their teeth”.

A chill settles over your skin. You flip ahead a few pages. 

“Vampires are unable to consume typical human food. Should they attempt to, their bodies will immediately reject any and all foreign substances.” 

Your stomach drops. You don’t want to think about why. You skip the rest of the paragraph. 

“Vampires possess several supernatural abilities that set them apart as a human’s predator rather than their equal. Vampires are known to move unnaturally fast and are notably light footed. If a vampire does not wish to be heard, they will not be. A vampire’s strength is inhuman, well over ten times that of the average man. They also have a penchant for darkness, an ability to hide away in the shadows that cannot be explained. Oftentimes they will seem to appear from thin air.”

You skip ahead again.

“Vampires have been known to take mates. Mates usually come in the form of another vampire, but in some cases a human has been chosen. Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly. Oftentimes, vampires make these decisions with haste, with little regard for whether or not the threat was real. A vampire will do everything in their power to please their mate, but have been known to forcibly restrain their mates in situations of unrequited feelings. Above all else, vampires wish to possess their mates. Two bonded vampires will sometimes spiral into gloriously destructive fits in their endless desire to protect and possess one another. A vampire bonded to a human will show an increasingly protective nature, often isolating their mate from others.”

Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You flip the pages, desperate– desperate for a piece of information that will save you from the thoughts spilling in your mind, from the thoughts you will do anything not to believe. You reach the “Where to Find Them” subsection and nearly gasp with relief. Surely, vampires do not pose as wealthy lords of Europe? 

“Vampires can be found everywhere. They do not exist in only one country or continent, but all over the world. Odds are that you have faced at least one vampire in your life, unknowingly or not. Some vampires choose to live solitary lives, surviving in the wilderness where human society will not attempt to tame their wild nature. Others choose to live among humans, some even existing in positions of very high authority.” 

No, no, no. This can’t be happening to you. It can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re having one of those nightmares again. You’re going to wake up any second. 

“One tale recounts a razing of the Gojo estate in the 12th century.” 

You’re panting, hyperventilating. This isn’t happening. 

“Soldiers of the enemy force recounted a singular man, the son and heir of the then Lord Gojo, taking out a minimum of 800 men. He was described as having his family’s characteristic white hair as well as blue eyes. Eyewitness accounts depict the Gojo heir as covered in blood and killing savagely and with inhuman strength.” 

No, no, no. 

“(See next page for only existing portrait)”

Your fingers tremble but you can’t stop them. There’s no way. It’s not possible. 

You flip the page and Satoru stares back at you. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You nearly scream. Your door rattles angrily, but you’re not sure you can answer it, not with the knowledge flooding your mind. The knocking continues. You run your hand over your face and smooth down your hair. You feel frazzled, dirty, despite not having moved from your chair all day. Another knock prompts you to set your book aside and stand. You do your best to compose yourself, to put on a straight face. You fail instantly when you pull back the door not to reveal your faithful attendant, not Thomas, but Satoru. 

You bite back a shriek and instead force a smile. You’re suddenly very aware of the blood pounding in you veins and of the fact that he most likely knows. 

“Hello,” he says, but his voice is lower than usually, more intense. 

You force a breath into your lungs. “Hello,” you answer, but it sounds more like a squeak than a greeting. 

Something flashes in his eyes, something familiar, something that is no longer interesting but rather terrifying. “Are you alright? You seem a little… flushed.” The concern on his face feels anything but genuine. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, but even you can tell that reply too quickly, too eagerly. You rush to cover it up. “Is it time for dinner? Where’s Thomas?” 

His lip twitches and you see a muscle in his jaw flex. “Thomas has… left us.” 

No. This wasn’t happening to you. There was no way this was happening to you. 

“He… what?” There’s an unmistakable wobble in your voice that only causes Satoru’s face to fall further. 

“It’s no matter. He’s gone. Now it’s just you and me, hm?” He chuckles and the sound rattles your bones. “In fact, I was thinking I’d cut down on the number of servants we have entirely…” 

You mind races with the memory of knowledge you wish you didn’t have. “Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly.”

You nearly stumble, but lean against the doorframe just in time. Your husband had disposed of a man, all because he brought you meals and books?

“What have you been up to today, princess?” The question breaks your trance just in time for you to see your husband’s eyes flicker behind you. 

You wet your lips. “Just some reading.” You plead that he doesn’t ask anything further. He does. 

“About the estate?” he asks. 

You nod and try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

His smile returns and this time it’s not forced. “You got my books, then?” 

You try smiling back, but you’re fairly sure it looks more like a grimace. “Yes.”

“Anything interesting?” he presses.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Does he know? Does he know that you know? “Yes, of course. Lots.” 

He pauses and you see the debate and then the decision in his eyes. You think it’s the first time you’ve felt true terror when he meets your gaze again. “I think we should skip dinner tonight. It seems we have so much to discuss.”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to scream when he steps into you, forcing you back until he’s shutting your door behind him. He doesn’t stop there, though. He keeps pressing, keeps pushing until your knees hit the bed and you’re falling to the mattress. He crawls right after you.

“Who knew my little wife was such a reader? All those books in such a short time… You must be simply spilling with information.” 

You retreat across the mattress, squeaking when your back hits the headboard and his arms cage your waist. You’re trapped.

His hands find your hips and you’re all too aware of how cool his touch is. Even more so when he pulls you right into his lap.

“Satoru-” your voice is pitiful, breathless, and you’re ashamed to say it’s not just from the fear in your gut. He’s never been this close before, never touched you, held you like this. “Thomas-” 

“Don’t speak his name.” His face pulls into the first scowl you’ve ever seen and the sight is enough to root you to the spot. Never have you seen anything more frightening. A creature so beautiful, so perfectly angelic, filled with an insurmountable rage. It’s wrong. “He’s gone. He’ll never bother you again.” He’s closer now, his breath skating over your skin. It’s cool and now you know the reason why. 

You shake and tremble and you know– Thomas is dead. Your husband killed him– killed him for getting too close when all he did was stay at a distance. Satoru killed him. Killed him. 

He buries himself in your neck, his voice a near whine. “Thought I could put up with it, just so you’d have someone to take care of you…” He groans. “I was so wrong, princess. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you smelled more like him than me…” 

You feel him melt against you then, relief washing over his body in a wave. “But he’s gone. And now it’s just you and me, hm? Just you and me…” He hums, like remembering that fact is all he’s ever needed.

He’s kissing your pulse again, now, and your heart is racing faster than ever. Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You should push him away, away, away. He’s a killer, of thousands no doubt. You’ve never felt at home here, never felt like you belonged. This is why. You’re not even the same species. He’s something else, something your hands were never meant to touch. 

Your mind screams at you to do go, to shove and kick at him and leave this place behind. Go, go, go your gut says… but you don’t. You can’t. It’s too… good. The feeling of his cool lips against your skin, of what you’re sure is his tongue prodding at your pulse… it’s intoxicating. He is intoxicating. How could anyone blame you for wanting more of someone, something, so divine? 

“Have you figured it out yet, love?” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, licking a long stripe up your neck, before he settles back at your pulse. Always your pulse. “I can feel those little gears turning. Tell me, what have they discovered?” 

He knows you know. But he’s going to make you say it. You swallow and feel his grip on you tighten. “You’re…” Your breaths come faster. You can’t. Not aloud. Aloud makes it too… real. 

“Yessss?” he prods. He’s licking at you again, all the way across your throat to find your other pulse-point. 

“You’re not…” Something sharps nicks at your skin and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper. 

“Go on, princess.” You think he’s just smelling you now, just burying his face as close to you as possible and taking you in. 

You close your eyes tightly, holding back tears. “Not human,” you breathe. A piece of you breaks with the admission.

He huffs a little laugh against your skin and pulls back to look you in the eye. “That’s good,” he purrs. “But I think you can be a little more specific, no?” His lips press to your chin, then the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw… “Tell me.” 

Your lips wobble, muscles clenching tighter with each passing moment. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to speak it into existence, but you also don’t dare to disobey him. 

“You’re a…” You shake and tremble. He draws a line up your neck with the tip of his nose.

“Mhm?” 

You open your eyes, thinking this might be the last time you see. “Vampire.” 

He chuckles and you feel his teeth press to the skin of your neck. “That’s right, princess. So smart.” 

He smiles and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen his teeth before. Everytime he smiles at you it’s close-lipped and dimpled. But this… this is the smile of a predator– all white and pointy and fitted with a set of menacingly long fangs. You sob at the sight. 

“Shhhhh,” he coos. He has your chin in his hand, forcing you to truly look at him, to see him for what he is. “I won’t hurt you, love.” You want to believe him so badly it burns, but his laugh washes away any fire and turns it to ice. “Not unless you want me to.” He wiggles a brow like it’s just a little joke, like he’s not an actual fucking vampire that had his fangs over your neck just moments ago. 

“Satoru,” you beg. You’re not sure what you’re begging for. Release maybe? But, no, that’s not right. You don’t want him to let you go, not when you finally have him close after all this time. “Why did you pick me?” 

The question slips out. You hadn’t even been thinking about it, hadn’t even noticed it scratching at the walls of your mind, but it made its way out nonetheless.

His brow creases, but not in confusion. Moreso in… thoughtfulness. “Do you think about that a lot, princess?” 

You nod and you suddenly want him closer, want him to touch you everywhere, hold you like his life depends on it. You want him, no matter how horrible it might be. 

He nods and hums, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “Well…” he says. His thumb swipes over your lips when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “At first I wanted you for this.” His head dips to your neck again and you feel the familiar brush of his lips against your throat. “You smell…” he chuckles. “Like heaven. Which is a place I’ll never get to on my own, so I had to bring my own little slice home, no?” He laughs again, a little louder this time, genuinely amused. “Went into town one day and caught your scent on the street. At first I thought I must be walking past the bakery, but, lo and behold, there was no baker in sight.” He’s still kissing at your pulse, worshiping it. “Went crazy, princess. Didn’t think I was going to be able to contain myself when I found you. Thought it might be quite the scene.” He huffs a laugh and you shiver, somehow both terrified and intoxicated. “But then I saw you–” he groans and something clenches deep at your center. “And I knew I needed more than just your blood. Needed you.” He’s rocking into you now, and your breath catches when you feel something firm against your backside. “Went to you in that little room you slept in every night. Watched you. Couldn’t stay away. Knew I had to have you.” You feel him smile against your skin. “After a week I couldn’t take it anymore. Sent you that letter, married you. Made you mine.” He groans again. “Then I met you and you were so pretty, princess. Already knew it, but hearin’ you talk to me, look at me.” Teeth graze your pulse. “Needed you more than ever. Almost took you right on the fucking floor in here while you were lookin’ at those dresses.” You whine when his hips roll into you again. “Oh, but I knew I couldn’t. You’re so fragile, love. Had to wait, had to make you feel safe, yeah? Spent all this time forcing myself to stay away, ‘fraid of what I might too if I was in your presence too long. Had to control myself. Had to make you realize you could trust me.” He panting, like he’s so pent up he can hardly sit still. “Do you trust me, princess?” 

Your brows scrunch. Say no, say no, say no a part of you screams. Run, run, run. You can’t. “Yes,” you breathe. 

You feel him smile again, feel the pleasure of submission. “Good girl.” 

You’re on your back. It happens so fast your eyes don’t even have time to gasp. You don’t see Satoru, but you feel him. Everywhere. His hands are roaming your body softly, sliding under buttons and laces and popping them off. Your dress loosens with every passing moment until Satoru reappears above you, diving straight for your neck again. “So good, princess. Let’s get you out of this dress, yeah?” 

You nod wordlessly, entranced. He finds your mouth as he rids you of your clothes. His tongue presses in and you flail against him, unsure of what to do, of how to handle the intrusion. The kiss is heavy, too heavy, but Satoru can’t seem to stop. He devours you as he gives up on laces and buttons and simply shreds your dress down the back. You tremble when the cold air hits your skin, when his cool fingers dust your collarbone. 

“I always forget how many damn layers they make you ladies wear,” he chuckles. His hands run beneath your shift, up across your bare thigh. You gasp at the touch. No one has even been so close to you before. You feel the threads of your corset snapping away, feel your breaths growing deeper. You tremble when he pulls your sleeve down past your shoulder and runs his mouth along the newly exposed skin. 

“Satoru,” you gasp, and your hand pulls at his flowing white shirt. 

He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You wanna see me too?” You nod, lips parted and eyes glassy, and he laughs again. He lips dust over the corner of your mouth. “Alright.” 

His hands shift from you to himself, working at the laces on his chest. His movements are speedy, practiced, like he’s been lacing and unlacing shirts for hundreds of years. Your throat tightens when you realize that he has. 

You gasp when he reveals himself, when his shirt slides away to reveal an expanse of pale skin and carved muscle. You’ve never seen a man like this and seeing one this close up for the first time is nearly blinding. He’s art, you think- nothing less. 

“Touch me, princess,” he says. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He’s too beautiful, too perfect to be beneath your insignificant hands. “Need a little help?” he asks, and there’s a lilt in his voice that makes you sure he’s grinning. 

His hands find yours and bring them to his chest, running your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, down, down, down across his abs that you can feel each and every one… You whimper, watching your own fingers grope his skin. He pulls you lower, lower, lower, and you gasp when your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants. But then he’s laughing again and he’s throwing your arms over his shoulders and pulling you closer, kissing your neck like it pained him to be parted from your pulse for so long. 

“Not so fast,” he says, like he wasn’t the one nearly stuffing your hands down his pants. His hands are on your corset again. You can feel it dangling onto you by a thread, literally. All he needs is a couple more pulls and you’ll be bare. By the look he gives you, you can tell he’s 

thinking the same thing. “You touch me, now I touch you, yeah?” There’s a tug and a tear and then so much… cold. You’ve never realized how cold this castle is, not until you’re exposed to its elements fully. You’re naked. 

Satoru sits back on his knees and just watches. His gaze is searing, burning, despite the iciness of his being. It’s too much. Your hands move to cover yourself, to maintain some modicum of your dignity- 

“No.” Strong hands find your wrists and pry them apart. “Let me see you,” he says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

Your jaw clenches and your frame shakes, but you do as he asks, letting your hands fall limply at your sides. There’s silence for many more moments and it seems to go on so long that you can only squeeze your eyes shut under his gaze. Surely he will turn you away now, get up and leave, tell you this was a mistake, tell you that you’re– 

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Your eyes snap open to find him already staring at you. “Beautiful,” he says again, and then he’s on you, lips at your pulse, hands on your skin. His touch is cool and you squeak at the chill that runs up your spine. You’re not sure it’s entirely from his temperature. 

His mouth seeks yours and he devours you. You feel as if he’s sucking your soul out through your lips. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” he begs. “Tell me I’m the first to touch you.” 

You whine against his mouth, both aching for more and overwhelmed by what he’s already giving you. “Y-You’re the first,” you whisper. 

His groan is deep, primal. It rattles through your chest and you whimper when his hands dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. “Yes,” he breathes, and you shiver again. “Lie back, princess.” Your eyes widen, with anticipation or fear you’re not sure. Probably both. He chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” 

You pray he means that. “Just relax, love. Here, hold my hand.” His fingers find yours, twining them together. When you swallow, his eyes follow the bob of your throat. He leans back again and your body twitches when his free hand skims the skin of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finds your knees and you gasp when he parts your legs, revealing you so completely to his gaze. The way he stares, like he’s committing you to memory, it’s nearly enough to make you snap your thighs shut, but a squeeze from his hand reminds you to relax, to trust. 

His palm skates up your thigh and settles near your hip, his fingertips inching closer to where you can feel an embarrassing throb. 

“Tell me, love. Have you ever touched yourself here?” His fingers dust low on your tummy- just low enough for you to catch his meaning, but not low enough to give you any relief. Your face heats and your teeth dig into the flesh of your cheek. You have, you have touched yourself there, but it’s the last thing you want to admit to your new husband. It’s shameful, it’s dirty, it’s- “Don’t think I’ll judge you, princess. Just wanna know.” 

You gulp down a breath. You should come clean. “Y-yes,” you stutter, and the sound of your voice so weak and helpless only makes you flush further. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand again. “On the outside or the inside?” 

Your eyes widen. I-inside? You’d never considered that… “J-just the outside,” you answer. 

Your eyes grow even wider when his head rolls back and he moans straight up to the ceiling like your answer is heaven-sent. When he looks back to you his fangs are on full display. “Well, I think you and I are in for a little treat today, hm?” 

Your brow furrows and your lips part to ask him what he means– his fingers travel those last few inches down your tummy and find your clit. You squeak and jolt so violently that he presses a hand to your hip, holding you to the mattress. “Somebody’s sensitive,” he chuckles. He holds you still for a moment and then lets your hips go free. “Try to stay still. I promise it’ll feel good.”

You nod hopelessly, but this time you’re prepared for when he touches you again. Your muscles clench at the first touch, at the foreign sensation of a touch down there that wasn’t your own. But then it’s more. It’s languid, slow circles around a spot that you’ve never been able to pinpoint so well on your own. It’s heat building in your tummy that seeps through every vein and into every pore. It’s relaxation that you’ve never known, that has you melting into the mattress despite the chill of the touch. 

There’s a little huff of a laugh and then his voice. “Good girl. Feels nice, yeah?” You nod hesitantly and squeeze desperately at his hand, searching for an anchor. His head cocks to the side and you watch the smile slide across his lips. “It’s about to feel even nicer.” 

By the time you realize what he’s doing it’s far too late to stop him. His mouth closes around your cunt and you yelp, trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation- but he’s got his freehand on your hip again and his grip is bruising, punishing, as he holds you in place. He licks a stripe through your folds and you find yourself jolting again, uselessly so against the pressure of his palm on your hip. “Stop that, princess.” Your heart drops at the admonishment until you feel his guiding touch. “Rock into me like this.” His hand rocks your hips into his mouth and the pressure of his tongue against your clit is so delicious that you whimper. “Good girl,” he says and your heart rises right back up. “Keep doing that, now.” You don’t dare defy him. You rock like he showed you, a little jerkily at first, and then you find a rhythm that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, love,” he says, and the sound is muffled against your cunt. “Here, put your hand in my hair.” He finds your wrist and guides you forward until your fingers are tangling in those snowy locks. They’re even softer than you’d imagined. “Good girl,” he whispers and suddenly he’s taking one last long lick and lifting his head to meet your eyes. “‘M gonna put my fingers in you now, princess.” Your chin wobbles. “It might hurt a little bit, but stay still, okay?” You can’t do anything but nod. 

His eyes return to your cunt and you can feel him prodding at your entrance, circling the hole as you clench in anticipation. “Relaaaaaax, love,” he says and you nod. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth– 

You feel the exact moment he pushes into you and a whine of pain rips from your throat. Your walls clamp down like a vice, angry at the intrusion– but it’s already too late. There’s a beat of silence, of anticipation, and then he’s– laughing? 

Your brows furrow when you hear it, your head lifting to a sight that locks your limbs in shock. Satoru’s hand is lifted in front of his face, his pointer finger coated in– blood, you realize. Your blood. And he’s a fucking vampire. 

“Oh princess,” he coos, and the manic look in his eyes makes you tremble. “You really are perfect.” 

Things seem to slow as you watch him take his blood covered finger into his mouth. You’re sure you’ve never seen an expression more blissful, more lost to sensation. His eyes roll back and his body shivers, like he’s ascending to some higher plane. Maybe he is. 

When he pulls his finger from his mouth it’s completely licked clean. You hold your breath. He’s going to go for your neck now, right? He’s had a taste and now he’ll want more of it, all of it?

“Fuck,” is all he says. His mouth is back on your cunt so fast you don’t even see him move. 

Your mouth falls wide. It hurts, the way he is so desperately licking at you. You feel his finger again, pressing in, in, in, only to pull back and suddenly be joined by another. The stretch tears at you. You thrash and jolt, but Satoru doesn’t bother telling you to stop this time. His arm wraps over your hips, holding you in place. He seems immune to how hard your legs squeeze at his head or your hands pull at his hair. He’s lost. You can feel him licking, lapping, and prodding at you like you’re a fucking gold mine. He’s lost to desperation, to the need for more, more, more. Every so often he lifts his chin and you see his mouth smudged with a mixture of your wetness and your blood. He laps at his lips like an animal, dragging his thumb across his chin and sliding it into his mouth to make sure he gets every last drop. 

You’re not quite sure when the ravenous pain turns to a ravenous pleasure, when it turns from terrifying to downright delicious. You don’t notice your moans filling the air until Satoru joins you, groaning and whining into your cunt and telling you to keep going, to keep making those sounds. The hand you have buried in his hair doesn’t fight to push him away any longer, only to pull him into those now practiced rocks of your hips. His fingers thrust deep, curling into a spot that makes you feel so good and his mouth has found your clit again. He sucks your nerves lightly between his lips, tongue swirling in little circles. Your thighs start to shake. 

“Yes. Yes. Give it to me.” 

“S-Satoru–” you breathe. Warmth and tightness pool in your tummy, and you recognize it as your approaching orgasm, though you know this one will be far different than any you’ve ever managed to give yourself. Your body shakes and your breaths tremble and then– you fall over the edge, rocking your hips senselessly, losing all form of rhythm. Warmth tingles in your spine and seeps all the way down to your toes. You think you cry out, cry for your husband, cry for more, cry for less, but if you do you don’t hear it. All you hear is the pounding of your pulse, of pleasure throbbing in your veins until the world slowly seeps back in through the corners of your vision. 

Satoru is grinning. A speck of your blood clings to his chin and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. The sight makes your blood run a little colder. If any part of you doubted what he was before… well, there was no doubt any longer. 

There’s a shift between your legs, his hips slotting between them, and you’re suddenly snapped back to reality. From the look in his eyes, you’re not done. 

Frantic hands find his pants and he undoes each button with a quickness that is almost inhuman. You wonder if he could go even faster, if he’s holding back so as not to scare you. If he is, it isn’t working very well. Fear surges in your veins right alongside anticipation. 

“S-Satoru–”

“It’s alright, love.” His hand finds yours without his eyes ever looking up. His grip is just a little too firm, a little too cold. “Just stay still.” 

You whimper, but you don’t think he’s paying attention to that, and soon enough, neither are you. His pants slide down just past his hips, just enough. You gasp. 

You’ve never seen a man in the nude, never even dared to think about what it might look like, though it seemed you no longer had to guess. His hand wrapped around his shaft, giving one long and slow stroke that made his breath hiss through his fangs. The tip was flushed, angry, and leaking something that looked clear and sticky. You couldn’t help but notice it was a lot thicker than a finger, or even two. If his fingers had hurt…

He moves with that alarming quickness again, leaning down to hover over you, chests nearly pressed together. “Gonna take you now, princess. Gonna make you mine.” His eyes bore into yours, blue and shimmering with something wild. His hand presses into the mattress beside your head. “Stay still, now.”

It’s all the warning he gives you. You feel like you’re splitting– straight up the middle. You wail, hands flying out to claw at his back. It hurts. It hurts. 

“Satoru, p-please! It’s–” 

Lips catch yours– hungry, feral. The kiss is not gentle, not soothing. It shuts you up, it keeps you quiet, it keeps you still as you feel him sinking further, deeper into you. It’s too much, you try to say, but the poke of sharp teeth against your lips keeps you silent. Your hips jolt and wiggle trying desperately to escape the stretch but it’s no use. By the time he’s fully inside you, tears are streaking down your cheeks, fat and heavy. His lips break away and his eyes reappear. You shake when you see that none of the wildness has been tamed, that you’ve only just begun.

“Good girl,” he coos, and a cool finger traces a line across your jaw. “Took me so well.” You hold back a sob when his hips shift a little, testing, prodding. He must see the pinch of your eyes, the twist of your mouth, because he’s quick to comfort. “Just hold my hand, princess.” His hips rock in earnest this time and you whimper, squeezing down on his hand with all your might. You’re panting as he chuckles. “Breathe, love. Breathe. Soon you’ll be begging for more,” he laughs. It’s not long before he’s rocking into you sincerely, setting a pace that stretches you to the brink of breaking. At first it’s all you can do to grasp onto him, to bite your lips through the whimpers and hold his hand. And then it’s… more. It’s heat and warmth despite the coolness of his body on yours. It’s sensation and… pleasure. He laughs when the first moan slides past your lips, burying his face in your neck once again. You hear him at your ear, panting his hot breath across your skin. 

“Feel good, princess?” You nod, letting your hips rock against his as he showed you before. It feels good– it feels right. He chuckles, but there’s nothing light about the sound. “Wanna feel even better?” Something sharp pokes at the skin of your neck, hard enough to make you squeak, to make you freeze at what you know he wants. 

He pulls himself back, pressing his forehead to yours, searching your eyes with his. Something like a cruel smile dances on his mouth. “Just a taste, love. I promise it won’ hurt.” His tongue darts out and licks across your lips, his thrusts rocking just a bit faster. “You’ll feel s’ good an’ I’ll only take a little.” He laughs again and it sends a chill through your bones. “Promise.” He sounds breathless, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. The increase of his pace makes you whine and you squeeze his hand again. He buries himself back in your neck, panting. “Come on, love. Say yes. Say yes f’ me.” Your eyes glaze over. Your body justles with each new thrust. He’s desperate now, seeking a release that you don’t think is any kind you’re familiar with. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants in your ear. You’re not sure when his words twist in your mind, when they settle on your tongue and push past your lips, but you know it feels so right when they do. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

His fangs clamp around your pulse. You scream when the sting rips through you, violent and savage– but it only lasts a moment. Pain fades to… ecstasy. You feel his throat bobbing with each swallow, feel your blood seeping from your skin and onto his tongue. You’d thought it would feel slicing, draining, like the life was being sucked from you. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful. Heat spreads under your skin, emanating from your neck and down to your toes. It feels like breathing for the first time, like sugar being pumped into your veins. It feels like heaven. Your hand tangles in his hair, holding him close. You don’t want it to stop, not ever. You could die like this, have him suck every last drop of blood from your veins and thank him for it with your dying breath. 

He’s moaning now, hands curling into your hips while he fucks into you relentlessly. The pace is grueling and brutal. You know it should hurt but only feels perfect. Anything less would not be enough. Anything else would leave you wanting. You feel it building, feel that familiar twinge at your core. The ecstasy flooding through your veins has it coming faster, has you teetering on the edge in moments. 

“Satoru…” You hadn’t noticed how dizzy you felt until you tried to speak. You wonder why… “‘M gonna…” 

He fucks you harder, something menacing and deep rumbling in his chest. The sound makes you shiver, makes you whine, makes you come. 

Your body shakes and a cry rips from your throat, cunt clenching like a vice around him. Your eyes roll back, hands scraping trails down his back. Your thighs quake with the intensity, with the overwhelming senses of pleasure that erupt throughout your body. Every nerve is firing, every hair rising. It’s an unstoppable current, one that sweeps you away, helpless to its pull. 

His thrusts grow sloppy and untimed. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place while he makes you his. His teeth break from your neck and when you look up through blurry eyes you see his head thrown back, your blood streaming down his chin in thick little globs. You feel it when he cums, feel the thick ropes of it seeping into your womb, feel the way he keeps fucking you, pushing it deeper and deeper inside. He’s moaning, chanting your name like a prayer at the heavens. 

When the moment ends he slumps over you, eyes half lidded and tired. There’s a familiar grin on his lips, one that inspires both comfort and uneasiness in your gut. You can’t help but stare at him, at the blood that stains his chin and cheeks, that reddens his lips so beautifully. You want to reach out and touch him, touch his blood-soaked skin and see what it feels like, what it tastes like. What you taste like. 

His eyes slide to the side, finding your pulse again. You groan. Yes, you think. Please, yes. More. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of that. Of his teeth in your flesh, of the euphoria flooding your veins. More, more, more, your mind chants. 

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No, princess.” He raises a finger to trace the curve of your neck. “I took more than I should have…” His expression doesn’t tense with worry. His cheeks pull into a smile, those little dimples shining through. “But what can I say? You just taste so good.” Like he needs to emphasize his point, his tongue darts out to trace his lips, lapping up some of the remaining blood on his chin. “You taste like mine.”

You whine. More, more, more. It’s all you can think about. You lift an arm weakly. You want to pull him to your neck, to make him drink, to make him fill you with the heaven you had just moments ago. 

He catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. His lips split into another grin and you see his eyes spark again with the wildness you crave. 

“Not yet, princess.” he coos. “But soon.” His smile grows even wider, until those fangs are on full display, until you’re trembling again. “Forever,” he whispers.

taglist (dm me or send an ask to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina, @keiva1000

please consider leaving a comment, sending an ask, or reblogging! interacting with authors is the best way to support them! thanks for reading ♡

[pr0vincial]

tag drop part two .

[dakusan]

G r e y S w e a t p a n t s & M u s k

stray kids ot8 x reader | sweat-drenched worship, spit-slick ruin, and eight different ways to be fucked stupid

🖤 synopsis: You’ve always loved watching them stumble through the front door after dance practice—sweaty, breathless, loose-limbed in those damn grey sweatpants that hang just right. Usually, they shower before you can get your hands on them. Not tonight. Tonight, you ambush them. You wanted them filthy. Now you can’t stop shaking.

💌a/n: this one’s for the sinners 😵‍💫 filthy friday poll said grey sweatpants or die and y’all voted with your pussies, so here we are. shoutout to 🍒 for the original brainrot (you did this. i’m just the vessel). i blacked out somewhere between chan’s throatfuck and jeongin’s edgeplay. i’m not sorry for the filth. i should be. but i’m not. p.s. reblog if you got ruined. p.p.s. if this ruined you, tell me how. moan in my inbox. whimper in the tags. confess your sins—I eat those for breakfast. p.p.p.s. can you tell i still struggle with the aesthetic pics? yeah... 😒 ⚠️warnings: 18+ MINOR DNI | pure filth | oral (m & f) | face-fucking | gagging | deepthroating | rough sex | hair-pulling | spanking | choking | praise | degradation | sweat kink | scent kink | | spit kink | overstimulation | edging | cockwarming | fingering | squirting | multiple positions | furniture abuse | messy makeouts | creampies (wrap it up ppl) | swallowing | possessiveness | begging | dumbification | slurred speech | no plot just grey sweatpants and primal lust | explicit language | literally dripping smut | fic is horny and knows it | do not read in public unless you have a death wish

📌 Wipe your chin. Stretch first. Cancel your plans.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Drip Drop — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:25 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan

The keypad beeps.

You barely breathe before your feet are moving—heart thudding, heat already curling low in your belly. You don’t wait. No time for hellos. No time for “Welcome home.”

The door creaks open and Chan moves inside—hood off, hair stuck to his forehead, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You collide with him in the hallway—fists gripping his shirt, mouth crashing into his before he can speak.

“Wha—mmph,” he grunts, catching your waist automatically, stumbling back a step from the sheer force of your hunger. You don't give him a chance to recover.

Your tongue licks into his mouth, hands already sliding down, tugging at the loose knot in his drawstring, fingers brushing against sweat-damp abs. He shudders. You moan.

“Fuck—baby,” he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown, lips already swollen. “What’s gotten into—”

You drop to your knees.

Right there in the hallway. No warning. No teasing. Just grab the waistband of those soaked sweatpants and pull them down with purpose.

Chan gasps—his cock already hard, flushed deep red at the tip, leaking. You look up, tongue running across your bottom lip, and he just breathes, “Oh, fuck me.”

His hand flies to the back of your head—but he’s not pushing. He’s holding on. Like he might fall apart if you move too fast.

“Didn’t even shower,” he mutters, voice thick, guttural. “You want me like this? All sweaty, baby?”

You hum in response—warm breath ghosting over his length, and he twitches.

“I want you filthy,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the base—slow and teasing, tasting every bead of sweat, the salt of his skin, the heat of hours on his body. “I want to ruin you before you get clean.”

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes. “You’re—fuck—You’re gonna make me cum already.”

And then you wrap your lips around the head, hollowing your cheeks, moaning as he sinks deeper into your mouth.

Chan loses it.

His head drops back against the wall, hips jerking forward, thighs trembling. The hand in your hair tightens, the other gripping the corner where wall meets doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Good girl,” he groans. “Fucking perfect like this. Tongue—ah, shit, just like that.”

He grits his teeth, hips rolling forward slow—but the tension in his thighs betrays him. He’s trying to stay controlled, trying to savor you. But the second you moan around him again, lips glossy, eyes already glassy?

It’s over.

"Fuck it,” he mutters, voice dropping to that dangerous growl you know means trouble. “You want me filthy?”

You nod—barely—mouth still wrapped around him, your tongue licking behind your teeth, dragging along every swollen vein.

He exhales through his nose and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek. “Then take it.”

And he starts to fuck your mouth.

Not a tease. Not gentle.

Thrusts deep, the tip hitting the back of your throat before you can breathe. The wet slap of skin on your lips echoes loud in the hallway as he ruts into your face, sweat from his abs dripping down your chin. You choke, eyes watering instantly—but you don’t pull back.

You want this. Need it. Crave it like air.

"That's it, baby," he pants, looking down at you like you're something to worship and ruin all at once. “Drooling on my cock already? Fuckin' nasty little thing.”

Your nails dig into his thighs and he groans, hips stuttering. “You’re not even fighting me. Just letting me use your throat like it’s mine.”

You try to say his name but it’s nothing but a garbled choke, spit dripping down your chin, eyes red and cheeks bulging. He pulls out with a loud, wet pop—just enough for you to inhale—before thrusting back in deeper, pushing past resistance.

“Gonna cum just like this,” he hisses, twitching on your tongue, forehead slick and eyes wild. “Not even a second in the door and you’re gagging on me like a fuckin’ heat-drunk mess.”

You whimper.

He feels it—your throat clenching, your tongue flattening, your jaw relaxing just to take more. You’ve gone slack and obedient, dripping with spit and submission.

“Ohhh fuck, good girl. Good—good fucking girl.”

And then he cums.

Hard.

Hot.

Deep.

Cock pulsing against your tongue as he moans, low and filthy, holding you flush to his pelvis. You swallow instinctively, once, twice, choking just a little—and he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

When he finally pulls out, cock still twitching and glistening with spit, your jaw’s slack, tongue out, lips shiny, and he just watches you breathe for a moment.

“Didn’t even let me get my shoes off,” he chuckles, dark and breathless. His hand strokes your cheek, thumb smearing a bit of his own cum across your lower lip. “God, look at you.”

You blink back the tears that gathered and Chan tucks himself halfway back into his sweats, helps you up to your feet—but doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath.

His arms wrap around your thighs.

You yelp.

And just like that, he hoists you over his shoulder, your ass in the air, face pressed to his sweaty back, heartbeat thundering between your legs.

“Didn’t even let me take a fuckin’ breath,” he mutters, palming your thigh. You can feel his cum still warm on your chin. “You think you’re getting away with that?”

You squirm, giggling, breathless—but he lands a hard slap on your ass and grins when you gasp. “You’re real fuckin’ lucky I missed you today.” You try to respond, but all you can manage is a breathless whimper as he stalks down the hall, grip possessive, pace fast.

He kicks the bedroom door open. Slams it shut behind him. And tosses you on the bed like you’re the next thing he’s about to devour. Already tugging his sweats the rest of the way down, dark eyes locked on you like a promise.

You're laid out on the mattress, chest heaving and Chan’s already crawling over you. Sweats gone. Cock hard again. Eyes dark like stormclouds rolling in. You can still feel his cum smeared across your chin, tacky on your skin, and it makes your head spin.

"You look so fucked out already," he murmurs, voice thick with want. “But you’re not done yet, are you, baby?”

You shake your head, biting your lip—and he smirks like you just said something delicious.

“No,” he hums, crawling between your legs, body hot and heavy and damp with sweat. “You’re never done with me. Not until I say.”

He grabs your jaw again—thumb smearing your bottom lip, collecting his own release from your skin and pushing it into your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You moan around his thumb, tongue curling around the taste of him, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Such a good little mess for me.”

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To devour.

His mouth crashes to your throat, trailing down to your chest, teeth dragging, tongue licking every inch of skin you didn’t even know was sensitive.

And when he gets between your legs? He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t talk. He just presses his cock in deep—slow and thick and overwhelming—with a groan that sounds like prayer.

You arch, crying out, hands clutching his forearms, nails sinking into sweaty skin.

“Shhh,” he coos, thrusting deep and slow. “Just let me in.”

You do. You take it. All of him. All over again. He fills you like it’s instinct—like your body was made to hold his. And once he’s buried to the hilt?

He doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, pinned underneath him, cock throbbing, your cunt fluttering from the pressure, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Feel that?” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s me, baby. That’s all of me.”

You whimper. Squirm. Try to roll your hips.

He chuckles—deep and dangerous.

“Nuh-uh. Not yet. You wanted me sweaty? Filthy? Unshowered and on the edge? Then you’re gonna lie here and take every fucking inch of it until I decide I’m done fucking into you.”

He grinds, slow and brutal—just once—and your eyes roll back.

"Let’s see how many loads you can hold, sweetheart.”

He then starts to move. Not fast. Not pounding. Just deep. Possessive. Each thrust a grind of heat and pressure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

“Yeah,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. Wrapped around me. Taking me.”

You sob—can’t help it—because it’s too much and not enough. You’re so full, so wet, his precum already starting to mix with your slick, squelching every time he rocks into you.

“God, listen to that,” he pants, his mouth at your ear. “Hear how wet you are for me? You love this. You love getting stuffed full of me before I’ve even washed the day off.”

You nod frantically, legs locked around him. “C-Chan—fuck—I’m gonna—”

His hand slides down, grabs your jaw, tilts your face up.

“You’re gonna cum baby?” he growls, eyes sharp and electric. “Already?”

You whimper—helpless, delirious—your hips rising to meet his every push.

He’s so deep. So thick. So fucking good.

"Cum on it, then," he says through gritted teeth. “Be my good fucking girl and cum.” And you do. Your orgasm hits so fucking hard and you clamp around him with a cry, thighs shaking, eyes rolling back—and he fucks you through it, grinding deeper, sweat dripping off his body and down your chest.

His cock pulses—he’s cumming again.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, baby—”

He buries himself to the hilt with a groan that sounds like pain and pleasure melted together, hands grabbing at your waist like you’re slipping away. And then—

You feel it. Hot. Heavy. Endless. He cums again. Deep inside. But he doesn’t stop.

Just grinds. Slow. Messy. Filthy. Spreading the warmth of it everywhere inside you, cock still twitching, your cunt fluttering around the overstimulation.

He leans in, panting against your mouth, your sweat and his mixing on your skin, his arms shaking from holding himself up.

“You’re still fuckin’ tight,” he moans, rubbing himself deeper with every lazy grind. “Still squeezing me like you want another load.”

You can’t even speak. Just cry out, overwhelmed, broken open and full to the brim. And that’s when he stops moving. Just stays there. Buried deep. Cock still throbbing. Still hard. And he kisses your cheek, feverish and slow, whispering: “Shh… Just keep me inside, baby. Let me stay. We’ll move again in a minute.”

Lee Minho

You hear the door click open.

Minho having returned from dance practice. All silent and composed and already toeing his shoes off, black hoodie halfway unzipped, revealing the faintest sheen of sweat down his chest.

He doesn’t see you at first. But you’re already moving.

You don’t even let him shut the door.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, yank him inside, and press your mouth to his before he can speak. He freezes—just for a second. Shock, maybe. You don’t usually ambush him.

But then—his hands slide around your waist. And his mouth turns hungry. He kisses back slow at first—dangerously slow—like he’s thinking while tasting you, deciding exactly how he’s going to handle this.

And when your hands drop to the drawstring of his grey sweatpants?

He grabs your wrists. Tight. Controlling. Not cruel. But unmovable. “What do you think you’re doing, baby?” His voice is a low purr. Dangerous. Almost amused.

“I want you like this,” you breathe, nuzzling into his neck. You inhale—he smells like warm cotton, salt, and that irresistible Minho scent that clings to his sweat. “Don’t want you clean. Want you filthy. Want you now.”

There’s a pause. Just the sound of your breathing. His grip doesn’t loosen and before you even know it, he yanks you toward the bedroom.

You stumble as he drags you down the hall, grip bruising on your wrist, chest rising under his damp hoodie. You try to speak—say “Minho—”—but you don’t get the chance.

Because the moment the bedroom door shuts behind you?

He pushes you onto the bed. Hard. Your back bounces on the mattress, and he’s already stripping off his hoodie with one hand, the other pushing your thighs apart like it’s his fucking right.

“You want me sweaty?” he growls, tossing the hoodie to the floor, eyes flashing like warning signs. “Want the smell of my sweat on your skin while you cum?”

You can’t even speak—just nod, breath shuddering as he sinks down to his knees.

“You really are filthy.”

He doesn’t even pull your panties down. He just presses his face between your legs, inhales hard, groans—“Fuck, that’s it.” And then licks you right through the fabric, tongue slow and deliberate, letting the scent of sweat and sex bleed together into something carnal and overwhelming.

You gasp—hips jerking—but he pins you down with both arms, holding your thighs wide apart, his face already soaked from your arousal and the heat of his own body.

“Minho—oh my god—” you choke, fingers flying to his hair.

And he rips your panties to the side with a grunt, diving in fully—tongue sliding between your folds, slick, greedy, relentless.

It’s not soft. It’s not patient. It’s devastating.

He moans low in his throat, tongue flicking your clit like he’s mapping out revenge, sucking hard, filthy, his nose bumping against your cunt, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“Does this feel good?” he mutters between strokes, not even looking up. “Getting eaten out by a man who hasn’t even showered?”

You sob something incoherent, already trembling.

And he smirks against you.

“Good. Because I’m not stopping until your thighs are shaking and my face is dripping with you.”

And then he buries himself again—tongue fucking deep, lips locking around your clit, fingers digging into your thighs like anchors—eating you like he’s starving and your cunt is the cure.

Your head rolls back.

You’re gasping now, sobbing into the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders—but he’s unrelenting. Tongue working in slow, devastating circles, lips dragging across your clit like velvet, every move so calculated it makes you cry.

And all the while, Minho doesn’t stop moaning.

Like you taste better than water. Better than sleep. Like he came home for this. Like your pussy was the destination.

“You sound so pretty when you whimper,” he mutters, pausing just long enough to breathe before licking a thick, heavy stripe up your center—tongue flat, slow, filthy. “Dripping all over my face, and I haven’t even touched your pussy with my cock yet.”

“Please,” you beg—desperate, undone. Your thighs tremble against his jaw, and your hands are in his hair, trying to anchor yourself to something.

He chuckles darkly. “You gonna cum like this? All messy and cock-starved?”

You whimper something like yes—but he doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth clamps around your clit again, sucking, tongue curling just right—and the orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You scream, back arching, thighs clamping, hips bucking into his face—and he just holds you down and keeps eating through it, licking and lapping and humming like he’s trying to drink your soul.

“Minho—fuck, please—”

You’re babbling, shaking, overstimulated beyond reason—and then he finally pulls away, his lips slick, chin wet, and eyes dark with hunger.

“Look at you,” he breathes, licking his mouth like he’s tasting your cum for a second time. “You came so fast for me.”

You reach for him. Desperate. Feral. Already empty again.

“I need—” you choke, voice shaking. “Minho—please, I need your cock. I need it—I need to feel it—I need to be full.”

His gaze sharpens. Voice lowers.

“You need to be fucked dumb, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, writhing.

He grabs your hips—flips you with one brutal pull—and kneels behind you. His sweats are already shoved down, cock flushed and leaking, and he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even breathe.

He lines up and slams into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust.

You moan loudly, voice cracking, because he fills you all at once—thick, hot, stretching you wide, your pussy already soaked and fluttering from the orgasm he tore out of you with his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he growls, thrusting deep, pace fast and merciless. “This what you needed? This what that pretty pussy was crying for?”

You’re shaking under him, face buried in the mattress, hands clutching the sheets like they’ll keep you anchored to the earth.

He fucks you like he’s claiming you, hips slapping, sweat dripping from his body onto your back, his cock dragging across every nerve inside you like he knows exactly where to aim.

“Take it,” he pants, voice breaking. “Take all of it. You wanted me dirty, baby? You’re getting all of it.”

You’re choking on every thrust. Your body jolts forward with each snap of his hips, the mattress creaking beneath you, your thighs trembling, soaked and burning.

“You wanted this?” he snarls, pace brutal now, his voice wrecked, ragged. “Wanted me like this? Sweaty. Filthy. Feral—?”

Your mouth is open, drooling into the sheets, sounds spilling out with every slap of skin-on-skin. He’s so deep, fucking you like he’s trying to stay inside you forever—like your pussy is the only place he ever wanted to be.

And then—

His hand fists your hair.

He yanks your head back—sharp, mean, delicious—exposing your throat to the hot, panting air.

“Look at you,” he hisses against your ear. “Fucked stupid already. Can’t even speak.”

Your lips tremble, eyes fluttering, brain static. “M-Min—”

“No,” he cuts in. His cock drives deeper, angling just right to grind against your sweet spot with every savage thrust. “Don’t say my name. Scream it.”

And you do.

Because the drag of him inside you is overwhelming—relentless, the tip of his cock punishing your walls just right, your clit swollen and untouched, but still throbbing. You're wound so tight you could shatter from nothing but breath.

“Fuck, I feel you,” he groans, hips starting to falter—not slowing down, just getting wilder. “Your pussy’s choking me. You close? Huh?”

You sob—legs giving out—but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you fall. He grabs your hips tighter, slams in deeper, and pulls your hair harder.

"Cum on it," he grits out, teeth clenched, sweat dripping from his jaw to your skin. "Cum on my fucking cock like you were made for it."

You break.

Your whole body convulses—mouth open in a silent scream, vision white-hot as your orgasm tears through you. Your pussy clamps down around him, tight and wet and pulsing, and Minho groans like a demon.

“Shit—fuck—take it, baby, take it—”

He slams in one last time—deep and desperate—and cums hard.

So fucking hard.

His cock pulses, twitching inside you as he fills you deep, warm, thick—his hips rutting through it even as he moans, low and guttural, pouring himself into you like he’s emptying his soul.

You both collapse forward.

His body blanketing yours, cock still buried, cum dripping from between your legs, your chest heaving, your brain gone.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. And whispers: “...Next time? Don’t you dare wait ‘til I’m clean.”

Seo Changbin

The lock beeps.

You’re already perched on the armrest of the couch like a trap. Loose tank. No bra. Nothing under the shorts. Waiting.

And when Changbin walks in, fresh from dance practice—hair sticking to his forehead, black tank soaked through, neck glistening, grey sweatpants clinging to his thighs like a sin—you move.

“Hey, baby—whoa—!”

You pounce. Full-body slam.

He grunts, catching you with both arms instantly—those arms—biceps flexing as you wrap your legs around him like a koala on a mission.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, grinning, breathless from the surprise. “Or are you just that horny for my sweat?”

Your answer? Mouth on his neck.

Tongue dragging over salt-slick skin, nose buried in the heat beneath his jaw, hands tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

“Shit,” he breathes, stumbling backward as you grind against him, your arousal already soaking through your shorts. “You’re fucking serious.”

“Don’t shower yet,” you pant. “I want it like this. I want you like this.”

He looks down at you. Sees the hunger in your eyes. Smirks. “You’re outta your mind.” Then shrugs. “Lucky for you… I’m worse.”

He hauls you up higher, grips your thighs tight, and throws you on the couch like you weigh nothing. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you—sweat-slick, pumped, and hard already.

And he doesn’t undress you. Doesn’t even ask. Just yanks your shorts down and growls: “Gonna fuck you like this until you’re crying.”

“Spread,” he growls, voice low, knuckles bruising your knees as he pushes your thighs open on the couch. “Now.”

You do.

Breath hitching. Heart pounding. Pussy already wet and twitching at just the sound of him. Changbin lowers his sweats alongside his briefs, freeing his cock and then spits into his hand—messy, hot, unbothered—and strokes himself once, twice.

And you see it.

Thick. Veined. Heavy.

That fat fucking cock you always forget just how much it stretches you. Until it’s right there again—pulsing in his palm, the tip flushed and leaking, already too big for your brain.

“You’re already dripping,” he mutters, leaning over you with a smirk. His tank hangs loose from one shoulder, soaked with sweat, and his hips are cocked like he’s about to ruin your entire career. “You that desperate for this cock, baby?”

You nod frantically. “Please—Binnie—need it, need to feel it—”

“Yeah?” He lines himself up. Pushes in—slow at first. Just the head.

And you sob. Because fuck, the stretch. The stretch.

Your pussy clenches helplessly, trying to take him, trying to make room—because he’s so thick and heavy, the kind of full that makes your eyes water. And he hasn’t even bottomed out yet.

“Shit,” he breathes, watching your face twist. “Still so fucking tight.”

He slides in more, and more—inch by devastating inch, sweat dripping from his chest onto your belly, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll have bruises.

And when he finally bottoms out?

You’re split open. Stuffed.

“God, you’re fucking made for me,” he growls, pulling out halfway—then slamming back in. “Taking all this cock, huh? Just letting me stretch this little pussy out like it’s nothing.”

You choke on a cry, back arching, nails digging into the couch.

He picks up the pace. Fast. Brutal. Loud. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes through the room. Your body bounces with every thrust, tits shaking, throat raw with moans.

“You like that?” he pants, one hand gripping your waist, the other coming up to your throat.

Pressure. Just enough. Enough to make you go dizzy—floaty—your pussy fluttering around his cock as he ruts into you like a beast.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he snarls. “Taking it all like a little cockslut. You wanted me sweaty? Now I’m drippin’ all over you while I pound this pussy into the fuckin’ couch.”

You can’t even answer. Just sob. Shake. Clench. So full.

And when he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, voice rough and close?

“You’re gonna cum like this. On this thick cock. With my hand around your throat. Soaked in my sweat.”

You’re whimpering, barely coherent, mouth slack as his fingers tighten around your neck—just enough to make your breath shallow, your vision swim.

And his other hand? He slips it under your loose tank, shoves it up, exposing your tits to the hot air.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he sees them—bouncing with every thrust, nipples stiff, glistening with sweat. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Messy little fucktoy.”

His hips don’t stop. Not even for a second.

Slamming into you, brutal and perfect, cock dragging along every sensitive nerve inside you like he’s trying to carve you open. You cry out, high and breathless, and he just grins.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

His palm cups your breast, rough and greedy, thumb flicking over your nipple while his cock splits you open, while your body burns under him—your pussy fluttering, stuffed so full you feel like you might break.

You gasp into his hand, and he moans low in his throat, like he can feel your reaction in his cock.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost sweet if his tone weren’t dripping with pure filth. “So fuckin’ close, huh? You gonna cum just from this?”

You nod, frantic, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he releases your throat—only to drag that hand down between your legs.

“Oh my god—”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tease.

Just rubs your clit hard and fast, the way he knows drives you insane—his cock still hammering into you, still filling you with every deep, punishing thrust.

“S’too much—Binnie—fuck—” You’re blabbering, sobbing, legs shaking, the couch damp beneath you.

But he’s not stopping. Not when you’re this close. Not when you’re writhing. He leans down again, body pressing to yours, soaked tank clinging to your skin, and growls in your ear: “Cum for me. Ruin this couch. Show me how good your little cunt is at milking every drop out of my cock.”

And you snap.

You cum with a scream—loud, shaking, your entire body locking up, your pussy clamping down so hard around him he curses, slamming in deep one last time.

He shudders as you pulse around him, and then he cums deep inside, thick and flooding you, pushing it even deeper by the way your hips buck helplessly under him.

You’re sobbing into the cushions. Soaking the couch. And he’s still grinding.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmurs, fingers still working your clit gently as his cock twitches inside your ruined, overstimulated cunt. “Take it all, baby. All of it.”

You’re wrecked.

And he just kisses your neck, smiling against your skin, whispering—

“You’re not moving for a while. And I’m not pulling out.”

Hwang Hyunjin

You hear the door before you hear his voice—keys dropping, gym bag thudding, shoes kicked off with a tired sigh.

He’s home. And you’re already moving.

Because Hyunjin after dance practice is your favorite version of him. Sweaty. Loosened. Raw. His long hair sticking to his temples, his tank top clinging to his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, riding just right over tight thighs.

You meet him at the hallway.

No warning. No hello.

Just grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him in—mouth on his, tongue sliding deep, needy and wet and messy, and he freezes for half a second before he moans low, like a match being struck.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, dazed as you grind your hips against his. “You’re seriously doing this right now?”

You lick into his mouth, fingers already tugging at the knot in his waistband, and whisper, “I want you sweaty.”

He laughs—sharp and breathless. “Oh, baby. You’re in trouble.”

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

He presses you against the wall, one hand already down your shorts, fingers dipping between your folds like he’s testing how badly you need it.

“You’re soaking,” he growls. “From a kiss? From my sweat? Fuck, that’s filthy.”

He sinks to his knees without warning, sweat-damp hair falling around his face, and rips your shorts down like he’s starving.

“Jinnie—!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I’m eating.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Mean.

His tongue licks up your cunt like a threat, like he’s trying to carve his name into you with every flick. He grabs your thighs, spreads you open wider, and goes in.

He groans. Loud. And then he moans. Fucking moans like your pussy is the best meal he’s ever had, sloppy and noisy and unashamed, saliva dripping down his chin as he devours you like a man possessed.

"Sweet and salty," he murmurs, breath hot against your clit. "Just like I like it."

You’re shaking.

He presses his tongue flat, drags it over your clit slow—then sucks hard, lips locking around you, tongue fluttering fast, cruel, perfect.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your knees buckle. And he just grips your thighs tighter, moaning like he’s getting off on your sounds, your taste, your squirming.

“You gonna cum like this?” he pants, lips slick, chin drenched. “Gonna fucking fall apart on my face?”

You sob—already so close, already gone.

And he smirks. “Then fucking do it.”

Your vision’s gone white.

Your hips are grinding against his face, fingers clawing at his scalp, knees wobbling as the orgasm rips through you like a storm.

“F-Fuck—Hyun—!”

You cum on his tongue.

Messy. Loud. Drenched.

He groans—deep in his throat like he’s getting drunk on it—tongue flicking even harder, lips sealed tight around your clit as he sucks through your climax.

You try to pull away.

He doesn’t let you.

He grabs your ass with both hands and pulls you down onto his face harder—and now you’re riding it, practically sitting on his mouth, your thighs shaking, whimpering, overstimulated and wrecked and still so, so wet.

He comes up for air only after you’re crying.

Face soaked. Lips glistening. Chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a marathon.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at you with those wild eyes, and smirks.

“Did I say I was done?”

You barely have time to blink before he’s lifting you up, arms under your thighs, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing.

“Jinnie—wait—!”

“No.” His voice is low. Commanding. Filthy. “You’re gonna squirt on my fingers, and then you can beg for cock.”

He drops you onto the cushions, spreads your legs open, and sinks to his knees between them.

“You look good like this,” he mutters, watching your cunt twitch, still wet, still sensitive. “Pussy all swollen. Just begging to be used.”

And then—two fingers. Right in. No warning, no warm-up, just thick, long and fast, curling upward like he’s already memorized every nerve you can’t handle.

You scream.

He starts to finger fuck you hard, sweat still rolling down his neck, muscles flexing as his wrist moves with precision—like an artist painting with your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, thrusting deep, palm slapping your clit with every motion. “You’re dripping all over my hand. You want more?”

“Please—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can.” He leans in close, breath hot against your cheek. “I haven’t even drawn my name in your cum yet.”

His fingers speed up. Wrist twisting. Palm grinding.

You lose it.

Your thighs lock, your eyes roll back, your pussy gushes—

You squirt.

All over his hand. All over the couch. Soaking the cushions, his arm, your thighs, everything.

And Hyunjin just watches. Smirking. Drenched. Hard as hell. “Yeah,” he pants, licking your cum off his wrist with lazy, hungry strokes. “Now you’re ready.”

He leans over you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your stomach. “Now you’re gonna take my cock. And we’re not stopping ‘til you do that again.”

He leans over you slowly, tongue licking the corner of his mouth, his free hand already sliding down to push his sweats and briefs down just enough to free his cock—hard, flushed, dripping, slapping wetly against your mound.

You whimper.

"Shhh," he coos, breath hot against your cheek. "You're twitching already. Look at you. So fucking sensitive, and I haven’t even fucked you yet."

You try to speak—don’t even know what you’re trying to say—but your body is trembling, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted, hips rolling involuntarily toward the heat of him.

He reaches down and grabs his cock, drags the head between your folds, slow and mean, teasing your overstimulated clit with just the tip.

Your whole body jolts.

He watches the way your pussy jumps, the way your thighs clamp together, and smiles—soft and cruel.

"Still soaked from squirting on me like a needy little mess," he whispers, circling your clit again with the head of his cock. "You gonna cry when I finally fuck it in?"

You nod, desperate, broken, begging without words.

"Yeah? Then cry."

And he thrusts in. All at once. Deep. Heavy.

Your back arches off the couch with a scream, the sudden stretch too much, too fast, too fucking perfect, and Hyunjin moans as he bottoms out—his hips pressed against yours, your walls fluttering like they don’t know whether to grip or push him out.

"Oh my fuck—" he chokes, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re tight as hell. So warm. Just sucked me right in."

He doesn’t move.

Just grinds, deep and slow, letting you feel every thick inch as your pussy clenches, so wet that the slide is almost obscene—your slick and his precum mixing, leaking down your ass and onto the couch.

"Can feel you pulsing," he whispers, voice gone hoarse. "Still coming down? Don’t care."

He leans up—grabs your hips, and starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Bruising.

The sound of skin slapping against soaked skin fills the room. Sweat drips from his chest to yours. His hair sticks to his face. His cock pounds into you, and you sob from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Take it,” he growls, one hand sliding to grab your tit, fingers digging in as he thrusts rougher. “Take all of it.”

There's tears in your eyes. Mouth open in gasps. Pussy milking him like it’s trying to keep him in your body forever. “You’re shaking again,” he breathes, leaning close to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Bet I can make you squirt on my cock.”

You whimper—your whole body trembling, overstimulated to the point of delirium, sweat soaking your back, your thighs aching from how hard you’re clenching.

But he doesn’t stop.

He’s fucking you through it—deep, fast, brutal. Every thrust is precise, his cock dragging right over that spot inside you that makes your legs kick, makes your voice break.

“C’mon, baby,” he pants, licking the sweat from your jaw, voice breaking with you. “Give it to me. Fuckin’ give it to me.”

His hips roll faster, slapping against your soaked skin, the sound wet and obscene, your body bouncing under his weight. You claw at his back, crying out, overwhelmed beyond sense, your mind already unraveling.

“Jinnie—I can’t—too much—!”

“Yes you fucking can,” he growls, teeth dragging against your collarbone. “You're gonna squirt all over my cock, and you’re gonna take every drop when I cum inside you.”

And then he slams deep and grinds, hips rolling in a filthy rhythm, cock thick and twitching inside you—and something in you snaps.

“Fuck—!”

You scream, back arching violently as it hits you. Your pussy clenches so hard around him it makes him moan, and then—

You squirt. All over his cock, down your thighs, onto the ruined couch beneath you.

Hyunjin groans deep in your ear, his voice a raw, fucked-out growl as your cunt pulses around him like it’s trying to pull his soul in.

“Oh my fucking god—yes—fuck yes—”

And he loses it.

One final thrust, and he cums. Presses all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, and you can feel the way he twitches, the way he fills you—thick ropes of it spilling into your sore, overstimulated pussy as he pants above you, drenched in sweat, still shaking.

He doesn’t move.

Just collapses forward, still inside you, your bodies pressed together, cum leaking down your ass, both of you breathless, ruined, shaking.

And then—his hand cups your cheek.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice warm, wrecked, in awe. “Made a fuckin’ masterpiece on my cock.”

Han Jisung

The door slams open—harder than usual—and there he is:

Han Jisung, soaked with sweat, hood halfway off his head, grey sweatpants dangerously low, curls stuck to his forehead, and lips already parted.

“Baaabyyy,” he groans before even seeing you, tossing his bag somewhere in the general direction of the floor. “Practice killed me. I’m so sweaty, I smell like I fought a demon and lost—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

One second he’s mid-ramble, the next, your tongue is in his mouth, your hands in his waistband, your body already on fire. His eyes go comically wide—and then roll back.

“W-Whoa—wait—wait—mmph—!”

You don’t wait. You don’t stop. You’re already pushing him into the wall, kissing him filthy, tugging those sweatpants down while he makes the prettiest little sounds—half-laughs, half-gasps, all desperation.

“W-What the fuck—what the fuck is happening?” he pants, dazed. “Did you—did you just get turned on by my smell—?”

You palm his cock through his briefs.

He whimpers.

“Oh my God,” he chokes, hands flying to your hips like he doesn’t know whether to push or pull. “You’re—fuck, you’re actually into this? You’re gonna suck me off while I’m still gross from rehearsal?”

You pull back, licking your lips.

“I don’t want you clean, Ji. I want you messy.”

He just melts. Full body crumbles, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open.

“...I’m gonna cum just from that alone.”

You grab his wrist and yank him toward the couch without a word.

He stumbles after you, breath hitching, cock already half-hard under his briefs. He’s still sweaty, flushed from practice, his skin warm and sticky—but you don’t care.

You want it. You want all of it. You push him down onto the cushions, and he just falls with a soft oof, legs spread slightly, looking up at you with wide, ruined eyes.

“Wait—baby, are you—fuck, are you sure? I smell like a locker room and I haven’t even—”

You shove your hand into his waistband.

He chokes on his sentence.

You grip both sweats and briefs and yank them down in one go, cock springing free, flushed red and twitching—already leaking for you.

“Fuuuck,” he whines, head falling back, chest heaving. “You’re serious. You’re really—oh my God—”

You toss his sweats aside like trash. Kneel between his legs. Grab his thighs. And sink your mouth over the head of his cock without a single warning.

“F-fuck—oh fuck oh fuck—”

He’s already moaning, legs tensing, hands scrambling into your hair like he doesn't know whether to push or just hold on for dear life.

Your tongue swirls over the slit, catching the precum, letting it mix with your spit as you take more—inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and your eyes start to water.

You pull back just a little, then slide back down with a slick, wet groan—gagging softly, your lips stretched, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

Jisung is losing his goddamn mind.

His hands tighten in your hair, and he’s panting like he just ran five miles.

“Shitshitshit—baby, baby, you’re gonna—fuck—if you do that again I’m gonna cum—I’m not kidding—”

You moan around him.

His hips jerk up off the couch, thrusting into your throat before he can stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking, eyes rolling back. “I-I didn’t mean to do that—fuck, you just feel so good, your mouth is so wet, I can’t—”

You moan again around him—loud and filthy, throat tightening around his cock as your own hand slips down into your shorts, fingers diving between your legs, rubbing messy circles over your clit while he fucks your mouth like he owns it.

You’re gagging softly, drooling, spit soaking your chin, hand moving faster over your clit as he thrusts shallow and fast, hips jerking forward in helpless little snaps.

Jisung looks down.

And he loses it.

“Holy—fuck—are you—are you touching yourself right now?!”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, makeup smudged, tongue flattening under his cock, and your fingers keep moving.

You don’t break eye contact. You just moan again. On his cock.

The sound vibrates all the way through him.

“Baby,” he whines, voice cracking open like he’s about to cry. “You’re gonna fucking break me, I swear to God—”

His hands are gripping your hair, holding you down while his hips fuck into your throat, wet sounds echoing through the room, your saliva dripping everywhere—his thighs, the couch, your own chin—and your fingers don’t stop.

You’re soaked.

So turned on from the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of his precum, the sound of his needy little moans echoing above you as he loses every last thread of control.

“Y-You’re fucking gagging on me while fingering yourself—fuck, I’m so in love with you—”

That one breaks you.

You whimper hard around his cock, thighs clenching, your clit throbbing under your fingers as he holds your head still and thrusts deeper, his hips rolling forward, desperate, brutal, eyes wild and glassy.

“You’re gonna cum?” he gasps. “Oh my god, you’re gonna cum with my cock in your throat?”

You nod. Just barely. And that’s all he needs.

“Cum for me. Fucking cum while I fuck your throat—please—please—”

Your fingers move faster. Your mouth is full. Your pussy is clenching—

And you cum. Hard. Shaking. Muffled. Gagging. And Jisung, he cums with you.

One loud, broken cry as he thrusts in deep and pours into your throat, his cock twitching hard on your tongue, his entire body curling over you, sweating and sobbing and panting like he just survived a war.

And you take it all. Every drop.

You pull off him slowly, lips dragging across his length with one last, wet suck—cum dripping down your throat, your mouth glistening, your chin a mess.

And then?

You swallow. All of it. Head tilted back, throat bobbing, eyes never leaving his. Jisung is frozen. Mouth open. Hair plastered to his forehead. Cock twitching, already starting to swell again between his thighs.

“...Holy shit,” he breathes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and then push yourself up onto your knees, climbing into his lap.

He still hasn’t recovered. But you don’t give him time. You straddle him, bare thighs spread over his, your soaked core grinding down against his softening cock—already half-hard again, twitching with every breath.

“You’re insane,” he whispers, hands flying to your hips. “You’re actually—fucking—insane.”

You just grin.

Then you kiss him.

Hard. Filthy. Desperate. Spit and heat and teeth and cum still on your tongue, moaning into his mouth as he grabs you tighter, groaning into the kiss like he’s being pulled back from the grave.

He tastes himself on you. You feel him thicken again beneath you. He breaks the kiss first—panting, eyes wild, lips swollen.

“You’re grinding on me already—?” he pants. “I just came. You swallowed all of it. I should be dead.”

“You’re hard again,” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah, because you’re fucking sitting on me, making out with me like I’m your next meal—”

You roll your hips once—slick heat sliding over his cock.

He gasps.

And then: “Sit on it.” His hands grip your ass now, pulling you closer, voice wrecked and ragged. “Ride it. Ride me just like this. Sweat, spit, cum—I don’t care. Fucking ruin me again.”

Your hands press to his shoulders, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing as you lift your hips, grab his cock, and line him up.

You sink down, slow, stretching, aching.

And the second he slides in—fully, deeply, bottoming out—

You both moan, loud and wrecked, heads dropping forward to each other’s shoulders.

Your pussy clamps around him immediately, still tender and fluttering from cumming on his tongue, from choking on him until you shook, and now—he’s buried to the hilt, twitching inside you, and you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Holy shit,” Jisung gasps, voice cracking. “You’re so tight, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me like you missed me—”

You start to move.

Slow grind first, hips rolling, teasing him with every inch, the wet squelch of your cunt sliding along his cock so loud it makes his jaw clench.

His grip on your ass tightens.

And then?

SMACK.

“AH—!”

Your eyes fly open, body jolting as he slaps your ass, hard and perfect, his handprint blooming red against your skin.

“I said,” he growls, “ride me like you mean it.”

Before you can even catch your breath— SMACK. Other cheek.

You cry out, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging, and he groans at the way you squeeze him tighter with every hit.

“Fuck, I knew you liked that,” he pants. “Knew you were the type to cream on my cock while I spanked you.”

He grits his teeth and grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you from below, meeting your hips halfway with each brutal slap of his thighs. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he growls, pulling your body down to slam against his with every movement. You’re gasping, slapping down onto him, the whole room echoing with wet, dirty sounds—skin on skin, sweat, soaked moans.

"Let me take control now baby. You had your fun." he breathes, pulling your hair back to make you look at him. His eyes are wild. Pupils blown. Mouth swollen.

“You sucked me so good,” he pants, hips snapping up. “Took me down your throat like you were starving for it.”

You whimper, back arching as he keeps fucking you from underneath, slamming into that perfect spot, his grip on your hips tightening until your skin burns beneath his fingers.

“I should be giving you a nap,” he growls, thrusting deep. “Letting you rest after swallowing all that cum—” He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw. “—but you rode me like a filthy little cockdrunk princess. So now I’m gonna break you.”

Your cunt clenches at his words—hard.

And he feels it.

“Oh, you like that,” he huffs out a laugh, sweat dripping from his neck to your chest. “You love when I take it from you, huh? When I grab your hips and fuck you like I’m claiming every fucking inch?”

He slams up into you, once—hard and deep—and you scream.

“Say it,” he pants, hand sliding from your hair to wrap around your throat lightly. Not squeezing. Just enough to hold you still.

“Yours,” you sob, eyes rolling back. “I’m yours—fuck—Jisung, I’m so close—”

“That’s right, baby,” he whispers, voice rough and proud. “My perfect little fucktoy. My good girl. My cockslut.”

His hips move faster now—precise, filthy, relentless.

“You’re gonna cum again, huh?” he groans. “On this cock you sucked dry. On the same dick that dumped down your throat and still came back hard for you.”

You’re gone. Shaking. Drooling. Falling apart.

And then he lifts his hips, grinds deep, and whispers: “Be a good girl. Cum for me. Cream on my cock while I fill you up again.”

And your orgasm rips through you.

Loud. Soaked. Violent.

You clamp down around him, pulsing so hard it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs—and Jisung groans, slamming up one final time, burying himself deep.

“Fuuuck—baby—fuck—”

He cums with a moan, high and sweet, whole body trembling as he spills inside you, hips jerking, breath catching, cum flooding your pussy in thick waves.

You both collapse—sticky, wrecked, gasping.

Jisung wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple as you collapse onto his chest.

“God, you’re insane,” he breathes. “I’m never letting you suck my dick again unless we’ve got, like, a week to recover.”

And then softer—sweeter: “Good girl. So fucking good for me.”

Lee Felix

The door opens. You don’t move.

You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, scrolling aimlessly—but your eyes snap up the moment you hear the keypad beep and the door click open.

Felix walks in like pure comfort. Grey sweats, damp curls, flushed from rehearsal, hoodie half off his shoulder. A sweet smile spreads across his face the second he sees you.

“Hey, baby.” Voice low. Soft. Like honey. Like he missed you so bad, even after just a few hours.

You don’t say anything. Just stare. Because he looks ridiculous. All sweaty and musky and glowing, and that smile? You’re going to hell for the things you’re about to do.

He crosses the room, leans over the back of the couch to kiss you—just a soft brush of lips, but his hand finds your cheek like always. Gentle. Warm.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. Then—reach down.

Grab his waistband. Tug. Hard.

Felix freezes. Eyes flicker. “…What’s that about?”

You smirk. “You smell too good to shower yet.”

He blinks. Once. Then again. And then—the smile shifts. Just slightly. “Oh, baby…”

He moves fast. In a blur, he’s coming around the couch, blanket yanked off, phone tossed aside, and you’re gasping as he climbs over you, caging you in.

“That little tug,” he whispers, mouth ghosting over yours, “was real fuckin’ brave.”

You grin, daring. “What if I do it again?”

He leans in. Nose to yours. Smile still soft, but his eyes?

Not sweet anymore.

“Then I guess,” he murmurs, “you want to see what happens when I stop being nice.”

You barely have time to gasp before his hand wraps around your throat—not tight, not cruel—just enough to hold you still. To make you look at him.

Felix grins.

Wide. Wicked.

Then he kisses you. Hard. Tongue greedy. Teeth catching your bottom lip. Soft hands—gone. Now they’re gripping your hips and yanking you flat beneath him, the weight of him pressing you into the couch.

"You really think I was gonna be soft forever?" he whispers between kisses, dragging his mouth to your neck. "After the way you looked at me? The way you tugged on my sweats like I’m just here to be used?"

He ruts against you—slow, heavy, his cock already straining hard beneath the fabric, grinding into your core like he’s marking the spot.

“I came home to shower,” he says, biting the shell of your ear, “but now I think I’m gonna fuck you messy and let your cum wash over me instead.”

Your breath catches—completely, violently gone—when he reaches down, yanks your shorts aside, and presses two fingers right against your soaked slit.

“Of course,” he laughs, low and smug, “you’re already wet.”

“Lix—” you gasp.

“I said you wanted this.” He kisses your cheek, sweet again for half a second—and then shoves your panties down with one hand and drags the other up to your throat. “So you’re gonna take it. All of it.”

He stands, yanks his sweats and briefs down in one motion—his cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and leaking, a fucking weapon aimed straight at you.

You stare, wide-eyed, mouth parted, thighs instinctively pulling together—

“Nope,” he grins. “Open those legs, pretty. Or I make you.”

You obey.

And then he’s kneeling on the floor, hooking your knees over his shoulders—

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he purrs. “You wanted messy, right?”

He licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. You jolt. You scream. Because he doesn’t stop. Tongue fucking in, nose nudging your clit, moaning like you’re his favorite thing he’s ever tasted. Holding your thighs down while you squirm and cry and beg, humping his face, and he’s just smiling—grinding against the couch while he eats you alive.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. “Cum on my tongue. I’m not stopping till you do.”

His tongue is licking up every drop, flattening against your clit, then curling in with maddening precision. He groans like it’s divine, like you taste better than anything he's ever known, and you feel the sound vibrate through your whole body.

You arch. Grab at the cushions. Whimper his name.

And he just moans, mouth pressed so deep between your thighs it sounds like he's drunk on you.

“Felix—” you gasp, trembling.

He hums, lips never leaving your skin. Then, without warning—one finger slides in.

Perfect pressure. Curling. Filling.

Your eyes roll back.

"You’re gripping me so tight already," he pants, voice ragged now. “God, you really did wait for me, huh?”

A second finger joins the first. Slow. Stretching you. Fucking into you deep and steady while his tongue keeps flicking circles around your clit.

You cry out, back arching so high he has to hold you down.

"Stay still, angel," he murmurs against your soaked skin. "Let me take care of you. Just feel."

The lewd, wet sound of his fingers pumping into you mixes with his low groans—a symphony of filth and devotion. He licks harder. Sucks gently. And you snap.

Your thighs tremble violently. Breath stutters. Your hands fly to his hair—

“I—I'm—”

"Cum for me," he says into you, voice raw, fingers relentless. “You’ve been so good. So patient. Let go.”

You do. With a cry that shatters the room.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—rushing, rolling, full-body and dizzying. He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. Sucking you through it, moaning like he’s the one falling apart.

And when your hips finally jerk away, overstimulated and slick and still fluttering, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Gentle. Sweet.

Then licks his lips, eyes dark.

“…That was one,” he says softly, standing up.

“And baby?” He presses the head of his cock between your soaked folds, eyes fluttering. “I’m not nearly done.”

Felix finally presses in. The stretch is filthy. Your mouth falls open. Your back arches. He lets out a low, broken sound that doesn’t even sound human.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, sinking deeper, inch by inch. “You feel—God—you’re soaked.”

You gasp his name, nails digging into the cushions behind you as he finally bottoms out—deep and hot and thick and pulsing. For a moment, he just stays there, buried inside, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

Then?

He moves.

Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks you like he means it.

Hips slamming against your thighs, cock dragging against that sweet spot again and again—wet slaps, broken gasps, filthy praise.

“Wanted to ruin you the second I walked in that door,” he groans, grabbing your waist to yank you into every thrust. “You looked at me like you needed it—needed me.”

You moan, breath catching as his pace turns brutal, the couch creaking beneath you.

“So take it.” He pulls out halfway, slams back in. “Take all of me.”

You can’t even form words anymore, just messy cries of his name, hands scrabbling for purchase as he leans over you, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat.

“You’re shaking so much,” he breathes, voice tight. “You gonna cum for me again?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling, already so close from how he devoured you before.

“Yeah?” he pants, thumb finding your clit, rubbing hard and perfect. “You'll hold it baby, yeah? You're my good angel, and you're gonna hold it for me.”

And you simply whimper at those words.

“Lift your arms for me, baby.” he suddenly said and you obey—barely—fingers shaking, vision still swimming, and he peels your shirt up slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just hungry.

It’s soaked with sweat, clinging to your back as he pulls it over your head. And then—his hands are everywhere.

Palms warm. Confident. Reverent.

He cups your breasts like he’s waited all day to touch them, brushing his thumbs over your nipples until they stiffen under his fingers. Then his head dips—lips soft and open-mouthed as he kisses between them, up your chest, until he can take one into his mouth.

Your back arches. You whimper.

“Felix—”

“Shh,” he breathes, voice like velvet and smoke, “I’ve got you.”

His tongue flicks, circles, sucks just hard enough to make you gasp. One hand kneads the other breast, lazy but firm, and the other? Slips between your thighs again, rubbing on your clit, a perfect rhythm to match his thrusts and you jerk at the feeling. “You’re close,” he breathes against your skin, lips grazing your collarbone, hips still moving in those deep, precise thrusts. “I can feel it.”

You nod frantically, eyes wide, barely holding on. Your body is taut beneath him, thighs trembling, hands gripping his arms like lifelines.

“But I said no, didn’t I?” he whispers, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Told you not to cum. You held it for me like such a good girl.”

You whimper—desperate, wrecked. “Please… please, Lix…”

His pace falters. Just for a moment. Then his forehead presses to yours, eyes locked on yours, glowing with something tender and dangerous all at once.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath warm and ragged. “Now.”

The permission breaks you. Instantly.

You unravel in his arms, clenching tight around him as your orgasm crashes through you—shaking, crying out, your entire body trembling.

And the second he feels it—the moment you pulse around him like that—he loses it too.

“Fuck, baby—god, you’re perfect—”

He spills inside you with a deep, broken groan, thrusting through it, chasing every last second of the high as his hands bury into your hips.

Even after—he keeps moving. Slow. Shallow. A few more messy thrusts.

Felix leans down and kisses your jaw. Your chest. Your forehead. He’s still buried in you, still warm, still full. “Shh,” he breathes, rocking into you once more. “I know. I know, baby.”

His voice goes soft again. Sunshine again.

“You're so perfect. All mine.”

Kim Seungmin

He doesn’t even blink when the door opens and you lunge at him.

Seungmin just tilts his head, one brow arched, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temple. His chest rises slow beneath the loose tee he hasn’t even had time to peel off. Grey sweats slung low. Post-practice glow radiating off him.

He drops his bag.

Crosses his arms.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “No ‘hi, baby’? No ‘how was practice’?”

You press your mouth to his jaw, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

He exhales. A quiet chuckle. “You really are desperate, huh?”

You nod, lips dragging down his neck, one hand already palming him through the fabric. “You smell so good,” you whisper. “So hot like this. I couldn’t wait—please, let me—”

And that’s when he grabs your wrist.

Hard. Firm. Controlling.

Eyes dark.

“You could’ve just said you needed to be put in your place.”

You blink.

He takes a step forward.

You take one back.

Until your knees hit the edge of the couch and you drop into it with a soft gasp.

“Better,” he mutters, leaning over you, hands braced on either side. “Now pick. You’re getting ruined either way.”

You swallow.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, “or on the couch. Choose.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You’re already slipping off the couch and onto your knees—palms splayed against his thighs, mouth parted, breath coming fast. You look up at him with that desperate, pleading stare he lives for.

He hums. Smiles lazily.

“Good choice.”

Then he shoves his sweats down in one motion—boxers too—and his cock springs free, flushed, hard, dripping at the tip. Your mouth waters.

But before you can lean in—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just a bit.

“Tch. What’s the rush?” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, eyes glinting. “You couldn’t even wait five seconds to say hi to me, and now you think you deserve my cock in your mouth?”

You whimper.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say how desperate you are. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m—” you gasp, “I’m sorry, Seungmin. I just—fuck—I need it. I need you.”

He grins, teeth sharp.

“Then open wide,” he growls, stepping closer. “Since you’re so fucking starved.”

You do.

And the second your tongue slides against the head, he groans—low and guttural—and sinks into your mouth with a hiss of breath through his teeth. “Yeah, just like that. Filthy little mouth. Fuck.”

His grip tightens in your hair, pulling your head back, then guiding you forward again. His hips begin to move—slow thrusts, shallow at first, letting you adjust—but it doesn’t last.

Not when you moan around him. Not when your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock like you need to be ruined. Not when you look up at him again with tears already gathering.

“Oh, you like this,” he pants. “You want me to use your mouth. Want me to fuck it raw, huh?”

He’s fucking into you now. Properly. Holding your head still. Groaning when your throat spasms around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasps. “Make you swallow every fucking drop. And then I’m gonna throw you on that couch—stuff you full all over again.”

Your knees ache, your throat burns, and your whole body trembles from how long he’s kept you like this—spit slicking your chin, breath catching every time he slides back in with a guttural groan. But god, it's worth it.

“You’re still hanging on?” he pants, jaw clenched as his grip in your hair tightens. “Fuck. You’re better than I thought.”

His hips roll into you with a little more weight now. Less restraint. More need.

“You wanted it this way, remember?” He leans in, breath hot against your flushed face as he holds you steady and thrusts deeper again. “Didn’t even let me sit down. Didn’t give me a second to think.”

You moan around him—pathetic, needy—and that seems to do something to him.

“Thought so.” His voice drops to a low growl. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You nod as best you can, mouth stretched wide, spit coating your lips. Your hands are fisting the fabric of his sweatpants at his thighs, desperate for something to hold onto.

He groans through gritted teeth. “You’re shaking. You gonna cum just from this?”

You almost do. Just from the look on his face. The weight of him on your tongue. The raw, breathless sound of his pleasure.

Then—his cock twitches in your mouth, and he hisses, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye.

“Don’t move,” he warns. “You want to be my pretty little toy? Then stay right there.”

His hands cup your jaw, holding your face still, and he thrusts into your mouth again—slow but brutal, breath coming faster, his muscles tensing with every motion.

You barely register his words through the haze,

but his voice cuts through it all:

“Be good. Take all of it.”

And then he groans. Deep. Guttural. Raw.

The thrusts falter. Hips jerk. And you feel it — thick, warm, undeniable — as he spills down your throat with a choked, breathless growl of your name.

His hand is still tangled in your hair, but he’s shaking too now, his abs tightening as he pants through it, every muscle strung tight as a bow.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You… fuck. You’re too good.”

You stay still, letting him empty every drop, swallowing around him as your hands clutch his thighs for support. He twitches once, twice, before finally pulling back, breath ragged, cock still flushed and glistening with the aftermath.

Your lips are shiny, your mouth wrecked.

He stares down at you like you’ve undone him completely.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, thumbing at your chin, his voice softer now. “Look at you.”

You look up, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

And that’s when his smirk returns—dangerous, slow. “What?” he breathes. “You thought we were done?” He leans in close, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Cute.”

Seungmin moves and drops back onto the couch like he owns it, which he does,

sweatpants pushed halfway down, thighs spread, cock flushed and twitching against his stomach, still glistening from the mess you made together.

He looks wrecked. And hungry.

“Take it off,” he murmurs, gaze locked on you. “All of it. Want to see you.”

Your fingers tremble as you pull your shirt over your head, and he groans when he sees the state of your chest—kiss-bitten, rising and falling with every breath. Then go your shorts. Your panties. Every inch of you exposed, aching.

You take a step forward.

“Uh-uh,” he says, voice dipped in warning. “Beg first. You want me again? Ask.”

You swallow, pulse racing.

“Please, Seungmin,” you whisper, climbing into his lap with trembling thighs. “Need to ride you. Need it so bad.”

He smirks, hands gripping your waist. “Then ride me like you mean it.”

You sink down slowly—his cock still sensitive but hardening fast—and his head falls back with a growl.

“Shit—fuck, you feel perfect.”

You gasp at the stretch, the heat. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you down until you’re seated fully, your cunt fluttering around him as you adjust to the pressure.

And then—he slaps your ass. Once. Twice.

"Move baby." he coos, words contradicting with the way he slapped your ass, skin bright red.

You start bouncing in his lap, your hands braced on his shoulders, your moans slipping out faster than you can control—Seungmin thrusts up to meet you, teeth grit, pupils blown wide.

Your thighs are trembling. You’re barely keeping rhythm, gasping every time his cock presses against that spot that makes your vision blur.

Seungmin’s grip tightens. He watches you—devours you—with that sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes. Your tits bounce with every slap of skin, your pussy soaked, sucking him in like you’re trying to pull his soul out.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls. “You’re so fucking messy for me.”

You nod—barely coherent, chasing your high.

But then—

“No.”

Suddenly his hands slide down, grip your thighs tight, and before you can even react—

He flips you.

Your back hits the couch cushions with a gasp, legs in the air, and his cock slips out for just a second—slick and twitching, the loss of pressure making you whimper.

He leans over you, hand gripping your jaw, eyes dark.

“You think you can fuck me like that and not get ruined?” And just like that, he slams back into you—deep, and hard.

His thrusts are relentless now. Sharp and punishing. One hand holds your leg up over his shoulder, the other planted firm beside your head.

“You’re not done till I say so.”

You claw at his back. Your walls clench. Every snap of his hips makes your mind blank out. It’s all Seungmin—his sweat on your skin, his cock driving you insane, his breath in your mouth as he leans in closer—

“You gonna cum for me pretty girl?” he pants, voice wrecked. “Gonna cream all over me like a good girl?”

You sob a yes, so close—

He’s deep—too deep—and you’re clenching so tight around him it feels like you’re going to split open. He leans over you, bracing his forearm beside your head, the other hand dragging down your thigh, gripping until your skin dimples.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “Come on, pretty girl. Let go.”

You whimper. You’re close. Too close.

He dips his head, mouth brushing your cheek, breath trembling. “You know I’ll be right behind you. Just give it to me.”

Your fingers dig into his back. He’s grinding now, not thrusting—hips rolling deep, slow, cruel. His cock hits that devastating spot again and again, and your eyes blur, lips parting around a helpless moan.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “God, look at you—falling apart for me.”

You nod, unable to speak. Your whole body’s caught in that moment right before you break.

And then—he says it:

“Cum for me, baby. Right now. Let me feel you lose it.”

And you do.

It crashes into you like a wave—hot, blinding, full-body. Your back lifts from the cushions, a sob rips from your chest, and your thighs clamp around him as your climax hits—hard and all-consuming.

He groans your name like a prayer. Hips stuttering. You feel it—his release catching up with yours, the sound he makes low and wrecked, fingers gripping your face like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth as he spills his cum inside, painting your insides with it.

He stays there, buried deep inside you. Both of you breathing like you just ran through fire. And then he kisses you. Not rushed. Not filthy.

Just… real. Gentle.

"My perfect fucking girl. I think I would like to be greeted from dance practice like this."

Yang Jeongin

You barely hear the keypad beep before you bolt—socks sliding on the floor, heart pounding.

The door creaks open, and there he is.

Jeongin, sweaty and flushed from practice, black hair sticking to his forehead, grey sweatpants clinging low on his hips. He’s shrugging off his hoodie when he sees you rushing toward him.

“Wha—?”

You grab his face, kiss him hard. Open-mouthed, messy, greedy.

He staggers backward with a soft grunt, dropping his bag. His hands are up like he doesn’t know where to touch first. “W–Wait, baby, I’m—sweaty—”

“I know,” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his waistband. “Don’t care. Want you just like this.”

His breath catches.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice cracking around a moan as you sink to your knees. “Oh my God.”

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything so filthy and perfect. His cock is already hard beneath the fabric, a damp patch blooming at the tip.

“You’re serious?” he pants, shuddering when you press your mouth over the bulge. “You—you’re gonna—fuck—here? Right now?”

You nod, tongue tracing him through the cotton. “You’re not going anywhere, Innie.”

His breath hitches as you tug his sweats down, just enough to free his cock—already flushed, leaking, twitching. And when your lips wrap around the head, he chokes on his own moan, one shaky hand flying to the back of your head.

“Fuck—baby—slow, slow, please—”

But you don’t slow down. You devour him.

Tongue licking flat underneath, hand stroking the base, spit dripping to your chin. You look up at him—eyes glassy, mouth full—and that’s what snaps the last of his control.

Jeongin’s voice drops, low and tight. “Get on the couch. Now.”

You blink, stunned by the sudden shift. He’s already pulling you up, guiding you backward, his hand curled around your jaw like he can’t stand not touching you.

You fall onto the cushions, dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now—hungry and steady and unshakable.

“Take your shorts off.”

You do, trembling. He kneels in front of the couch, spreads your legs with gentle fingers, and drags two through your wetness, his eyes going hazy.

“Messy already?” he murmurs. “From sucking me off?” He smiles, soft and wicked. “Poor baby. You really thought I was gonna let you cum that easy.”

You don’t get to respond.

His mouth is on you—hot and unrelenting—tongue pressing firm and slow, lips sucking just enough to make your hips jolt. And when you try to grind into it, he pulls back.

“Uh uh.” A soft laugh. “You stay still. Or I stop.”

You whimper, hips twitching—instinctive, desperate—but his strong arms hold your thighs apart, locked down like restraints.

“I said,” he repeats, voice low and dangerous, “stay still.”

He licks up your slit with deliberate slowness, savoring the way you tremble, how wet you are already, how you pulse around nothing.

“God, look at you. Thought you were doing me a favor, baby. But you're the one falling apart.”

You gasp when he sucks your clit—just once, just enough—and then pulls away again, mouth wet, chin glistening, flushed and still panting from dance practice.

“You taste so fucking good when you’re needy,” he groans, rubbing his slicked jaw against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prey. “But you don’t get to cum yet. Not until I say.”

His tongue returns, this time featherlight. Barely there. Every flick a tease, every stroke too soft to give you what you crave. You try to roll your hips again—just a little—and he slaps the inside of your thigh.

You gasp.

“Didn’t I just tell you to behave?”

His voice is breathless now, gravelly with want, his cock hard again from watching you lose it. He exhales through his nose like he’s trying to stay calm, but you can see it—his self-control hanging by a thread.

He drags two fingers through your slick, slow and thick, then brings them to your lips.

“Suck.”

You moan around them, tongue wrapping eagerly as he watches you with dark eyes.

“God, you’re such a good girl for me. Bet you’d let me edge you all night if I asked, huh?”

You nod, dazed. “Please, Innie, I—I need—”

“You need?” His voice goes sharp, mocking. “You need to cum?”

He slips one soaked finger in—and you cry out.

It curls just right, finding that spot instantly. But then it’s gone just as fast.

“No,” he whispers. “You want to cum. And that’s different.”

You’re sobbing now, tears welling from sheer frustration, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

His thumb circles your clit again—slow, steady, but never quite enough. Just on the edge of unbearable.

“You feel that? That pressure building?” he murmurs, licking back into you. “Don’t you dare cum. Not until I tell you.”

You clench, thighs shaking violently, pleasure coiled tight like a scream in your gut.

“Innie, please, please, I can’t—”

He growls, pulling back again, dragging your hips to the edge of the couch. His sweat drips onto your bare stomach as he leans over you, still panting, still flushed from training.

“You can. You will. You’ll take every second of it for me.”

Then—he spits on your pussy. Hot. Filthy. You cry out.

“Again,” he whispers. “Mouth open.”

You obey, lips parting—and he kisses you filthy, licking into your mouth like he owns it. You taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s jerking his cock now, slow strokes as he watches you writhe.

“When I finally let you cum…” he pants, eyes gleaming, “I want tears. I want begging. I want to ruin this couch.”

And then—he slides two fingers in, curls them just right—and stops.

“Not yet.”

You sob. He grins.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you cum so hard you forget your own name. But not until you learn how to be good for me.”

Your body is trembling, sweat slick between your thighs and on the backs of your knees, chest heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. But all you’ve done is beg. And beg. And beg.

Jeongin’s knuckles are white around his cock now, stroking himself slow and steady, eyes never leaving you—your ruined expression, your swollen pussy, your trembling hands clutching the cushions.

You sob out his name. “Please—please, Innie, please—”

“You don’t even know what you’re begging for, do you?” he growls, leaning forward, gripping your jaw again. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes, I—”

“You want to cum?”

You nod frantically.

He slaps your pussy—not hard, but mean. You yelp, whole body flinching.

“Too bad.”

You scream in frustration, thighs clenching, but he shoves them apart again, rutting his cock between them—rubbing the head against your slick folds, but never pressing in.

“You don’t get to cum just because you’re messy and desperate,” he breathes into your mouth. “You cum when I say. Only when I say.”

You moan—wild, helpless—as he rubs the head of his cock right against your clit. One press. Two. Three. Each time you jolt like you’ve been shocked.

“Want my cock?” he pants. “You think you’ve earned it?”

You nod so hard your neck aches.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey immediately, lips parting, tears clinging to your lashes. And Jeongin spits into it.

“Swallow it.”

You do. Without thinking. Without shame.

“Good fucking girl.”

And that’s when he snaps. With one hand braced under your thigh, he slams into you in a single, brutal thrust.

“Fuck—you’re so tight—” he groans, already moving, fucking into you like he means it. Like it’s punishment. Like it’s relief.

Your hands claw at the cushions, legs shaking around his hips, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Innie—Innie—I’m gonna—”

“No.”

He pulls out completely—you sob, your orgasm vanishing like smoke—then slams back in.

“You don’t fucking cum until I tell you.”

He’s soaked now, even more than before, more than dance practice made him, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your body, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the room. His cock drags perfectly against that sweet spot inside you, over and over—until you're right on the edge again.

“You close again?” he growls.

You nod, sobbing.

“Hold it.”

He fucks you through it anyway—deep, rough thrusts designed to undo you—but keeps you dangling just on that razor-thin edge.

And when you start to tremble, to break—he pulls out again.

You cry out, a broken noise, back arching. “Please—I’ll be good, I swear, I swear—”

He grabs your face. Kisses you hard. Spits into your mouth again.

“Not yet.”

You can’t stop crying. Not from pain, not from fear—just from need. You’re shaking, soaked, every part of your body screaming for release.

And Jeongin is still holding you right there. Just there.

Teasing thrusts. Barely in. Pulling out. Slapping the head of his cock against your pussy like he’s mocking you.

“Every time I stop,” he pants, voice shredded, “you clench so tight. Like your body’s begging even when your mouth can’t form the words.”

You whimper, unable to breathe around how full he feels—when he lets you have him. And when he doesn’t? That emptiness is worse than death.

“You want to cum that badly, baby?”

You nod, broken. “Please, Innie, I can’t—I c-can’t—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lip. “You can.”

And then—he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow.”

You do. Reflex, reverence. His spit tastes like sweat and salt and sin. And Jeongin loses it. He slams into you. No warning. No restraint. Just full, deep, filthy thrusts—hips smacking hard against your ass, cock dragging against that sweet spot with unrelenting precision.

Your back arches. Your scream catches in your throat. Your orgasm hits like a fucking bomb.

He doesn’t stop.

“Cumming baby?” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Didn't tell you to, but I'm going to be nice, so fucking take this cock, yeah?”

You’re cumming so hard it hurts, body locked in a seizure of pleasure, clenching down on him like a vice.

Jeongin grunts in pleasure, too much pleasure, your cunt squeezing his cock perfectly. The perfect fit. “God—fuck—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

But he keeps going. Fucking you through it, past it, until you're shaking so hard your legs give out. Until your tears smear across your cheeks and you’re begging—actually begging—for mercy.

“Innie, please—please—I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can.”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you—rough hands manhandling your limp form onto your stomach, ass up, face buried in the cushions.

He shoves back in. Deep. And you sob.

“You wanted this,” he pants, cock twitching inside you. “Wanted to get on your knees all pretty with spit on your chin and act like a little slut—”

He grabs your hair, tugs you up so your back arches.

“Now take it.”

You’re crying, mouth open, drooling, babbling nonsense as your second orgasm crashes down even harder.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls into your ear. “Now stay right there while I fill you up.”

His thrusts go erratic. Desperate. He grits out your name—once, twice—then groans, deep and raw as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hips twitching.

And he stays buried. Breathing hard. Sweaty chest pressed to your back. You’re limp. Soaked. Ruined. And then he kisses your shoulder. So soft. His hand rubs slow circles into your hip as you tremble, wrecked beyond words.

“Next time,” he murmurs, pulling out with a filthy squelch, “you’ll ask before you put my cock in your mouth. Yeah? Or maybe let me get in the shower first.”

A pause.

“Actually, we can do this in the shower next time.” Smiling, all innocent.

[starrbishops]

⟡Guilty As Sin⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You hate how attracted you are to Walker, and you pull away from him because of it. He notices. - ao3 version

Word Count: 3.8k

Notes: Post-Thunderbolts, reader is a New Avenger and is mentioned to have some kind of super abilites (not plot relevant but it's there), porn with some plot, just reader being horny and then getting to fuck this man, car sex!!!! p in v, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks) reader and John both bully each other during sex, John Walker's praise kink (when will it not make an appearance) Bucky and Bob appearance!

a/n: This one goes out to all my homies who hated John in TFATWS and feel conflicted about finding him really hot in Thunderbolts! I guess he's my boy now bc I was literally the second post on the Walker x Reader tag (????tf????) so here I am once again being horny on main with y'all.

Teasing Walker was practically a team bonding activity. Hell, even the man himself had grown used to it, took it as a show of affection from the other New Avengers. You were one of the main perpetrators of it. John had always pissed you off, from the minute you met in the vault. He’d grown on you significantly since then, although you’d never admit that, especially not to him.

You’d also never admit how down bad you were for him.

You weren’t really sure when it had started. He was an attractive guy, from an objective standpoint. They’d picked him to be Captain America for a reason, and one of those was that he looked damn good. Still, beyond the awareness he was handsome you’d never really thought of him in that way.

That is, until that day. You couldn’t find one of your knives, and you were sure Bucky had stolen it, so you’d ventured down to the training room to confront him. You opened the door, ready to start interrogating him when you were met with the sight of him and John, side by side, doing pull ups in the doorway to the equipment room. Bob stood next to them, counting off as they went. 

You’ve known Bucky for a long time. He’s like an older brother figure to you, someone you couldn’t see romantically if you tried. Seeing him shirtless has no effect on you, other than an instinctual ew. You’ve never seen John shirtless before.

And here you are, speechless, gawking at the guy who you once referred to as ‘Captain Crashout’. His biceps flexed with each lift, the muscle sinewy but hard-earned, gleaming with sweat. Broad shoulders, dabbled with old scars and freckles from too long in the sun. Your eyes fell to his abs, not as clean cut as Bob’s, but still very much there, pulled taut as he raised himself over and over. He was clad in a pair of old gym shorts, which had fallen a little lower than they started out, revealing the beginnings of a sharp v-line, and what you thought was just a smattering of blond hair trailing down.

And the sounds. John has always had a tic of snorting during battle. You call it his gorilla call that he makes when shit gets serious. The way he grunted as he pulled himself up, exerted but determined, gave you goosebumps the more you heard it.

Jesus fucking Christ, when did John get so hot?

He’s a supersoldier, of course. You know he’s strong. You interact with him almost everyday. You’ve seen him carry a crate the size of Yelena with ease. Yet somehow you’d never considered him hot before this. Never once have you looked at John Walker and felt this hot and sweaty all of a sudden, something in your stomach twisting with equal parts nerves and arousal.

You think you’re going insane.

After what feels like an eternity, John dropped, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Fine, you win Barnes.”

Bucky dropped as well, a smug look on his face. “Told you.”

“Hey, well you’re shorter than me, you have less to pull up.”

“By what, 3 inches?”

“3 inches where it counts.” Walker joked. Shit, now you’re thinking about this dick. Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch-

“When’d you get here?” you snapped out of it at the sound of Bob’s voice, turning your attention to the other man. 

“Um, around 20?” you guessed, doing your best to keep your eyes off Walker. You blinked hard as you turned to Bucky. “Did you take my Bowie knife?”

He sighed as he toweled himself off. “Shit, yeah. It’s in my bag, I’ll get it.”

“Asshole.”

He just flipped you off as he walked off to the locker room. Bob trails behind him, announcing his need to pee, leaving you alone with Walker. 

You did your best to avoid eye contact, or any visual of him as he lowered himself onto the nearby bench ,grabbing his water bottle. You knew he has a habit of manspreading, which you often tease him about, but now it’s more annoying in that you’re trying desperately not to ogle him.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“What?” you blinked, looking over at his confused face.

“60 pull ups. Maybe not as good as Barnes,” he threw a jilted look at the locker room door, “but still, impressive, huh?”

“Yeah, I uh, guess so.” you stared at the space above his head, arms crossed, praying Bucky finds his damn bag and brings you your knife soon.

“You okay?” John questioned, standing up to approach you. You instinctually took a step back, causing him to stop. “Did I do something?’

“No! No, I’m fine, you didn’t do anything. Just feeling a little off today, maybe I’m getting sick.”

John nodded, unconvinced. “Uh huh.” He took another sip of his water, drawing your eyes to his strong forearms, solid and firm, leading to his large hands gripping the bottle. Were his hands always that big? It’s ridiculous. You wonder what they would feel like gripping your hips.

“Got it.” Thankfully, Bucky reentered, holding out your knife. You swiftly snatched it, stuttering out a thank you and goodbye before you practically ran out the door. John and Bucky just stood there, confused.

After that, you ran to your room, locked the door and screamed into a pillow like a middle school girl.

You know there’s nothing wrong with liking Walker. Sure, he’s real fucked up, but hell, you are too. You’re both trying to be better, all of you on the team are. Your present torment is self-inflicted, part of it being the sheer embarrassment. You can’t seem to let go of your ego, the little voice in your brain bullying you for wanting a man who carries around a shield shaped like a taco.

You’re being ridiculous. 

You’re held back by a fear of screwing things up with him yourself, and therefore for the entire team. You don’t want to ruin what you all have. You’ve all had hard pasts, never really having a group of people that you could rely on till now. You wouldn’t destroy that because you were so, so very horny for one of your teammates.

So you distance yourself. You try not to look him in the eye, lest you start imagining him with his shirt off again. You feel like an old Victorian man who forced ladies to hide their ankles; looking at any part of John makes you feel like you’re going to lose it then burst into flames. Once you went to ask him something and saw him in just a towel, and immediately turned heel and left. He plagues your mind, beyond just the thought of sex. The thought of him, holding you in his arms, whispering into your ear, smiling down at you. 

You do manage to forget how badly you want to fuck him when all of a sudden he’s hurling himself into danger, in front of a hail of bullets that his stupid shield barely covers.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you lecture him as the two of you climb back into the van. You’d been tasked with securing classified S.H.I.E.L.D files from a criminal organization planning to sell them. You’d managed to get them back, but not without a few scrapes and bruises. Honestly, you’re lucky neither of you died because of John’s recklessness, something you’ve told him multiple times now.

“I was thinking of what was best to keep us both safe.” he grumbles as he slams the driver’s door, turning the key in the ignition. “It was a tactical decision-”

“It was a tactical decision,” you mimic his deep voice. “You could’ve died! You’re lucky-”

“Lucky to be alive, I know, I know. What do you even care?” you turn to him, seeing the anger in his eyes, mixed with something else you can’t place.

“Why do I care? Because you’re my fucking friend, John, and I’d rather not see you filled with lead!” “Well, it doesn’t seem that way lately.” he scoffs, eyes moving back to the road.

“What did you say?”

“I’m saying, you’ve been acting crazy lately.” he slams a hand on the wheel. “One day, we’re friends, the next you act like I’m the dirt on your shoe. I-I don’t understand. What did I ever do to you?” he leans back in his seat, defeated. “You’re acting like you don’t care whether I live or die, so fine, if I die, what’s it to you?”

“John,” you sigh, trying to hold it together. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he sits back up, angrier, more offended than upset. “I’m the one who’s being ridiculous? You’re the one being ridiculous! All this time-” 

He rambles on, leaving your anger at him to simmer in your chest. It mixes with guilt, of being cold to him, not telling him why. He somehow manages to look handsome like this, passionate, full of emotion. Still, you feel your stomach twist knowing you did this, that you hurt him like this. “John, look, I’m-”

“No, I’m not done!” he interrupts. He continues to rant, getting into specifics of your treatment, your apology dying in your throat. What would you even say? I’m sorry I was mean to you, it’s because you’re too fucking attractive and I don’t know how to handle it? 

You forget about all the reasons not to do this. You forget how annoying and brash he can be, all the embarrassing things he does you tease him for. You forget how screwed up you both are, about the team, about everything.

You just lean over the console, grab his face and smash your mouth to his.

He’s quiet, finally, still in shock of what is happening. The second his brain catches up to his body he’s gripping your shoulders, kissing you back with a force. It quickly turns open and messy, tongues desperate for each other as you act on months of frustration and feelings repressed.

You pull back when you run out of air, sliding back into your own seat as he does his. You sit, quiet, thinking about what you’ve done.

“Is that why?” His voice is hoarse from kissing.

You nod. “Yeah. That’s why.”

You’re both quiet again, reeling from your actions. He slowly unbuckles his seatbelt, climbs out of the car. You wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if maybe you misread him.

Then he’s opening your door, and before you can say anything he’s kissing you again, large hands cupping your face in them as he presses his lips to yours, hungry and needy.

He pulls away too quickly, looking at you with a ferocity in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “Do you want this?” he asks, voice low and warning.

“Yes.” you nod. “John I’ve wanted you so bad for-”

You’re both throwing yourselves into each other, not even bothering to finish talking. John’s wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. You yelp as you quickly wrap your legs around him, clinging to him for dear life, still not breaking the kiss.

He kicks the car door shut and presses you up against it, tongue slithering along your bottom lip, asking permission. You give it, sliding your won against him, deepening the kiss. You feel a moan emanate from your throat as you do, feeling like you’re absorbing John into your very being.

He shifts one hand to holding you up as he fiddles with the backseat door, yanking at it unsuccessfully. He finally pulls back, much to your dismay, to pull the damn thing open properly.

“There you go.” you joke.

“Shut up.” he mutters, before pulling you back from the side of the car and gently carrying you into it, laying you on along the backseat.

“Take your clothes off.” he huffs, fiddling with his own as he climbs in, stripping himself of his weapons. You do the same, pulling off piece after piece of tactical gear. 

There’s kevlar everywhere, bulletproof vests thrown haphazardly in the trunk, knives discarded in the front seat. Somehow in a lust-induced craze, the two of you still manage to have some form of organization.

You’ve barely pulled off your shirt before you peer over at Walker, face turned red from exertion, cheat heaving with heavy breaths.

And god, you love looking at his chest. Your eyes meet his, flitting back down in silent communication. Without a word, he nods and you’re on his, straddling him as your hands run along his broad shoulders, teeth nipping at his neck before you kiss the small bites.

He groans, head falling to the crook of your neck as he takes you in, hands gripping your hips like you’ll vanish he doesn’t.

“God, so fucking pretty.” he mumbles, grabbing your chin to pull you back in for anther kiss. One hand trails down towards your arching core, tugging at your waistband. You quickly move to help pull them down, you and John struggling together until finally, the dreaded things are gone. 

He doesn’t bother dealing with your underwear, just pushing your panties aside as he brings a finger to your soaked cunt, you gasping at the sensation of his touch.

“So fuckin’ wet, too, shit.” He trails his digit alon you till he reaches your clit, flicking it, eliciting another sharp gasp from you. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He brings two fingers to your hole, running them against your folds, coating them in your arousal as you groan. “Fucking hell, John, please.”

“You’re even mean when you’re horny.” he chuckles, you glaring down at him in return as you lower one hand to the bulge in his pants, squeezing it to a sharp inhale from John.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” you palm at his crotch as he tries to form some kind of words. Finally, he gives up, instead pushing his fingers into you, at last granting you the friction you’ve longed for. It’s so much better than those nights you’ve laid along in your bed, picturing him above you as you pleasured yourself on your own fingers. His are thick and calloused, and feel fucking incredible as you pushes in and out of you with ease, eyes never leaving your face.

“God you’re gorgeous,” he mumbles out, “so fuckin’ tight just on my fingers. Wanted this forever…”

“Please, John, need you too-”

“Gotta cum on my fingers before you can cum on my dick, baby.” you clench around him at the pet name, John smirking at the feeling as he quickly adds a third finger. Your nails dig into his bare shoulders as he moves within you, your head thrown back and eyes shut in pleasure,

“Look at me baby.” you obey, opening your eyes to see John’s flushed countenance, blue eyes dark and wide as you drink you in. “Go on, cum for me.”

He scissors his fingers within you, and with a cry, you do. You thank God you’re parked in the middle of some forest in the middle of nowhere as you moan, riding the wave of ecstasy. John doesn’t stop, keeping his pace till you start to come down, taking deep breaths as you loosen your grip.

“You cut me.” you blink, John nodding to his shoulder. You see the places where your nails have left crescent marks, breaking the skin. 

“Oops.” you shrug, still out of breath from your orgasm. “Something to remember me by?”

John purses his lip. “Only fair I get to leave a little something for you.” he turns his attention to your collarbone, kissing and sucking a bruise into it as he circles his thumb on your clit, making you yearn for more even after one orgasm.

“John, please, for fuck’s sake…” you mumble incoherently. Your brain is wired to tease him and even his fingers inside of you will not change that.

He lifts his head, looking down at the bruise he’s left with pride. “Something to remember me by.”

“You are such a teenager.” you sigh, hand reaching down to undo his belt. 

“You’re the one begging me to fuck you.” he grins. His hands meet you there, tugging the leather off and tossing it away as he yanks his tactical pants down just far enough to free his cock.

You can’t help it, you gape it at. He’s thick, and long, a vein running along the underside where you can clearly see. It curves slightly up against his stomach, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. If you weren’t on top of him, you’d lean down and lick it off.

“Shit, do we need a-”

“You’re good. Can’t get pregnant.” you’re already lifting your hips, trying to position yourself over him.

“See, begging.” he teases as he lines up with cock with your cunt, tip rubbing along your folds. “You ready?” he asks earnestly, looking up at you with genuine concern,

You nod. “Walker, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me I swear-”

With that, he pushes into you, silencing you with a moan as you feel yourself stretch around his cock. He’s not too painfully big, the kind of sharp pinch that makes the feeling just that much more sinful.

He groans, head rolling back as he clutches your waist. You’re sure if you looked down you’d see his knuckles turned white.

“Jesus Christ, this fuckin’ perfect pussy,” he mumvles incoherently as he pushes deeper into you. “SO fuckin tight for me, baby.”

Then finally, he sheathes himself fully, with a downright pornographic moan escaping your throat at the sensation, John gives you a moment to adjust, the two of you sitting in silence, save for your shared panting and occasional groans.

You’ve never felt so full, stuffed to the brim with JOhn’s cock, feeling the head just kiss your cervix within you. You breathe deep as you adjust, feeling every part of him, every ridge, vein, curve of his cock.

“God, John, so big…” you trail off as your brain shuts down, thoughts of anything else besides the man in front of you and his dick inside you fading away into static.

“Taking it so good.” he brushes a fallen piece of hair out of your face, a gentle gesture compared to his usually annoying countenance. “So pretty when you’re full of me.”

You nod sharply, your brain still fuzzy with lust and pleasure. You lift your hips, his cock rubbing against your walls before you slide back down, moaning as you do.

You pick up the pace, riding him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, because it’s all you’ve wanted for fucking weeks and he feels so fucking good. 

John sucks another bruise into you, this one on your neck, groaning out incoherent expletives as you bounce in his lap, moaning loudly with ecstasy.

Still, you’re exhausted from your mission and your previous orgasm, your pace beginning to falter. Your eyes meet John’s, and without a word he wraps his arms around you, rolling the two of you onto the seat, you on your back with him above you.

You rake your nails over his back, leaving even more scratches as you writhe beneath him. That gentle moment from earlier feels long-gone; John is rough with you, each thrust pounds into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in deeper, as deep as he can possibly get. His mussed blond hair frames his face as he fucks into you, his expression concentrated and determined. 

“Feels fuckin’ perfect, perfcct fuckin’ girl beensth me, God I’ve wanted you so bad, so perfect and good.”

“Wanted you too.” you manage to pat out, looking up into John's eyes. “So handsome, John, you’re so good.”

Oh, he liked that. He moans outright, loudly, his thrusts managing to become even harder. You give a raspy moan in reply. 

“Like when I tell you how good you are?” you pant out as you give him a dastardly smile, to which he just grunts in response, “So fuckin’ good, John, love your cock, let you fuck me forever.”

You’re a little cockdrunk, or a lot, head spinning as you clench around him, John pressing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss. Maybe to shut you up, maybe because he wanted to, who knows. You just know you can feel the pressure building in your stomach, another orgasm on the verge of breaking loose within you.

“John,” you move a hand to his face, running through his beard, gripping the fine hairs as you seek something, anything to hold onto. “Gonna cum, ‘m close.”

“Go on, baby.” he grunts, thrusts growing faster and more erratic, his cock barely leaving you before slamming back in. “Cum all over my cock.”

You grip his shoulders, crying out his name as you cum again, seeing stars as you feel the white-hot waves of pleasure crashing over you. John follows shortly, sheathing himself deep inside you, where you can feel the heat of him cum painting your walls. 

He gives a few weak thrusts, as if he’s trying to fuck his cum further into you. You just groan, eyes squeezed shut, body still feeling like it’s on fire. 

When you open your eyes, you see him above you, panting as he comes down to Earth. He looks even more handsome like this, all sweaty and messy and smelling of sex. 

“Was that,” he exhales, still trying to catch his breath, “Was that good?”

You just stare up at him, before a laugh manages to escape you. He looks a little sad before you pull him down by the nape of his neck, kissing him again, soft and slow.

“Yes,” you say as you lay your head back against the seat. “That was good, John.”

He smiles, not the usual cocky and self-satisfied look, but a genuine smile, a sense of satisfaction flowing through him. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, atop where he’s left a hickey, then to the other, then a third peck to your lips. You giggle a little, running your hands through his messy hair.

“If I’d known all it took to make you stop being an asshole was fucking you, I woulda done it a lot sooner.”

“Well, technically I was the one fucking you”

You groan, exasperated. “God, the fucking technicalities with you.” you look back up at him, tilting your head as you smile. “Am I gonna have to do this again to make you stop?”

He just shrugs, a mischievous look on his face. “Guess so.” he rolls his hips against yours once more, and you can already feel him getting hard again within you.

“Fuck John…” you’re still barely recovered from the first round.

“Hey, thank the serum.” 

a/n: Shoutout to the Tiktok comment where someone called him Captain Crashout bc i immediately jotted that shit down for later use. And thank all of you who've shown my fics so much love!!! I started this as a hobby to practice my writing and I'm genuinely shocked that people really enjoy these.

It ain't much but it's honest work :)

[nekonaps0]

You are NAUGHTY!! Pt1

✦part2 part3

✦ characters: third years

✦ gn!reader

✦ dirty jokes

✦ their partner suddenly cracked a naughty, suggestive joke

Trey Clover

“Trey, your hands are always so steady when you’re baking… I bet they’d be just as good at frosting something a little more... sinful.”

Trey pauses mid-stir.

He slowly turns to you, lifts an eyebrow, and smiles… that calm, confident smile that betrays a whole lot of fluster he’s pushing down like a champ.

“Now… you know I’m sweet, not sinful… Unless you’re asking for a special recipe?”

He acts smooth, but his ears are a little red, and he starts avoiding eye contact as he stirs too quickly. If you catch him off guard again?

“You’re really playing with fire, sugar. Don’t be surprised if I bake you into something irresistible.”

Cater Diamond

“Cater, you’re always taking pics of your food… wanna snap one of me with just the whipped cream next time?”

He screams. Actually.

“OMG, bae!! You can’t just say stuff like that out loud… I mean, you can, but I might melt~!”

His phone is nearly dropped. He fans himself with his phone, bites his lip in mock-shock, then gets way too close.

“So when’s this whipped cream shoot happening? I gotta prep my lighting. And my appetite~”

You just turned this flirt-war into a full-on event. He's now plotting outfits and hashtags like:

#TooHotToPost #BlessedAndUndressed.

Leona Kingscholar

“You know Leona, if you keep growling like that, I’m gonna start thinking you want me under you for real.”

Leona stops. Smirks. Stretches lazily like a big cat about to ruin your life.

“Tch. You really wanna play that game, herbivore?”

He’s unfazed—in fact, he’s pleased. He loves a partner who’s bold and flirty, especially if it gets under his skin just enough to spark a reaction.

He’ll lean in close, voice low and teasing:

“Careful now… jokes like that’ll land you in a position you can’t handle.”

You’ve awakened the predator.

Congratulations.

Vil Schoenheit

“Vil, if you keep ordering me around like that, I’m going to start confusing your instructions with dirty talk.”

Pin-drop silence.

Vil looks at you like you just slapped him across the cheek and called him beautiful… Which you kind of did.

Then he slowly smiles like a cat that’s just noticed a helpless mouse.

“Is that so? Well, darling… perhaps next time, I’ll make the difference clearer. Shall I demonstrate?”

He lives for a well-timed, well-structured innuendo. You impressed him. And now he’s inspired.

Careful what doors you open with this man.

Rook Hunt

“Rook, I must be your next hunt… 'cause I can feel you stalking my thoughts—especially when I’m alone in bed.”

He gasps like you just confessed undying love and slapped him with a silk glove.

“Mon dieu! Ma chère, you wound me with your words… and thrill me all the same!”

He clutches his heart, swoons into a chair, and then grins like the predator he is.

“Such a delicious line, dripping with wickedness! Shall I pursue you now, or wait until the moonlight bathes us in temptation?”

You’ve turned the poet into a freak, and he is so here for it.

Malleus Draconia

“Malleus, you’re so tall. I bet even your horns are compensating for something~”

Malleus stares. Blinks. Tilts his head.

“...I was unaware you believed my horns served… compensatory functions. Should I… correct that misunderstanding?”

He’s 100% confused at first, not because he’s innocent, but because your innuendo feels like riddles to him.

But once he gets it, once Lilia or someone explain it later, perhaps?

Oh, he remembers it.

The next time you flirt?

“You’ve been teasing me my dear. Perhaps I ought to show you that dragons need not compensate for anything.”

And he’ll say it with that calm, deep voice and a tilt of his head that promises danger.

Lilia Vanrouge

“Lilia, you might look small, but something tells me you could absolutely wreck me if you wanted to.”

He chuckles. Like full-blown villain laugh.

“Oh ho~! My, my~ What a bold darling you are tonight!”

He floats toward you, arms behind his back, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Is that a request? Or are you simply hoping I take the hint?”

You’ve just turned on flirt-mode Lilia, and he’s dangerous. Expect teasing, whispering, and no personal space for hours.

“Now, let’s see just how wreckable you are, hmm~?”

Idia Shroud

“Hey Idia~ Wanna roleplay? I’ll be the innocent maiden and you can ‘hack’ your way into my firewall”

Idia dies.

Straight up collapses onto the floor, hood over his face, glowing like a neon strawberry.

“Wh—Whaaaaa—?! THAT’S—THAT’S NOT A DIALOGUE OPTION IN REAL LIFE!!”

He short-circuits. His hair flares pink. He makes incomprehensible noises.

The idea that you, his amazing, goddess-tier s/o, are flirting like this??

It sends him spiraling. In a good way.

Mostly.

Later, in private, he’ll try to flirt back:

“H-Heh… you keep this up and I’ll… uhh… overheat and crash, probably…”

He's trying, okay? Reward him with kisses.

..............................................................................................................................

Hehehe~ I’m back ✨

[nhmkhnh]

FRAT RULES, FUCK HARDER.

PAIRINGS: dom!frat girl!vi x sub!fem!reader

PREFACE: you’re the pretty girl she swore she wouldn’t fall for… and now she’s showing up to your 8am class in yesterday’s hoodie and a hickey the size of zaun.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: uhmmm i don’t even know what’s up with me lately, guess i’ve officially entered my smut era hahaaa 😭 like... who would've thought?? there was a time i literally didn’t know how to write smut at all—if past me saw what i’m writing now, she’d be absolutely shooketh 😭💀

WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) TAGS: strap-on sex ;; hoodie kink (?) ;; possessive!vi ;; cocky!vi ;; party sex ;; mirror sex ;; jealousy sex ;; overstimulation ;; public teasing ;; pet names (r: baby/princess) ;; vi has a strap collection don't ask me why. navigation.

1. vi meets you at a mutual party and makes it her life mission to get your number by the end of the night. she’s obnoxious about it too—grabbing the aux, playing some sexy slow jam, leaning on the doorframe with a red solo cup like,

“this one’s dedicated to the girl in the corner with the skirt i’m tryna take off later.” you swear you’re not into her. and yet.

2. she’s the type to crash your sorority movie night just to sit beside you, smelling like weed, cheap perfume, and danger. she’ll whisper things like:

“this plot’s shit… bet i could give you a better night in twenty minutes.” and you hate how your legs press together every time she smirks.

3. she wears crop tops with her frat letters, loose sweats slung low, calvin’s peeking out, and a backwards cap. tongue piercing glinting. she chews gum like sin. she knows exactly what she looks like when she sprawls across the couch and says,

“c’mere, i’ll make you forget your gpa.”

4. she rizz texts at 2am like:

“u up?” “u want sum chaos or sum comfort?” “im outside. bring ass.” and when you open the door? she's shirtless under her zipped-down hoodie, biting her lip, eyes red-rimmed and so so needy.

5. frat girl!vi always smells like beer, cologne, and sweat—but like… in a way that makes you insanely feral. her room's a disaster, but her bed is soft and warm and always has a hoodie of yours she "accidentally" stole.

6. she calls you “princess” and “baby girl” in public, throws her arm around your shoulder at parties and growls in your ear,

“bet none of these fuckers know what you sound like when you’re begging.” you shove her but your face is burning.

7. vi fights anyone who flirts with you at a party. straight up pushes a guy back by the chest like,

“back off, bro. she’s not single—she’s mine.” you haven’t even officially dated yet. that doesn’t stop her from marking you up every damn weekend.

8. she drives you to 8am class in her beat-up bike, still in her boxers, still buzzed from last night. one hand on the throttle, the other on your bare thigh, saying,

“why don’t you skip today and let me fuck that pretty brain right outta your head?” ma’am. please.

9. her tattoos peek out of her tank top when she’s lifting weights in the frat basement gym, smirking when she catches you watching. she drops the barbell and says,

“wanna ride something heavier, sweetheart?” the girls' bathroom has never recovered.

10. she makes you sit in her lap at every frat bonfire. she’ll wrap her arms around you and kiss your neck in front of everyone like it’s a damn claiming ritual, while whispering,

“tell me who you belong to, baby. c’mon. say it.”

11. frat girl!vi has zero impulse control when she’s drunk. she’ll pull you into a closet during a party, lock the door, and say,

“seven minutes in heaven? nah, we’re staying until your knees give out.” you emerge half an hour later. hair a mess. nobody questions it.

12. vi loves taking you to parties just to show you off—hand on your waist, other hand low on your back. she tells everyone,

“y’all can look, but if anyone touches her? you’ll be drinkin’ outta a straw ‘til graduation.” and then she turns to you and grins like the devil.

13. when you're studying in the library, she slides in beside you, unzips your hoodie just to leave hickeys on your collarbone. says,

“you’re doing great, baby. just needed to leave my signature, y’know?” you’re late to lecture. again.

14. she gets banned from your dorm after sneaking in one too many nights, but she still climbs up your window with the dumbest grin.

“romeo who? let me in, babe. i brought snacks and strap.” and you always let her in.

15. she gets absolutely feral when you wear her frat hoodie and nothing else. throws you on the bed and growls,

“you’re reppin’ my name now, huh? let me show you what it means to wear those letters.” and babe… you don’t walk straight for two days.

ཐི❤︎ཋྀ smut bonus:

1. vi has a whole-ass drawer labeled “emergency strap kit.” no, seriously. it has lube, multiple harnesses, cute pastel-colored toys and an engraved one she calls “the finisher.” if you're ever alone in her room too long, she’ll lean in with that low rasp and go,

“pick your poison, sweetheart. we’re not stopping ‘til the sun’s up.” she means it too. you’ve cried on that mattress more times than you can count—always in the best way.

2. she’s obsessed with eating you out while you’re still wearing her clothes—especially those loose-ass sweatpants that hang off your hips. she’ll tug them down slow with her teeth, spread your thighs and groan,

“fuck, baby… always so wet for me. look at this mess. i haven’t even touched you yet.” and when she does? you’re shaking. she pins your hips down. makes you say her name over and over like a prayer.

3. she moans when you moan. vi’s a vocal dom—gritty growls, filthy praise, shamelessly unhinged. she’ll be balls-deep in you with her strap, sweat dripping down her chest, hair sticking to her forehead, and she’ll pant:

“you feel that? that’s all mine. you were fuckin’ made for me, princess.” then she’ll grab your jaw and say, “say it. tell me who you belong to.” and if you hesitate? she slaps the inside of your thigh and starts going harder.

4. frat girl!vi loves mirror sex. like, she’ll drag you to her full-length mirror and bend you over in front of it, whispering,

“look at you, baby… fucked-out on my strap, droolin’ on yourself. that’s my good girl.” she holds you by the throat sometimes. not to choke—just to keep you watching. and when you come? she grins, proud as hell, and doesn’t stop.

5. she has this thing where she fucks you on her frat letters jacket like it’s a ceremony. drapes it under you on the bed and says,

“you’re mine now. no one else gets to touch you like this. say it.” and when you do, breathless and ruined, she just goes, “good girl. now scream my name.”

6. vi adores overstimulation. she’ll edge you at first—multiple times, licking you and pulling back, teasing your clit with her fingers and saying,

“you want my strap, babe? then beg. crawl into my lap and beg like a pretty little slut.” and when you finally get it? she makes sure you take all of it. hands on your hips, body flush to yours, murmuring, “you wanted this, didn’t you? be a big girl. take it all for me, baby.”

[azhcrv]

parpadea un par de veces, le han atrapado y no lo esperaba. risa llega burbujeante, carcajada le imposibilita continuar con palabras haciendo imposible que vocalice alguna otra mentira que le ayuda a hilar la dicha con anterioridad. " estoy casi segura que es de mala educación decirle eso a las personas con sueño, " juega. " bueno, menos mal no tengo mamá. " imita entonación jocosa. conversación es corta, anatomía pide movimiento antes que socialización, obligándola a arrastrarse hasta improvisada pista de baile.

#time skip.

las sombras proyectadas por los arboles se ven alargadas, escasa luz que alcanza a rozarlos producen visiones fantasmagóricas ante sus ojos. el camino es incierto, las distancias las ve distorsionadas, no sabe si la casona está tan lejos como aparenta pero necesita encontrar un lugar cerrado antes de terminar perdiéndose en el bosque. " ¡hey! " en camino colisiona con cuerpo femenino, feliz de encontrar rostro famimliar. " yo— " presiona sus parpados, intentando aplacar los visuales que pupilas se aferran en mostrar. " escuché lo que pasó. "

“lo sé, al menos ya no me pasa tanto, hubieras visto lo brutos que eran los chicos cuando estaba en la escuela” el haber asistido a escuelas de prestigio no la había salvó de gente así. “¿sueño? ¿o porque estás drogada?” bromea, pues no cree que la distorsión de imagen venga con el sueño, al menos no le pasa a ella. “te diría que vayas a dormir, pero no soy tu mamá” comenta entre risitas. 

[girlinterupptedsblog]

rafe who loves eating his girlfriends pussy? like no matter what they’re doing/where they are he wants it!! they could be in public and he’d drag her somewhere private just to get a taste

Addicted to You

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW (18+), public sex, oral sex (fem receiving), slight exhibitionism, possessive behavior, light roughness, praise, dirty talk, fingering, obsession/possessive dynamics, unprotected sex, established relationship, Rafe being obsessed with reader’s body, heavy smut with minimal plot

Rafe had a problem.

Or, more specifically, he had an obsession—and it was you.

It didn’t matter where you were, what you were doing, or who was around. If he got a taste of you, even a glimpse of that soft, sinful heat between your thighs, he was done for. Nothing could pull his attention away—not a crowded party, not a fancy dinner, not even a casual stroll down the beach with friends. If he wanted you, he’d get you, no questions asked.

Especially when it came to eating you out.

And fuck, did he love it.

You’d barely stepped into the house before Rafe’s hand slid around your waist, pulling you into his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing rough kisses against the skin, sucking just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Missed you all fuckin’ day,” he muttered, fingers slipping down to grip your ass, possessive and greedy. “Couldn’t focus—kept thinkin’ about how you taste.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened. “Rafe, we’re supposed to meet everyone in twenty minutes.”

“So?” He growled, hand already tugging at the hem of your skirt. “They can wait. You know I’ll be quick.”

You gasped when he spun you around, pushing you up against the wall. His knee slotted between your legs, spreading them just enough for his hand to sneak under your skirt, fingers stroking over the thin fabric of your panties.

“These fuckin’ panties,” he groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “You want me to lose my mind, don’t you?”

Your breath hitched, heart racing as he dropped to his knees in front of you. “Rafe—baby—we don’t have time.”

“You think I care?” He smirked, fingers already tugging your panties down, watching them fall to your ankles. “I’ve been hard all damn day thinking about this pussy. You’re gonna let me have it, right here, right now.”

You barely had time to reply before his mouth was on you, tongue flat against your clit as he groaned like he was starving. His grip on your thighs was bruising, nails digging in as he kept you still, locked in place against the wall.

You moaned, fingers threading into his hair, tugging when his tongue circled your clit, slow and deliberate. His eyes flicked up, dark and wild, watching your face as he devoured you.

“Fuck—Rafe, don’t stop,” you gasped, legs trembling.

“Oh, I won’t,” he rasped against your core. “Not until I make this pussy cum all over my fuckin’ face.”

This wasn’t new. You should’ve known better than to wear a skirt around him in public, especially at an outdoor party where there were too many quiet corners for him to drag you into.

He didn’t even try to be subtle when he yanked you away from the crowd, hand in yours, walking too fast, eyes already dark with need.

“Rafe,” you hissed, breathless, “we can’t—we’re outside.”

“No one’s fuckin’ out here,” he said, already backing you into a shadowed alley behind the house, slamming you up against the wall. “And I need a taste, baby. Just a taste.”

Your protest died on your tongue when he dropped again, hands already up your skirt. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, groaning like he was in heaven.

“Taste so good, fuck,” he moaned, eyes fluttering shut. “I’d live between your thighs if you let me.”

You whimpered, hips rocking against his face, desperate, needy.

“You always get like this,” you panted. “Can’t go anywhere without wanting to—”

“To eat you out?” He growled, sucking your clit hard enough to make you cry out. “Damn right. Pussy this perfect? I’ll never stop wantin’ it.”

You came hard, legs shaking as he licked you through it, humming against your core like he couldn’t get enough.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 ||𝙾𝚍𝚢𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚜 ||

A/n: here it is, our dear Odysseus fucking you while he is covered in the blood of the suitors.

A/n: Listened to Like A Prayer (the Glee version) and it helped 🤣

Warnings: Fucking, just pure smut, Ody being possessive, biting, dirty talk, p in v, oral ( female receiving) blood, blood shed ( start of fic with Ody killing the suitors) cream pie, Odysseus having a breeding kink. Mention of the Suitors wanting to S/A the Reader.

These men

No...not men

Filth

The great halls of Ithaca had become a den of jackals.

They drank Odysseus’s wine, gorged themselves on his feast, and laughed in the face of the gods.

But tonight—their laughter turned to whispers.

Odysseus, cloaked in rags, his face hidden by age and filth, stood in the shadows, hunched like a beggar, his hands curling around the wooden staff he used to mask his strength.

He listened.

His heart thundered.

His blood boiled.

And when he heard their plan—their wretched, vile, unforgivable plan—

He nearly lost himself to rage.

Antinous, the boldest and cruelest of the suitors, stood at the center of the gathered men, his voice rising over the murmurs.

“Enough.”

The room fell silent.

“Screw this competition,” he sneered, throwing his goblet onto the floor, his arrogance dripping from every word. “We’ve been here for hours. None of us can string this cursed bow—because we were never meant to.”

The men grumbled, shifting uneasily.

“Can’t you see?” Antinous continued, his voice laced with fury, his lip curled in disgust. “We are being played.”*

He turned, pacing before them like a lion preparing to strike.

“The queen weaves her shroud, unweaving it at night.The boy plots in shadows, whispering of his father’s might.And we— we sit here like fools, waiting for a king who is never coming home."

Odysseus’s grip tightened on the wooden staff, his knuckles white.

The suitors nodded, murmuring, some pounding their fists against the table.

“So, what do we do?” one of them asked.

Antinous smirked. “We take what is ours.”*

The room stilled.

“Telemachus returns tomorrow,” Antinous said sharply, his eyes glinting with malice. “Alone. No army. No father to save him.”*

A pause.

Then, with a voice as cold as the steel of a dagger, he declared:

“We kill him.”*

A shiver ran through the men.

Even among cowards, killing the prince was a bold move.

“We wait at the docks,” Antinous continued, stepping closer, weaving poison into his words. “The moment he steps onto the sand—we strike.”

His lips twisted into a cruel grin.

“We hold him down, until the boy stops shaking.We hold him down, while we break his bones.Cut the boy into tiny piece's until the Sea is the only one who knows and the gods forget his name.”

The suitors stirred, some grinning, others nodding in agreement.

Odysseus’s heart pounded in his chest, his body thrumming with barely restrained fury.

But Antinous wasn’t finished.No—he had worse to say.

The Unspeakable Sin

“And when the boy is dead…” Antinous mused, pacing once more, his eyes dark with hunger, greed, cruelty.

“The queen will have no one to stop us.”*

Odysseus stilled.His breath caught.His blood ran cold.

“We break down her door,” Antinous sneered. “We take her, claim her, strip her of her pride. If she does not bow, we make her bow. If she resists, we...well she will find out."

Odysseus moved.

There was no thought, no hesitation, no mercy.

The suitors barely had time to react.The twang of a bowstring snapped through the hall.The whistle of an arrow cut the air.And then—Antinous stopped speaking.

A single choked gasp escaped his lips.

He staggered, his hands clutching at his throat, where the arrow had pierced clean through.Blood gushed, staining his tunic, spilling onto the floor.

The goblet he had dropped lay beside him, shattered—just as he would be.For a heartbeat, the suitors froze, their eyes wide, their faces pale.

And then—they turned.

Turned to see where the arrow had come from.

Turned to see the beggar standing at the edge of the hall.But he was no beggar now.

He stood tall, his back straight, his grip steady on the great bow of Ithaca.

His disguise—torn away.His eyes burned with divine fury.

And in a voice that thundered through the hall, Odysseus spoke.

“You dare speak of defiling my wife?”

The suitors took a step back.

“You dare plot the murder of my son?”

Another step.

“You feasted on my food, drank my wine, defiled my home—and now, you will pay for it in blood.”

And Odysseus showed no mercy.For twenty years, they had taken.

For twenty years, they had tormented his wife, his son, his home.

Tonight—he would take everything from them.

And when it was over, when the last of them had fallen—Odysseus would finally return to the arms of the woman he had bled the world for.

His Y/n.

His queen.

His home.

When the men were slaughtered, bodies littering the floor nothing mattered but you.

You should have turned him away, looked at him with disgust but instead you took him in your arms, her fingers gliding across his cheek not caring that he was covered in blood. "My love you have returned to me."

Odysseus pulled you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair, the softness of your body pressing into his. His strong arms encircled your frame as if afraid you might disappear like a mirage. "My little dove," he murmured, his deep voice thick with emotion. "After twenty long years, I've finally found my way back to you."

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears clinging to your lashes. His piercing gaze drank in every beloved feature - those luminous eyes, the delicate curve of your cheeks, the glossy pink of your parted lips. "You're even more beautiful than I remembered, if such a thing were possible," Odysseus said fervently. "Tell me, my heart, have you waited for me all this time?"

You choked back a sob as tears continued to fall as your fingers clutched his tunic. "Yes." You whispered as your fingers tightened its hold. "And I need for you to take me, My King. It has been far too long."

You needed him, desperately, hopelessly. You did not care he was coveted it blood. Nothing mattered because he was home.

Odysseus' breath caught at your impassioned plea. In one swift motion, he swept you up into his strong arms, cradling you against his broad chest. "As my Queen commands," he rumbled, his voice low and husky with desire.

He carried you swiftly to the bed, kicking the door shut behind them. Gently, reverently, he laid you upon the sheets, his hands roaming over your curves as if memorizing every dip and swell. "Let me worship you as you deserve, my goddess," Odysseus breathed, pressing hot kisses along the column of your throat.

His calloused fingers made quick work of the fastenings of your gown, parting the fabric to reveal the soft skin beneath.

Your lips parted feeling his hands push the fabric of your dress away, the blood from his palm cupping your breast. Thumb rubbing your nipple as the man bent down to kiss your stomach.

Odysseus paused, drinking in the sight of his wife splayed out before him like an offering. The moonlight filtering through the windows bathed your skin in an ethereal glow, making you look almost otherworldly. "Y/n," he groaned, his large hands then skimming reverently over your sides and hips. "My love, my life, my everything."

He then captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring twenty years of pent-up longing and devotion into the press of his mouth against yours. One hand tangled in your tresses while the other mapped the curves he'd dreamed of for so long. Odysseus trailed his lips down the column of your throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "I want to taste every inch of you," he growled against your flesh. "

You let out whimper, a gasp as you pressed yourself into him. It's been to long, you craved his touch to much as you let out a shaky laugh your fingers ranking through his hair tugging at the strands.

"Nothing is stopping you from doing so my King."

A wicked grin spread across Odysseus' face at your breathy invitation. "As my queen wishes," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble. He began his sensual assault, trailing open-mouthed kisses and teasing licks down the elegant line of your throat. His hands roamed your body with bold possessiveness, caressing every dip and curve he'd yearned for during his long absence. The blood of the suitors coating your body.

Reaching the swell of your breasts, Odysseus lavished attention on the sensitive mounds, suckling and laving each peak until they pebbled under his ministrations. He took his time exploring you, determined to rekindle the passion between you both to make up for lost time. "You taste even sweeter than I remember, my love," he murmured against your skin, his beard scratching deliciously.

"I have waited so long for this moment and you are finally mine." You whispered as you placed a hand on his cheek until you shifted your body, your tongue trailing across his neck licking the blood away.

Your night gown rising as your legs parted for him, your heart pounding in your ears. You wanted to feel his tongue on you again.

Odysseus shuddered as your tongue traced his neck, your intimate gesture igniting a fire in his veins. He could feel the heat of your core as your thighs parted invitingly beneath him. With a low groan, he settled between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging them further apart.

"Patience, my eager little dove," he chuckled darkly, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive area. "I intend to savor every moment of our reunion."

Slowly, torturously, Odysseus dragged his tongue along your slit, relishing your unique flavor. He lapped at your folds with long, deliberate strokes, circling your aching pearl with the tip of his tongue. Two thick fingers slid inside your slick channel, pumping steadily as he suckled your clit.

"Mmmm, still so tight for me,"

"Odysseus!" You whined, your fingers grabbing a fistful of his curls, another whine escaped your lips as your hips bucking. Your body shuddering with pleasure, your could the blood of the men he killed coating your body but you didn't care.

Not when you had your husband back.

Odysseus growled in approval as your fingers tightened in his hair, your desperate movements spurring him on. He redoubled his efforts, alternating between deep, curling thrusts of his fingers and firm suction on your throbbing bud. The obscene wet sounds of his ministrations filled the room, mingling with your increasingly high-pitched moans.

"That's it, my love," he praised huskily, his voice muffled against your sex. "Let me hear how good I make you feel. You've been so brave, waiting for me all these years. Now let go and take your pleasure."

He added a third finger, stretching you deliciously as he crooked them just right to rub that special spot inside you.

Your body was writhing on the bed and soon you were seeing stars as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave.

Odysseus felt your walls clamp down around his fingers as your climax crashed over you. He worked you through it relentlessly, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and panting beneath him. As the last aftershocks subsided, he slowly withdrew his digits, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a satisfied hum.

"You taste divine, my queen," he rumbled, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a searing kiss, letting you sample yourself on his tongue. Odysseus settled between her thighs, the thick head of his arousal nudging insistently at your entrance.

"Are you ready for me, My Queen?" he asked, his voice strained with barely restrained desire. "I need to feel you surrounding me, to know that this is real and not just another fever dream."

Chest heaving, you nodded your head as you did your best to return the bruising kiss your husband with your body still trembling.

"Yes my love...and I need you to fill me." You whispered. "Let me give you another child."

Odysseus' heart swelled with love and desire at your impassioned words. With a powerful thrust of his hips, he sheathed himself fully inside your welcoming heat. "Ahhh, Y/n!" he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder as he savored the exquisite feeling of being one with his wife once more.

Slowly, he began to move, setting a deep, sensual rhythm as he rocked into you. Each thrust was a declaration of his love, a promise of a future together. Odysseus peppered your face and neck with tender kisses, murmuring sweet nothings against your skin. "My heart, my soul, my everything," he panted, his pace gradually increasing. "I'm going to fill you up so thoroughly, plant my seed deep within you and watch your belly swell with our child."

Your body shuddered, leg resting against his hip as you did your best to match the man's thrusts.

"Odysseus!"

Your walls clenched around him, the blood that clung to your husband's skin making your bodies slick.

Odysseus felt your inner muscles flutter and clench around his cock, drawing him deeper with each powerful thrust. The slick glide of your sweat-slicked bodies, combined with the coppery tang of his dried blood, created an intoxicating friction. "Yes, my love! Take me, all of me!" he growled, his hips snapping forward relentlessly.

One large hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he pounded into you, chasing the shared release. The other tangled in your hair, tugging lightly as he claimed your mouth in a bruising kiss. Odysseus could feel the telltale tightening in his loins, signaling his impending climax. "I'm close, my love," he panted against your lips. "Come with me, my queen."

Your buddy shuddered at his words, nails digging into his back as your fingers clutched and tugged at his hair. "Odysseuss...I." Your breath hitched and soon you were seeing stars, as you hit your climax."

Odysseus felt your velvety walls clamping down around him like a vice as your second climax overtook you. The rhythmic squeezing of your sheath proved too much, and with a guttural roar of completion, he buried himself to the hilt inside your welcoming heat. His cock pulsed and twitched as he emptied himself deep within your fertile womb, painting your insides with his potent seed.

"Y/n!" he cried out, your name a prayer on his lips as waves of ecstasy crashed over him. Odysseus collapsed atop of you, careful not to crush your smaller form beneath his larger frame. He peppered your face with tender kisses as they both struggled to catch your breath, basking in the afterglow of your passionate reunion.

"My love, my life,"

You let out a weak laugh, you could only imagine what you both might have looked like but you could careless because Odysseus was home.

"My King, My heart. You are home."

[sophiewritesworld]

Take a seat - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Plus size female Reader Warning: MDNI 18+, porn with a tiny plot Summary: Eddie wants you to sit on his face. It takes a bit of convincing.

The trailer is quiet tonight, save for the faint hum of the radio in the corner, some late-night metal station Eddie insists on keeping on low. The air smells faintly of weed and the vanilla candle you lit earlier, its flickering glow casting soft shadows across the cluttered living room. You're sprawled on the couch, one leg draped over Eddie's lap, your oversized band tee riding up enough to expose a sliver of your plush thigh. His fingers trace lazy circles there, calloused from guitar strings, but so gentle it sends a shiver up your spine.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, you know that?" Eddie's voice is low, rough with that reverent edge he gets when he's been staring at you too long. His dark eyes glint in the candlelight, fixed on you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at. His hair's a mess, curls spilling over his shoulders, and that damn leather jacket is slung over the armrest, leaving him in a faded Black Sabbath tee that clings to his lean frame.

You laugh softly, brushing off the compliment like you always do. "Eddie, stop it. I'm just... me."

His hands stills on your thigh, fingers pressing a little firmer, not painful but insistent. "Nuh-uh. Don't do that." He leans closer, the couch creaking under his shift, and the other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "You're a goddamn goddess, and I'm not lettin' you pretend otherwise."

Heat creeps up your neck, and you squirm under his gaze, not because you're uncomfortable but because Eddie has this way of seeing you- really seeing you- that makes your heart race. Your curves, your softness, the parts of yourself you’ve spent years learning to love—he worships them like they’re sacred. Every stretch mark, every roll, every inch of you is his personal altar, and he’s made it his mission to prove it.

“Eddie…” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss, slow and deliberate, his lips warm and tasting faintly of the cheap beer he was sipping earlier. His tongue teases yours, coaxing a soft whimper from your throat, and when he pulls back, his grin is all mischief.

“Been thinkin’ about somethin’,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers dipping just under the hem of your shorts. “Somethin’ I want us to try.”

Your brow arches, curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? What’s that, Munson?”

His grin widens, but there's a flicker of nervousness in his eyes, like he's gauging your reaction. "I want you to sit on my face."

"Your breath catches, and for a second, you're not sure you heard him right. "What?"

"You heard me, sweetheart." His voice drops an octave, all velvet and sin. "I want you to sit on my face. Wanna feel all of you, every fuckin' inch, right there. Wanna taste you, drown in you."

Your cheeks burn, and a nervous laugh bubbles up. "Eddie, I'm... I mean, I'm not exactly small. What if I-?"

"Don't," he interrupts, his tone firm but not harsh. His hand slide to your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there like he can't get enough. "Don't you dare say what I think you're gonna say. You're not gonna hurt me. You're not too heavy. You're perfect, and I want this. I want you."

His words sink in, and the sincerity in his eyes chips away at your hesitation. Eddie's never been shy about his desire for you - hell, the man's practically feral for you ost days - but this feels different. Intimate. Vulnerable. He's offering himself up to you, begging for something that feels like a gift and a challenge all at once.

You bite your lip, considering, and he must sense your wavering because he leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “Let me show you how much I want you. Let me take care of you.”

Your resolve crumbles, desire pooling low in your belly. “Okay,” you whisper, barely audible. “But you tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

He pulls back, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Deal. Now get those shorts off, princess. I’ve got plans for you.”

Eddie’s bedroom is a chaotic shrine to his passions—posters plastered on the walls, guitar picks scattered on the dresser, a half-empty pack of cigarettes by the bed. But right now, all you can focus on is him, kneeling on the mattress, his hands beckoning you closer. You’re down to your underwear and that oversized tee, feeling exposed but undeniably wanted as his eyes rake over you.

“C’mere,” he says, voice thick with anticipation. You crawl onto the bed, the springs squeaking under your weight, and he reaches for you, pulling you into a searing kiss. His hands roam, greedy, one slipping under your shirt to palm your breast, the other gripping your ass like he’s anchoring himself. You moan into his mouth, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through you.

“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers kneading the plush curve of your hip. “Every part of you… it’s like you were made for me.”

You’re straddling his lap now, your thighs bracketing his hips, and you can feel him, hard and straining against his jeans. The friction makes you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your lower lip, tugging gently before soothing it with his tongue. His hands slide under your thighs, urging you to lift up, and with a playful smirk, he maneuvers you until you’re hovering over his chest.

“Eddie, wait—” you start, but he shakes his head, his hands firm on your hips.

“No waiting,” he says, his voice a low growl. “I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks. You’re not gettin’ outta this one.”

He guides you upward, slow and deliberate, until you’re positioned above his face. Your heart pounds, a mix of nerves and arousal, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever seen—makes you feel powerful. Desired. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he says, his voice reverent. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Sit down, baby. Let me have you.”

You hesitate, still worried about your weight, but Eddie’s having none of it. He tugs you down, not forcefully but with enough insistence that you lower yourself, your thighs framing his face. The first brush of his breath against your core sends a jolt through you, and you grip the headboard for balance, your knuckles whitening.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the thin fabric of your panties. “I’ve got you.”

He nuzzles against you, his nose grazing your clit through the cotton, and you whimper, your hips twitching involuntarily. He groans, the sound muffled but unmistakably hungry, and his hands slide to your ass, squeezing as he pulls you closer. “Fuck, you smell so good,” he says, his voice thick with need. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and with a quick glance up at you—seeking permission—you nod, breathless. He slides them down, helping you lift one leg to free them, and then he’s staring at you, completely bare, his pupils blown wide with lust.

“Perfect,” he breathes, and before you can respond, his tongue darts out, a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body shudder. You cry out, your grip on the headboard tightening, and Eddie moans, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you.

He takes his time, exploring you with long, languid strokes, his tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive spot. He’s not rushing, savoring every second, and the sounds he’s making—low, guttural moans, like he’s the one being pleasured—only heighten your arousal. His hands knead your thighs, your ass, encouraging you to move, to grind against his face, but you’re still holding back, worried about smothering him.

“Baby,” he mumbles against you, his voice muffled but insistent. “Ride me. C’mon, I want it.”

You glance down, and the sight of him—his curls fanned out on the pillow, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening—nearly undoes you. “Eddie, are you sure?”

His eyes meet yours, fierce and unwavering. “Fuck yes, I’m sure. Sit. Down.”

The command in his voice, paired with the raw desire in his eyes, pushes you over the edge. You lower yourself fully, letting your weight settle, and Eddie groans, his hands gripping you tighter as he dives in with renewed fervor. His tongue circles your clit, then flattens, dragging slow and firm, and you can’t hold back the moan that tears from your throat. Your hips start to move, tentative at first, but his encouragement—his hands guiding you, his muffled praises—makes you bolder.

“That’s it,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak. “Fuck, yes, just like that. You’re so perfect, so fuckin’ perfect.”

You’re lost in it now, the pleasure building, your thighs trembling as you grind against his mouth. Eddie’s in heaven, his tongue relentless, his nose bumping your clit with every movement. He’s worshipping you, just like he promised, and the realization—that he loves this, loves you, every curve and inch—sends you spiraling toward the edge.

The room feels hotter now, the air thick with the scent of sex and the candle’s fading vanilla. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, your body trembling as Eddie works you closer to oblivion. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, squeezing your ass, urging you to move faster, harder. You’re riding his face now, unselfconscious, your thighs pressed against his cheeks, your weight fully on him, and he’s loving every second of it.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible against your skin. “You’re so good, so fuckin’ good.” His tongue plunges inside you, then flicks back to your clit, alternating between sucking and licking with a rhythm that’s driving you wild. Your hips buck, and he moans, the sound vibrating through your core, pushing you closer to the edge.

You glance down, and the sight of him—his eyes half-lidded with bliss, his lips slick with you, his hands holding you like he never wants to let go—sends a fresh wave of heat through you. “Eddie,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “I’m—I’m close.”

He doubles down, his tongue working faster, his lips closing around your clit and sucking just hard enough to make you see stars. Your thighs shake, your grip on the headboard faltering, and you lean forward, one hand tangling in his curls. He groans, the sound raw and desperate, and the vibration tips you over.

“Eddie—fuck!” Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, pleasure crashing through you, your hips grinding against his face as you ride it out. He doesn’t stop, his tongue softening but still moving, drawing out every aftershock until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

You lift yourself slightly, worried you’ve been too much, but Eddie’s hands tighten on your hips, pulling you back down. “Not yet,” he rasps, his voice hoarse but hungry. “One more, baby. Gimme one more.”

You’re trembling, your thighs burning, but the need in his voice reignites something in you. “Eddie, I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” he says, his lips brushing your inner thigh. “You’re so strong, so beautiful. Let me have you again.”

His words, his worship, make you feel invincible. You nod, settling back down, and he dives in with a renewed intensity, his tongue tracing patterns that have you gasping within seconds. This time, he’s relentless, his hands guiding your hips in a steady rhythm, his moans mingling with yours. The pleasure builds faster, sharper, and you’re already so sensitive that every touch feels electric.

“God, Eddie,” you moan, your head tipping back. “You’re so good—fuck, you’re so good.”

He hums in response, the vibration sending another jolt through you, and you can feel it, the second climax barreling toward you. Your hips move on their own, chasing the sensation, and Eddie’s right there with you, his tongue and lips and hands all working in perfect harmony. You’re his world, his everything, and he’s making sure you know it.

It hits you harder than the first, a white-hot explosion that leaves you crying out, your body shaking as you come undone. Eddie holds you through it, his hands steady on your hips, his tongue slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last wave until you’re gasping, collapsing forward onto the headboard.

This time, you lift yourself off, rolling to the side to lie beside him, your chest heaving. Eddie’s face is flushed, his lips swollen and glistening, and he’s grinning like a man who’s just conquered the world. “Holy shit,” he says, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “That was… fuck, that was everything.”

You laugh, breathless and a little dazed. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” he corrects, rolling onto his side to face you. He pulls you close, his hand cupping your cheek, and kisses you, slow and deep. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it’s intimate, grounding, a reminder of what you just shared.

“You okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Was that… good for you?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “More than good. That was… I don’t even have words.”

His grin widens, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna need to do that again. Like, a lot.”

You laugh, swatting his chest, but there’s no denying the warmth spreading through you, the way his love, his worship, makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he says, pulling you into his arms. And as you lie there, tangled together, you know he means every word.