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—IN WHICH, the greasers realize they’re truly, and honestly, in love.
tags/warnings: gn!reader possible OOC, story-focused rather than comedic headcanons, fluff and nothing else(lie), comforting steve, swearing, soda’s part is rushed cuz i ran out of ideas.
ೃauthor notes⁀➷ wow shocker i leave for awhile and come back with a new theme. anyways, hi angels! i love you all sm and i forgot how much i loved being here🥹..! i missed u guys so much!
—
Johnny Cade
cars zoomed by the lot at concerning speeds, the sound of wind being broken up by the obnoxious cop sirens or a drunkard yelling down the street.
though, to you and johnny, all of that fell to deaf ears. it was like the world didn’t matter to you—as long as johnny sat beside you.
the stars seemed to only shine above you two, twinkling and gleaming in ways that you’d never seen before. the moon was your sunlight, with johnny giving you the warmth.
his head rested on top of yours that was against his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around your waist. your thigh was pressed against his, making him more than a little nervous.
sitting in the lot with you made him nervous, despite you and him dating for a long while now. you made him..giddy. that’s the word.
you made him feel like a child again; the child he never got to be.
johnny had his head tilted upward toward the stars and the sky, matching what you were doing so he didn’t look like a clueless idiot.
your hand left your lap, your eyes flickering downward for just a moment that went unnoticed to johnny. you gently grabbed his scarred hand, holding his hand in yours. you held him like he was glass.
johnny felt his face get hot. like, really hot. you were so gentle with him, the type of gentle that he had never been treated with.
he looked down at you, your head still on his shoulder. your hair was so shiny, you were so beautiful and such a perfect fit for him with the way your body mended with his in a time like this.
perfect.
his lips were quickly pressed against the crown of your head, pulling away before he got too nervous to talk.
“i love you, y’know.”
Dallas Winston
“you’ll be fine.”
“i feel like ‘m bleedin’ out.”
dallas complained as he sat on your couch, his legs spread so that you could properly stand between them. you continued to dab the wet cloth against his cheek to get the dried blood off.
there seemed to be just as much of dried blood as there was fresh, his arms and hands coverer in gauze and bandaids.
you gently held his chin to turn his head every which way you needed, because he allowed you to. he liked you so much, he allowed you to move him around like a doll.
though, he liked slyvia a lot, too and she couldn’t do stuff like that. stuff like this with slyvia was weird, even if he did like her.
so, why was it different with you? what made you, of all people, so special?
his eyes were locked onto yours, taking extra note to how focused you look on cleaning his face up. you were pretty. like, real pretty.
dallas was quick to avert his eyes when he realized just how sappy his internal monologue sounded.
“what?”
you asked, taking note to how hyper-aware dallas suddenly looked. his jaw was clenched slightly as he seemingly refused to look at you.
how you always knew when something was up with him, he may never know.
“nothin’. the cuts jus’ hurt,”
he lied right out of his teeth.
dallas’ eyes met yours once more, trying to act tough once again. he asked himself once more, what made you so different?
“are you sure?”
you dropped the wet cloth slightly, the rag no longer against his cheek. you looked worried, and you sounded just as nervous.
you cared.
you cared for dallas winston. that’s what made you different.
dallas knew you were different from his other flings.
he liked his other flings. he loved you. he loved that you cared for him, genuinely.
he extended his hands out, grabbing your waist to pull you closer with a firm tug, your knee supporting you up as it was pressed against the edge of the couch.
“oh, ‘m real sure, pretty.”
“dally, please.”
“please, what?”
“don’t start with me now, winston.”
Ponyboy Curtis
you were golden.
completely and utterly golden. the sunset reflected off your skin like you were an angel, your eyes shimmering like the stars above, the flush across your face making you look beyond innocent.
ponyboy was the one to drag you out into the cold oklahoma winter in the first place. he just wanted to watch the sunset with you, the person he liked.
he protested against your arguments of, ‘it’s so cold out, though! it’s so warm inside, pony. don’t make me go out there!’ with, ‘it’s just a sunset. it’ll be for a few minutes! i jus’ wanna watch it with you. please, y/n?’
‘watch the sunset,’ his ass. he looked at the setting sun maybe twice in the span of 3 minutes. you were too beautiful to not look at.
of course, and thankfully, you were oblivious to his staring.
“it’s really pretty,”
you muttered. your eyes were locked onto the horizon, and his were locked onto his future.
his future.
the more he thought about it, he really liked you. like, to the point where whenever he envisioned a mile stone in his life, you were always there.
when he imagined graduating, you’d be there. when he imagined going to college, you’d be there. when he imagined getting married, you’d be standing at the alter with him.
he loved his future.
he loved you.
“real pretty.”
ponyboy agreed, but for a different reason.
Sodapop Curtis
the moonlight seeped through the curtains of his room, illuminating the lines that it managed to sneak it’s way through. the midnight sky was bright, yet the moon seemed to be the only focus for the stars.
soda held you in his arms loosely, your head resting gently on his chest. he traced imaginary shapes on the lower part of your back.
the sound of his fan whirling rang out through his room, your breathing falling into a rhythm as you drifted off to sleep.
soda always seemed to notice when you were about to fall asleep, and you didn’t know how he did. you were starting to suspect he might be a wizard.
he pressed a kiss against the top of your head, letting his lips linger there for a moment.
his life was hectic. it really was. he was a dropout who works a full time job to help his older brother keep a roof over their head, and he worked as a middle man in arguments.
but you, you were a breath of fresh air.
he needed you like he needed water.
he needs you.
he loves needing something, and he loves needing you.
he loves you. soda loves you so, so, so much.
“good night, baby. i love you.”
Darry Curtis
“oh, y/n,”
darry sighed as he entered the kitchen. the smell of freshly cooked dinner wafted through the air, leaving a comforting taste in everyone’s mouth.
he walked up behind you, your back turned to him as your focus was on scrubbing the last bit of dishes. his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling himself closer to you as if he needed to be as close as possible.
he rested his chin on your shoulder, his eyes looking down at your hands in the sink. you turned your head to look back at him, your faces a mere centimetres away.
you couldn’t necessarily help the smile that tugged on the corners of your lips at seeing darry look so grateful.
darry was a busy, hardworking man. that's who he was, and who he will always be as long as he lives. he provides with no one to provide for him.
until you came into the photo.
darry was cooking dinner out of fear that soda'd burn the roasted potatoes he said he'd make, and ponyboy was just..not that good with anything other than eggs.
he was cooking, cleaning, and working. he had no time to himself, it seemed. but you, the angel you are, takes it off his hands. maybe it was to just have him all to yourself after work, he didn’t care.
you were the angel that he prayed for day and night.
and god knows how darry loves angels.
you ruffed his hair, not bothering to dry off the water that stuck to your skin. darry chuckled, lightly shaking his head in a poor attempt to dry his loose curls.
in his own retaliation, he pulls you impossibly close, attacking your face with as many kisses he could. giggles filled the room as you attempted to push yourself away from him, only for his grip to tighten.
he pulled away at his expense, pressing one last kiss on the crown of your head.
“love you, doll. i really do,”
Steve Randle
“you’re always welcomed here, steve. you know that,”
you lightly scolded him as he sat on the edge of your bed. he’d been couch hopping before he came to you, a broken and embarrassed man.
you were rummaging around in your closest for another old blanket he could use, since from prior experience, you learned that steve has a tendency to hog the blanket you two shared.
“i know, i know.”
he begrudgingly grumbled, hurriedly avoiding eye contact with you with his head down, looking at his hands on his lap.
you looked over your shoulder, seeing just how embarrassed he looked asking for help tugged on your heart strings a little.
steve was never one to ask for help, no. he thought he was too prideful, too good, for help. he thought that he was superman with the way he thought he could help himself 24/7.
you sighed, taking a few steps toward him. you squatted down in front of him, lightly grabbing his hand and holding in it yours. he finally looked back at you with lowered brows, his eyes making him look way more innocent than he actually is.
“i hope you aren’t lying to me.”
“what?”
“do you actually know that i’m always here for you, or are you sayin’ that to shut me up?”
you questioned, allowing yourself to be straightforward since it seemed like that was the only language he knew.
steve shifted his eyes away from yours for a moment, a small huff leaving his lips.
“maybe.”
“steve,”
you started, the disappointment emanate in your tone. you stood up, letting go of his rough hand to cup his face. you forced him to look back at you.
“you know you aren’t ever a burden. i love having you around. i love you, okay? i wouldn’t ever push you away.”
you stated in the most soothing voice you could muster, looking him right in the eyes to really drive your point forward.
steve took awhile to react. he just looked back at you, letting your words process in his head. after a moment, he wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you close.
he buried his face in the nape of your neck, his breaths coming out shaky as he tried to calm himself.
he loved home, he really did.
and, look, steve isn’t stupid. he’s heard and understood the saying that, ‘home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.’ but he always thought it was stupid.
how do you feel at home?
well, now he gets it.
with you in his arms, you comforting him and talking to him like he was a human, and he’s never felt more at home.
and holy shit, he loves this feeling.
“love you. love you so, so, so much.”
Two-Bit Mathews
laughter rang out through your empty living room, the television being completely drowned out.
you gasped for more air as you and two-bit laughed at an inside joke that seemed to only make sense to you two. you hand your hand on his shoulder, the other on your stomach. two-bit was leaning toward you unconsciously.
“holy hell, two-bit! that’s so messed up!”
you feigned innocence, pretending like you didn’t play into the jokes that slipped off his tongue.
“well, shit! then i guess we’re both messed up since you were jus’ talkin’ about-“
“hey, wait!”
you were quick to cut him off, leaning toward him to cover his mouth with your hand.
“don’t go snitchin’ on me!”
two-bit snickered to the best of his ability, grabbing your wrist lightly to pull you toward him closer. you stumbled toward him, two-bit catching you by putting his hands firmly on your hips.
looking back at you with a sloppy smile across your face, your eyes having a certain mischievous shine to them made it hard for two-bit to look away.
you were so beautiful when you were happy. you were always beautiful.
how someone like you was able to understand his type of humour is beyond him. he just knows that he’s lucky, and that he’d be a fool to let you slip through his fingers.
he didn’t want to lose this moment, ever.
he loved moments like this.
though, he only ever experienced these moments with you. so, is it weird to say that he only loves moments that involve you? does that mean something?
I literally love ur fics SO much ur one of my fave writers on here 💗💗 it’s me again sorry I’ve been requesting a lot 😭 I have another request and btw I don’t want u to feel rushed just know I look forward to reading ur other fics 😼 my request tho was could u write the smut of shy reader having sex with Dallas for the first time (the same universe as ur other two fics of them ofc, which I LOVEDD ur recent one too I forgot to mention), I’m sorry I just really love this trope
again
⚠️ SMUT ALERT ⚠️ PWP ⚠️ SCROLL A LITTLE WAYS DOWN FOR SMUT, START HERE FOR PLOT ⚠️
Summary: He’s going to turn you into a brainwashed, desperate, cumdrunk version of yourself that begs for his cock, and you’re going to thank him for it. If he’s good enough, he might even convince you that it was your doing.
Pairing: Dal x femreader
Word Count: 11862
CW/TW: loss of virginity/virginity kink, corruption kink, unprotected pnv, dom/sub, squirting, degradation kink, established relationship, size kink, size difference, overstimulation, dacryphilia, innocence kink, dirty talk, praise kink, creampie
A/N: i decided to combine 2 requests/asks bc they were overlapping in nature and i hope i don’t disappoint. thank you anon for the request and @pinkbabydollblythe for the prompt! I love this trope :,) I know it’s long. I'm so sorry!
I was influenced by both that Noah Cyrus song ‘Again’ and that ‘HAHAHA AGAIN’ Trolls meme audio bc im chronically online and brainrotted to hell 🥴🤦♀️
Cross posted to ao3 by me <3 enjoy xx
Dallas Winston overwhelms you in nearly every aspect.
In both physicality and energy, he dwarfs you and nearly everyone else surrounding him. He’s a vicious, undomesticated, erratic, burning star of vitality, fiercely dedicated to making himself as loud as possible in a world already filled with jarring noise.
Where you are quiet, he is loud; a firecracker that substitutes stars without even trying and determined to be acknowledged by anyone with eyes and ears. His brazenness runs almost polar to your shyness, and you often hesitate in situations where he lunges.
You aren’t necessarily insecure - you’re just less experienced in life and less comfortable in loud, overbearing spaces with unfamiliar, questionable people who exhibit matching qualities. Such traits are why people were incredibly surprised when you and Tulsa’s local lawbreaker started going steady, because Dallas and his lifestyle run almost opposite to yours even if you’ve both grown up in the same circles. Everyone knows how contrary your habits are.
He’s an incredibly imposing person; ‘intimidating’ doesn’t even begin to describe him. Aside from the domineering attitude, devastatingly good looks, stature and sharp wit, Dallas is vastly more knowledgeable than you are in many walks of life and exceptionally quick on the uptake.
This isn’t to say that you’re stupid or slow; you just like to think things through a little more carefully and take your time before deciding on a course of action, often unsure about receiving unwanted criticism. Juxtaposed to that, Dallas operates at warp speed, never second-guessing himself even if he frequently makes mistakes in both candor and judgment.
So when you say that he overwhelms you, you mean it literally - even after a month has gone by and you’ve started getting a little more used to him. And as far as you’re concerned, you’ve done a pretty swell job of accustoming yourself to his personality and lifestyle thus far, with the possible exception of a few select things - the most apparent of which is his physical size.
He likes to tease you about how small you are in comparison to him, but no matter how many times he calls you cute little pet names that poke at your size, they never feel like they’re in true jest. And despite years of being taunted over your relative height compared to those around you, you…like it.
You like when he points out the size difference, both advertently and inadvertently. You like it when he manhandles you around. You like it when he takes you under his arm and dwarfs you, shielding your body from anything and anyone around you both. You like it when you’re sitting in his lap and melt into the space his warmth provides, able to curl and relax to your heart’s content while he carries on whatever conversation is happening. You like it when you can’t reach something, require brute strength, or are otherwise in his way, and he’ll pilot you with one large hand on your waist and just enough of a squeeze to make you shiver before he helps you.
It’s a little dizzying, but you like it.
To be honest, the size difference is a whole half of the reason why you’ve been a little intimidated to do anything more than heavy petting with him, and he knows it. You can read it in his smug, lording expression every time as he watches you freeze like a deer in headlights, comically wide-eyed at the feel of his hard length underneath you and the reactions he effortlessly coaxes from your body.
Everything about him is big in comparison to you, a point he’s currently and unknowingly emphasizing as he teases you from his spot on your fluffy throw blanket where he lounges and smokes. Even if your bed is a twin and functionally able to fit two people with room to spare, he manages to occupy a majority of the space when he sprawls on it.
You sneak a careful, wanton glance at him from where you’re pretending to tidy up when he ashes out your open window, scrutinizing the full wingspan of his reach. One of your pet peeves is his smoking inside, but he’s making an effort not to let the smell linger and the candle on your dresser helps dilute the scent.
If you were any other girl in any other scenario, the setup here would spell out disaster. Your single father has gone off to visit family one town over for the weekend, the gang is off doing random separate things, and you’ve run out of chores. You’re alone, with only Dallas to keep you company, in a neighborhood where no one will respond to a noise complaint.
And therein lies the other half of the reason why you’ve been so intimidated and reluctant to move any further in bed with him: your virginity.
It’s not a secret, and you’re not ashamed to admit it even though you’d rather it not be shouted from the rooftops or made glaringly obvious to everyone. Despite not growing up with a mother for half of your life, your father has done an excellent job raising you to be confident in your own bodily autonomy, and you know you have the power of choice.
That being said…there’s something about the way Dallas speaks to you when the subject of your innocence is addressed that makes you tingle something fierce. He’s patronizing, provocative, teasing, mirthlessly sensual and entirely shocking to your inexperienced self.
You remember the first time he tested the waters on Darry’s porch one night, the cacophony of Pony’s nineteenth birthday celebrations still echoing behind you both.
Dallas had regarded you hungrily around a cigarette, “You ever even been kissed, sweetcheeks?”
Taken aback and unsure of how to respond, you’d simply looked up at him and blinked owlishly before shaking your head. At that time, you had no idea the kind of shark infested waters you’d wandered into.
“Course not,” he’d snickered quietly to himself as he surveyed you the way a TV producer would naive new talent, “goddamn angel, ain’tcha.”
Your mouth had opened to defend yourself, almost indignant at his baseless accusation, but he’d cut you off before you could even start.
“So no one’s popped your lil cherry yet, huh?”
Part of your brain had sent out warning signals as you blushed and stammered, firmly aware that such manner of speaking was crude and indecent, but the rest of your nervous system melted at his words - and his mischievous grin told you that he’d spotted that involuntary reaction right away.
The way he spoke to you that day and continues to speak to you almost makes you wonder if there’s something fundamentally wrong with you, because the kinetic rush of unmistakable enjoyment you get from being talked down to by him must be a disorder of some kind.
And because he knows you like it, he’s been doing this the entire time you’ve been together; little comments dropped here and there amongst standard flirtation and heady touches that make your head spin, totally discombobulating your senses. You can say with confidence that this is the first time you’ve ever truly wanted someone to the point that you’re actually interested in hopping into bed with them, even if you don’t know how to go about doing so.
(You’re lucky you don’t have to, because Dallas can read you like a book and is exceptionally well-versed in this subject.)
You can no longer avoid the nameless warmth in your lower belly or the odd tug you feel whenever he looks at you with those half-hooded eyes and blown pupils. He can sense your curiosity and concupiscent eagerness like a bloodhound, and he’s just about reached his boiling point for sexual patience.
“Sure y’don’t wanna clean the rest of the house, dollface?” Your boyfriend purrs at you from his spot on your bed where he lounges, a knowing little smile gracing his features.
His goading tone is warm, overly sweet and amused by your mindless fidgeting.
You all-but squirm and abandon the reorganization of your desk, long-forgotten after a lack of schoolwork to pile on top of it. It’s been years since you even used the thing properly; it’s basically a spare table at this point.
“S-shut up,” you mumble with no real mirth behind it, defenseless and flushed.
He sees that you’re stalling in hesitation borne from inexperience, not fear. You can sense what’s most likely to happen if you join him on your bed right now, and you’re rightfully nervous.
At his responding snicker you simper and relax a bit, still slow to approach him. He’s the picture of relaxed arrogance as he catalogues each expression and action of yours, ever so content that he can prompt such behaviors from you. The knowledge that he has such an influence is addictive, placing him in that dangerous category of potentially troublesome if he so chooses to use this power for wrongdoing.
Neither of you have explicitly said anything in regards to how this is going to go down, but he’s gotten more touchy as of late and you’ve been starving after a month of teasing touches with no relief. Need hangs heavy in the atmosphere - a referendum is not necessary to deduce the outcome here.
The sheer amount of restlessness that sits in your bones can’t be helped, no matter how many times you fiddle with your fingers behind your back as you draw closer to the edge of the mattress. You can see his eyes dip down to your chest.
“C’mere, lil one. Ain’t gotta be nervous,” Dallas extends a hand when you get close enough and gently pulls you closer by the waist, “I don’t bite.”
Even if you feel like you’re being led right into a den by the wolf itself, you listen and fold yourself down right beside him, balancing yourself on his chest and worrying at your lip. The plush duvet - one of the only nice things you've made for yourself - is comforting beneath your knees.
“...’less you ask.”
You inhale sharply at his addition, eyes going wide and blush now reaching your chest.
He lets out a bark of laughter at your surprise and pretends to be none the wiser, “What?”
There is innocent uncertainty in your next query: “T-there’s gonna be bitin’?”
Dallas flings the butt of his cigarette as far out the window as he can and exhales his smoke long and hard, giving him a second to think about how to answer.
He’s not very apt at being an emotionally intelligent being, let alone a guy who isn’t an absolute dog about taking a girl’s virginity, but he doesn’t want to send you running for the hills and isn’t an absolute moron when it comes to body language….even a monkey can see that you need a little encouraging.
“Don’t gotta be,” he meets your eyes, gaze softening minutely, and combs a hand through your hair, “you trust me?”
Your head tilts with his movement, letting him steady you in front of him so you’re eye to eye and closer than before. It quickens your heart rate and sends heat rushing to your face, unused to being so closely scrutinized.
There is no hesitation when you nod, even if you probably should have debated a response to his question a little bit further.
He pauses for a beat as if he’s waiting for you to change your mind, and then smiles like a starved heathen who’s just been told they’re getting everything they could ever thirst for.
Right now, he has no issue admitting that his intentions are strictly less than honorable; the demonic urges he has to defile and ruin you are no longer chained down, and what’s even better is that you’re a completely willing sacrifice.
Without any other warning or reassurance, Dallas uses the hand he’s already got on you as leverage to tilt his head down and capture your lips, fingers curling on your scalp.
You practically melt against him.
The reaction is typical; this happens every time he kisses you. It’s almost embarrassing how boneless you go with such little effort on his part; any reason or logic you may have retained a second ago flies out the window. All you can smell, taste, feel - is him, solid and grounding beneath you.
You’re already feeling loopy and rather uncouth, but when he slips his tongue into your mouth, it urges absolutely filthy things out of your subconscious.
Without removing himself from your lips, Dallas tugs you onto his lap, settling back against the headboard. His hands card themselves through your hair, brushing it back away from your face before trailing down to frame either side of your jaw.
With trembling fingers, you steady yourself against his abdomen, appreciating the firmness that tenses each time you make a movement. One hand flies up to grip the material covering his chest when a palm of his slides down to grip your waist, slowly descending until it squeezes your hip where your upper thigh begins.
It’s only when his other hand lowers to gently stroke the exposed skin between your sleep shorts and t-shirt that you shudder, pulling away in an attempt to recollect yourself.
“Dal-” you’re already out of breath and slurring, “dunno how…I-I don’know what’t’do-”
The mere confession of your ineptitude and subsequent plea for assistance is probably one of the hottest things he’s ever heard in his life. When combined with your obvious addled state, already clearly drunk off of him, Dallas is unable to stop the rough groan that escapes him. Not often do girls entrust him with their virginity, and here you are offering yourself up to him on a platter and begging for him to take you.
“I know babygirl,” he reassures lowly, gripping you by the waist again to rearrange you on his lap, “so fuckin’ innocent…m’gonna show ya.”
You’re not skilled enough to decode his near-salivation for what it truly is, much less begin to understand the complexities behind a fetish for innocence. All you know is that he seems to like that you don’t know what you’re doing, which in all honesty is a better reaction than you expected.
One wiggle on your part connects you two just right, and you freeze with a sudden inhale when you feel the effect you've had on him. For the first time, you fully register and appreciate his reaction to you without backing off. Up until this point, it’s been a little too easy to get lost in your own head - but the way his eyes screw shut and his jaw clenches reveals that he definitely isn’t made of stone.
Still, you aren't as well-versed in this as he is. From your end, you still can’t properly differentiate between discomfort and arousal.
Your voice is tentative and small, “D-does it hurt?”
Dallas laughs a little breathlessly at that, like he knows something you don’t, and pulls you in for another kiss, scrambling you. Again he leads with his tongue, gently coaxing yours out.
It kind of answers your question.
He does something with his hips then, bucking them up gently as if to show you what to do, and you feel the familiar hardness that would usually have you wavering. This time it feels astonishingly more intense, the resulting sensation prompting a soft gasp from you. The brief spark of pleasure runs up your spine and tingles sharply, forcing you to detach yourself from his lips with a trill.
You pull back to find him already looking back at you, pupils blown wide with lust.
The question is spoken in a very outright condescending tone, striking more heat into you. You don’t really care if he’s diminishing you or talking down to you; the patronizing lilt does something lovely to your insides.
You nod dumbly, plush lips parted in gentle surprise, and he chortles softly at your expression before laying a soft kiss on your temple. He trails across your cheekbone all the way back down to your lips, the thought of wrecking your poor, naive, innocuous little self making him pulse dangerously.
He’s going to turn you into a brainwashed, desperate, cumdrunk version of yourself that begs for his cock, and you’re going to thank him for it. If he’s good enough, he might even convince you that it was your doing.
“Go on darlin’,” he’s close enough to you that when he speaks his lips graze yours, forcing your eyes to shut in reflex, “promise you’ll like it.”
With his hands guiding you and a shaky breath at the newfound knowledge you start to move, a series of staccato inhales escaping you as each motion forces more tingles up your spine. Like a newborn deer finding its footing the first movements are jerky, unaided by the pleasure the movement creates that distracts you, but you find your balance after a few moments with his help. The feelings settle in your chest and generate a warmth like no other.
“Atta girl,” Dallas inhales the shuddered sigh that escapes you, relaxing his hold once he sees you're getting the motion down, “just like that. Y’feel that? S’what you do to me, baby.”
A whimper is all you can vocalize in return.
He doesn’t warn you before upping the ante, both hands smoothing their palms under your shirt against the skin of your waist and savoring the way you’re moving on top of him before making their way ever so slightly upwards.
When he reaches your sternum, one hand falls back down to your flank to keep prompting your motions. Your breath hitches at that, little hands gripping his shoulders through his shirt and leaving crescent-moon shaped indents in the fabric with your nails. You're making these tiny noises that drive him insane, mewls and trills that go right to his crotch and make him want to buck up into you like a savage.
He contains himself somehow, even when you solve the problem of your disconnected lips by closing the tiny boundary yourself. Tapering his own filthy comments is enough of a challenge while you're gyrating on his lap; he doesn’t want to overload you, but he can’t help letting another groan slip out when you twist your hips just right.
You let out a muffled squeak when his knuckles brush against the underside of your breast. It makes Dallas grin into the kiss and wrap his whole arm around you to keep you moving as he takes the entire thing into his palm, unwilling to let you back out just yet.
When he gets his thumb and forefinger around your nipple your mouth drops open and gives him the perfect opportunity to slip you his tongue again, sending you reeling. All these sensations are dizzying and make your head feel far too fuzzy in the best kind of way. Briefly, you find yourself wondering how it can possibly get any better than this.
When you pull back ever so slightly to release a whine that he all-but swallows, he grunts and grips your hips for some relief. It lets him grind up into you, forcing a whimper from your lips and a chuckle from his. It is unequivocally endearing the way you surrender yourself to him, opening up like a blooming flower with all the trust in the world. Seeing you like this - completely willing, open and pliable, drives him insane.
“Dal...” you trail off when he interrupts you with another kiss, unsure of yourself or how to ask for more.
“Use your words.”
Ever so smug, Dallas mouths down your jawline before trailing back up to your mouth, stealing your lips for another moment. He can't get enough of you, and who can blame him? You’re the sweetest thing he has ever tasted, breathed…and sweet things are meant to be eaten.
You halt your hips, starting with bated breaths and whining through swollen lips, reaching down and pawing at yourself before wailing softly.
“D’know how…p-please-” you’re entirely overwhelmed, and he is more than willing to assist you.
“Jesus Christ-” to avoid squeezing you too hard, Dallas takes a hand off of your lithe waist and wipes his mouth roughly, cock throbbing angrily at your statement, “c’mere, baby. I gotcha.”
He can’t concentrate on your pleading too much, or he won’t last for nearly as long as he plans to. If for some tragic reason you and him don’t end up working out, he’s going to keep this memory imprinted in his brain until the day he dies.
You trill unhappily at being hoisted off his lap, but quiet when he flips you to place you beneath him and his fingers skim the waistband of your shorts. The domineering touch renders you a trembling mess under him, a stupid little lamb having wandered into the perfect trap.
“You’re shakin’,” Dallas lets his fingers drag along the exposed skin of your stomach and fails to hide a smile at your shiver, “what’s gotcha all worked up, huh?”
His teasing has you all turned around, uncertain fingers reaching for him as if to silently accuse him in response. You don't have to say it out loud; he can see it in your eyes.
“Gonna lemme take these off, sweetheart?”
He’s too close for you to think; all you can hear and smell and breathe is Dallas.
Still, you have enough sense about you to nod shyly, and register his self-indulgent grin when he braces one arm above your head to descend upon your lips like a starved vulture. He kisses you slow and heavy and dirty, distracting you from the sleep shorts he removes from you and making it one less object between you two.
You’re so trusting of him, and he’s barely done anything to earn it. The endearment makes that sticky feeling in his chest coil tighter, and when he tries to shake it off it just comes back tenfold. He’s not sure what it is, but your next noises distract him.
You try and fail to hide a breathy moan when his hand glides up between your legs, but it slips out anyway when your hips jerk up involuntarily.
There’s something primal and protective and instinctively possessive broiling up in him disgustingly fierce, curling like a snake before it lunges.
Mine, the voice in the back of his head chants, minemineMINE.
Without detaching his lips, Dallas slots himself between your legs and cages you in against your many plush pillows.
He’s mindless when your soft lips are timidly moving against his, slowly being led by example. His brain almost frays as he forces himself to pull back and crack his eyes open, dark and gleaming, to take in every inch of bare skin he sees. The dreams don’t do it justice; you’re a gleaming beacon of ingenuity, and he’s going to smother you.
He runs his hands down the lengths of your thighs, parting them further and trying to riddle how he’s going to go about doing this without scaring you away too soon.
You seem to have a different idea in mind, because you sneak one shaky hand down between them and begin to slip it behind the thin line of your panties to blindly try and alleviate some of the tension there.
Dallas almost loses it, hisses, and grabs your offending wrist with a grin, “Christ, woman. Do that ‘n I ain’t gonna last three seconds.”
Caught, a mischievous sort of expression mixes in with your hesitance, like you’re finally learning the first few steps of this dance. It’s playfully naive - a stark contrast to all the other women he’s experienced. He kisses you again to centre you both, allowing your one hand the freedom to tangle itself in his hair while the other stays contained in his palm. The little tug you give when you twist your fingers in his locks makes him throb and groan into your mouth.
He hasn’t even glanced down yet, because he knows when he does, he’s not going to be able to concentrate on anything else. It takes everything he can to ignore the heat emanating from between your thighs, but somehow he manages. Slowly, he pulls up the shirt covering your chest, giving you plenty of time to stop him but finding that you plead no contest.
When he pulls back, he finds that the actual image of you topless is better than any fantasy of you his filthy brain could have cooked up.
You're eyeing him partly in self-consciousness and partly in wonder when he goes to softly pinch your nipples and openly ogle your breasts. The feeling of it makes you whine.
“Perfect fuckin’ tits. You’re a dream, baby.”
The compliment is crude and rough, but it makes you preen nonetheless. He lands one more kiss on your lips before moving his mouth down your sternum to latch onto a nipple, unafraid to use some teeth.
A gasp is his sole reward, shaky and spellbound. Dallas scores it in his memory like a platinum record.
You’re tightly wound and hypersensitive. He can feel the trembles in your fingers and the tremors in your thighs from where they wrap around him like vines. An exposed livewire is the right way to think about it; it seems he’s closer to having you a nonverbal puddle of nerves than he thought.
Unable and unwilling to deny himself any longer, he trails a hand down your thigh so he can lift it up and out, pressing your knee to the bed to test your flexibility. He’s pleased to find you capable of holding the position - you might curl into a beetle later when he’s spoiled you with orgasms and drowned you in cum, but for now he needs you open.
Without any preamble, he takes the back of his index finger and strokes your covered slit.
You jump and let out a startled, stunted sound. For a moment, he thinks he whites out.
He meant to ask you whether or not you’ve even touched yourself or made yourself cum, but any words he had queued have up and left his brain. You're absolutely drenched, wetness having inundated the insides of your thighs and completely ruined your panties.
Your hips buck up into his hand in return, “A-ah!”
“Christ,” Dallas curses hotly, detaching himself from your chest to stare down at you in awe, “you’re fuckin’ soaked for me, dollface. You ever been touched like this?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but he wants to hear you respond. You're looking at him like you’ve done something wrong. Dallas gives you another tentative stroke, and this time when you buck, he has to hold you down.
“Answer me.”
It takes a second for you to respond, and he has to remove his hand in order for you to think. Between a gulp and a few shocked blinks, you manage to locate a response and shake your head side to side.
“No?” He breathes mockingly, “Never played with this little pussy all by yourself?”
The air is thick, and you pant heavily as you try to draw proper breaths. You’ve never been this drenched between your legs; you can feel the sheer amount of your slick and the mess it's making of your panties, rendering everything embarrassingly slippery. You know from reading anatomy books that liquid arousal before intercourse is normal, but this seems a little much.
You falter in your response to his second question, not wanting to reveal the lacklustre experiences you’ve had trying to touch yourself, and Dallas zeroes in on the hesitation right away.
“Fuck…y’did, didn’tcha.”
You whine and wiggle, trying to hide your face in his neck and tilt your hips back into his hand at the same time so you can get back to that ridiculously amazing feeling, but he holds you fast.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, angel. Tell me.”
Realizing that he’s not going to get on with it until you entertain his inquiry, you force yourself to cough up a confession you’ve never told anyone before.
“W-wasn’t the same…” your voice is shaky and mottled, “didn’feel good-”
He relishes in the way you can barely hold eye contact and subconsciously try to scoop your hips up to meet his fingers again. You’re so close to begging for it; he can almost taste the pleas forming on your lips.
“Ain’t feel good, hm?” Dallas takes the pad of his thumb to your covered slit and resumes that slow stroking, “didn’t feel like this? God, you’re fuckin’ drippin’...”
“Dallas…!”
He revels in the resulting quiet wail you try to stifle.
The overt sensitivity and general lack of awareness about your own body isn’t really your fault. You didn’t have any mother figures to guide you through the later adolescent years of your life, nor did you have any particularly close female friends that you were comfortable enough with to ask about this kind of stuff, so your own pleasure kind of fell through the cracks. Any time you’ve touched yourself, a weird feeling has accompanied it and it’s never led anywhere remotely successful, so after a while you didn’t really bother anymore.
However, since you haven’t had anything to compare it to up until now, you didn’t have any idea of what you were missing out on.
You don’t know what he’s doing to you, but you don’t want it to stop.
“Y’gonna lemme play with it?” He’s already sliding your panties down and tossing them to parts unknown. “Gonna lemme take care of ya? Make y’cum nice ‘n hard?”
You know what that word means - cum. You’ve overheard it in vulgar conversation and are intelligent enough to connect the dots, but you’ve never had an orgasm on your own and you’re not sure how it works. But even if you don’t one-hundred percent understand what he’s insinuating or telling you, the way he says it makes your chest tight. Greedy want has your entire body thrumming and pulsing, and you make a keening sound that comes across as pathetically desperate even to your own ears.
Despite your tentative nodding, your legs still reflexively draw together once you’re bare to him, making him tut as he separates them again.
“Nu-uh. Don’t hide from me, baby - open up, there y’go...fuck.”
His vision blurs when he finally spies your cunt. It’s swollen, flush with blood and covered in your own arousal as it pulses around nothing, matching the way the rest of your body trembles. You gulp and quiver, trying to pluck up whatever bravery you can salvage as he stares down at the most intimate part of you.
“Prettiest fuckin’ pussy…” Dallas groans as he traps your poor, puffy little clit between the back of his index and middle finger.
You jolt when he glides the digits up and down, ridiculously sensitive to the foreign feelings coursing through you.
“Easy…so wet, sweetheart,” he’s still awestruck at the responsive state of you, “ain’t even touched you yet.”
A fevered, quiet cry crawls its way out of your swollen lips. You’re dizzy, overwhelmed and fiending - forming any words is a near-impossible task at the moment, so in lieu of any articulate linguistic pleading you try to meet his touch as best you can and apologize.
“M-m’sorry…”
His voice has dropped down to a gravelly low, “Ain’t a bad thing, darlin’…means y’like it.”
The explanation fully sinks in seconds later, letting you finally understand why he’s so enthralled by your reactions. Your body is literally dripping for him; it’s no wonder he looks like he wants to eat you alive.
Without warning you Dallas takes his thumb and presses down on your clit, circling it bare. It’s the first time anyone has touched you like this, and the effect is immediate.
You whimper and undulate softly underneath him, eyes sliding shut as your hands slip to his abdomen, “O-oh…”
“Yeah? Y’like that, dont’cha.”
“Ohmygod-” it’s almost too much; you remember something about there being a lot of nerve endings there, which should make how it feels no shock, but you can’t help it.
You grasp at his shirt like a lifeline to try and access the warmth underneath, but he doesn’t go to take it off. Skin-to-skin contact be damned; he’s not going to let go of you until you give him at least one orgasm.
He mouths and nips at your jawline, “God ain’t here, honey. S’just me n’you.”
“Dal-” you’re panting as you correct yourself, astutely overstimulated, and his blood sings in response.
Even in his wildest daydreams he could not have imagined his live reaction to seeing you like this. He can feel every acute response to what he’s doing to you. The fact that this is enough to send you spiraling like this is beyond anything he could have asked for. His heartbeat echoes in his own ears, frantically pumping blood that has nowhere else to go but down.
“That’s it…look at’cha. Been touchin’ you for two seconds ‘n look how needy y’are.”
He actively has to taper off his perverted mouth, and what ends up coming out of it is the more reverent parts of what he’s truly thinking. By and large, the words are tame when compared to the ones he has to consciously filter.
“Please-” your beg is so quiet he can scarcely hear it at first, but when his brain registers it seconds later, he snaps back into focus.
“What’s that, doll?”
You press your lips together as if ashamed, but a quick vicious swirl of his thumb parts your lips again and almost subconsciously, another plea slips out of your mouth.
“Mmnhh-please! P-please, Dally-” your default is polite and demure, even if you don’t even know what you’re begging for.
You just know you like what he’s doing, and you want more of it.
“Fuck,” he drops a kiss down on your lips like a reward, “good girl…sound so fuckin’ sweet beggin’ for me.”
He can both hear and see your bashful reaction to the praise, thanking his lucky stars that it works so easily on you. Every minute that passes by further convinces him that it won’t take much conditioning to get you where he wants you to be; you’re already falling into your role so, so well.
Dallas hardly waits for another cue or signal before teasing you with a finger, “Christ, angel. Such a tight lil thing.”
You’re looking up at him in awe as he slips it into you, orbs going wider. There is no resistance to you, just soft velvet gripping down on him and pulsing softly. His mind reels and he has to fight to keep himself upright; all he wants to do is collapse into you. He’s so hard he thinks he might actually have zero blood left in his brain.
An obscene noise of moist can be heard when he draws his finger back out, only to stuff it back in and locate the spongy patch he knows will drive you nuts.
“Hear how bad y’want me?”
You squeal and try to hide your face in your hands, blushing even brighter at the unholy sounds coming from between your legs and how callously he points them out. No one has ever bothered to explain the intricacies of this anatomy to you - but the noises sound dirty and make your tummy feel funny.
Dallas laughs and takes your hands away with a deep hum, “Don’t walk it back now, baby - look at me.”
When your timid gaze meets his, he adds another finger and hisses as your gummy little walls grip him like a vice. You’re going to be the death of him with how tightly you're squeezing - he isn’t even sure how he’s going to convince you to let him stuff his cock into you.
Untrusting of his own mouth, he assaults the area behind your ear at the little sensitive spot that hides there, tongue darting out before his teeth to scout the area he wants to drain blood from like a leech. It delays your response time, as does every swirl on your swollen clit and plunge of his long fingers into you.
“Fuck, y’taste like candy-” he’s dazed by you, voice gone molten, “how’d’you taste like candy…”
A full-body shudder accompanies him suckling a sizable hickey into your neck, and it catapults a wanton mewl from you.
Your willowy tone is coated in disbelief at the satisfaction you feel, “Dally, p-please-”
Whatever spell you have him under keeps working its magic, because if you were anybody else he wouldn’t have bothered to keep taking it this slow. He’s fully dedicated to metamorphosing you into the little savage version of yourself he knows already exists somewhere in that brain of yours.
He rears back to fully appreciate your pleading, “That’s it, gonna take everythin’ I give ya. Doin’ so good, sweetheart.”
His thumb stays on the livewire that is your clit, and he lets you jerk every so often as your body responds to his ministrations, hips jolting and rolling. A plethora of whimpers escape you as your limbs clutch at him and try to force him back down to your lips, but he stays right where he is, too enraptured by the sight of you to move.
All at once, that scary sensation that so commonly prevented you from continuing these kinds of escapades on your own is rising rapidly in your core.
“Mmnngh-” you try to warn him, “w-wait Dal…f-feels-”
He interrupts you, apparently having spotted the signs before you even began to feel them. Your entire body has started tensing and your hips are moving of their own accord, canting up into his fingers as he keeps feeding them into you with filthy squelches.
“Don’t fight it,” Dallas bites his lower lip hard to avoid the nastiness that nearly spills from his mouth and quickly replaces it with something more palatable, “told ya I was gonna make y’cum nice ‘n hard, didn’t I?”
Still struck dumb by his dirty talk but infected by the depravity, you nod before you speak with delicately parted lips, “M-mmnhm…”
It’s when he’s on the next downstroke that he crooks his fingers just right, and-
“Oh - f-fuck!”
You’re closer than he thought you would be. He can feel the steady pulsing building up strength like a flexing muscle, and the rush of pride and arousal is so strong he actually has to briefly close his eyes to concentrate on not blowing his load at the sight and feel of it.
“There y’go,” he exhales once he feels stable enough to look at you again, “relax for me, doll.”
Finally, you settle against him like a retreating tide, giving him a long, drawn-out shudder and a keening noise before your head falls back with a soft thump.
It’s been like climbing a mountain; slowly and steadily you've been ascending with little breaks along the way where the pleasure tapers off, only to pick up again when you open your eyes to look at him. But right now, it feels like your whole being is holding its breath in anticipation for some kind of impact.
“I can feel you grippin’ on me,” Dallas warns you, “y’feel that? Your pretty lil cunt wants t’get filled up, babygirl.”
Oh, God-
“Dal-!” you all-but wail, eyes tearing up while you fist the fabric you've got in a death grip.
“You want it, don’tcha? Gonna lemme feel how tight this sweet innocent pussy is?”
Soft, needy cries pour from you in droves. You feel like you’re going to implode, frantically chasing his touch that isn’t going anywhere. His words and their cadence do nothing but spur you on.
“You gonna let me ruin it?”
Another sharp gasp is his only warning before you shatter with a squeal, and Dallas has to hold your hips down as you break apart under him.
Your universe tilts, widening and then narrowing to a single concrete point as the feverish coil of want he’s been winding up abruptly pops into blinding bursts of pleasure. You clamp down around his hand, walls flexing and spasming as the rest of your body tries to fold itself inwards.
It feels like a rush of pure energy has ignited you, warming every cell in your body and dumping a load of gooey feel-good chemicals into your brain. If it weren’t so dizzying and intoxicating, you might be marveling in awe that such a sensation exists. You can feel yourself pulsating harshly around his long fingers that won’t stop moving, forcing your hips to continue meeting them as you chase after a high you don't want to come down from.
“Fuck - that’s it, there y’go,” Dallas exhales harshly at the sight of you, murmuring praise as he guides you through it.
Half of it is lost on you while you try to adjust to this new feeling, colors bursting from behind closed eyelids like little fireworks that have detonated into a million tiny sparks. A rush of warm, soothing relief settles in your bones as the pleasure ebbs and flows, cresting and then retreating slowly like the tide.
“Good girl. Betcha feel better now,” He’s still moving his fingers, not slowing them even as you start to jerk from overstimulation, “had t’cum so bad you’re leakin’ all over.”
You whimper at that, finally opening your eyes to find him looking down at you like a man starved, salivating at the only source of sustenance he’s seen in weeks. If you had to put a descriptor on it, you’d say he looks unholy. Like you’re some angelic thing he’s making his business to taint and defile.
The reality is you have no idea how close you are to the truth. His desire to pin you down and force you to cum again and again until you’re weeping and pleading for him to fuck you is nearly violent in its want, and this time he doesn’t want to contain it.
“...you’re gonna gimme another one.”
It’s a statement, not a question - and one that you take too long to actualize because Dallas isn’t stopping his motions, which means you can’t fully come down from whatever high he’s tossed you into.
“W-wait-” for the second time today you try to stall him, only to have a shaky moan shoved from your chest and promptly swallowed by him.
It’s uniquely intense; you’re already woozy from whatever he just did to you, and this time it feels like he’s pressing up on that funny little spot in you harder.
“S’too m-much, Dal-” you slur against his lips, tears blurring your vision as you warble and sob for him.
Dallas sounds completely wrecked when he takes your lower lip between his teeth and nips at it, coercing a whimper from you. He pulls back seconds later, and when he does you can’t even see the color of his irises with how blown his pupils have gone.
“You c’n take it,” he rasps, swallowing roughly as he pulls back to use both hands on you, “I got you, darlin’. Turn that lil brain off.”
You don’t even have time to respond before he’s pressing down low on your pelvis and making you squeal with how acute the sensation is. The little spot that makes you see stars is being squished between the pads of his long fingers and the palm he’s pushing into your stomach, and it’s far too much.
“Ah-!”
You want to tell him that you feel like you’re going to pass out - that if he keeps going, you’re going to have some kind of heart attack or worse - but there’s a vicious, raw pleasure that is rising fast and overriding those instinctual alerts. All you can do is stare up at him in shock and let him have his nasty way with you as the pleasure builds far too quickly.
“You wan’ it, don’tcha? Yeah y’do. I c’n feel it, baby. Cum for me.”
His words land like a sucker punch to your gut. Suddenly, you understand that if this is how wonderful it can be, it’s no wonder people are so obsessed with sex.
“Dallas!”
Nearing hyperventilation, you choke around a shout and tumble over the edge again, eyes rolling back as everything snaps and you shut down.
This time the feeling is a lot sharper and harder than before, but you still ride your way through the waves by clinging to him and letting your hips cant up naturally into his touch. His murmurs of praise and encouragement as he guides you through it filter through the fog in your head.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, - ffffuck yeah. Good fuckin’ girl, sweetheart. Fuck.”
You’re pulsing and shaking and delirious, totally lost in the euphoria and ignorant to how much self control it’s taking Dallas not to ravage you right now. He’s got no blood left in his brain - this is quite possibly the hottest shit he’s ever seen in his life.
When you come back to yourself, you’re still trembling and whimpering with aftershocks, but you don’t realize that there are tears on your cheeks until your throat closes around a sob. It’s then that you acknowledge the wetness on your face and open your eyes to find your boyfriend staring back down at you like you’ve just handed him the keys to heaven.
Dallas laughs at your tearstruck, fucked-out expression and coos at you, “Did so good, sweet thing.”
He tuts at your whimper when he takes his hand from you to trail his slick fingers up to your chest, using your own cum as lubricant to coat your nipple and driving you a little crazy from the tingles that it prompts. You’re so sensitive.
“Look so fuckin’ pretty cryin’ f’me,” he noses along your cheekbone and inhales your mewl, “how’s it feel? Made a mess just from my goddamn fingers.”
It’s almost comical that he expects you to be able to formulate any intelligible sentences or words right now, let alone say ‘thank you’ or ask ‘what the hell was that’. So, out of breath and flushed to high heaven, you skip the rational part and go right to begging for more, unabashed and fully embracing desperation.
“A-again - please?”
Dallas laughs, not cruelly but not kindly either.
Like a kid in a candy store.
His eyes briefly scan your obedient, vulnerable face, “Made y’cum for the first time in your goddamn life ‘n you’re already fixin’ for more, huh? Greedy girl.”
You miss his fingers, no matter how much your body is pleading with you to take a break, and the way he’s still teasing you doesn’t help. So you nod like an obedient little drone, hoping that it conveys your desires just as well as a few choice words.
“I’ll give ya more,” he murmurs against your lips, a filthy promise whose tone suggests it’s been written in stone, “y’want me t’fuck you? Pop that lil cherry?”
You tense, justifiably nervous about the idea - the potential pain that you’ve heard whispered among girls who have more experience than you, the risks of pregnancy, men leaving after they’ve had their fill and inadvertently revealing that they really only wanted one thing from you.
All of that is outweighed by the sheer desire coursing through your veins right now. You want him so badly you think you might combust if you don’t have him, and not only has he shown you how amazing it can be - he’s claiming it can be better.
“Say it, darlin’,” Dallas murmurs, very aware of your inner turmoil.
Uncertainty is where he shines; he’s excellent at getting people to do what he wants and convincing them that it was their idea in the first place, especially if they’re under his spell and lost for him like you are.
You’re a big girl…you know how to say ‘no’. You just don’t want to.
He’s close enough that when the words are spoken his lips brush against yours, distracting you from the reasonable part of your mind and urging you to just let go and give in to what you want.
Yes - yesyesyesyes-
“F-fuck me…” the words are timid and whispered, but you cannot hide the pleading lilt to them, “...please, Dal?”
You’re worrying your lower lip raw, the picture of absolute desire; eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and body still shaking. There is no pain, fever, or burn; only a heightened sensitivity and an infuriating ache that makes you keep gyrating your hips softly as you attempt to alleviate some of the want.
It takes a moment before Dallas remembers to respond, temporarily blinded by the surge of unbridled lust that your words invoke.
“Please - Christ, sweetest thing I ever known, doll.”
Everything gets a little blurry after that, because he’s pulling back to strip his shirt off and only bothering to shove down his jeans enough to pull his cock out and-
Oh, shit.
Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it, and the first thought you have isn’t even the acknowledgment that this is the first actual dick you’ve ever seen in your life; it’s that there’s no way this thing is going to fit inside of you.
It’s a bit of a mixed reaction; on one hand, your mouth waters and you pulse in a foreign sense of want you’ve never felt before. Empty is the right word for it, you think. On the other hand, terror grips you and makes you gulp almost comically, eyes wide at the sight of his size.
He’s long and thick, heavy enough that even fully hard his tip points down towards your weeping slit like a warning of what’s to come. The leaking head of him is swollen and red, seeping a clear fluid you’re not experienced enough to name yet, and when you bite your lip in concern you actually see the whole thing throb.
Your eyes go wider, and when you look up at him you find him already assessing you with a knowing, smug smile.
“S’not gonna f-fit, Dal-” you whisper, gaze unsteady.
“Gonna make it fit, pretty girl,” Dallas shifts you closer by the hips and grunts when the flared head of his dick connects with your clit, “fuck…see what y’do t’me? Got me all fucked up - gonna stretch this lil pussy out.”
You trill sharply when he uses his tip to draw circles on the bundle of nerve endings, little sparks shooting down your spine and brain going blank as you accept that this is about to happen. Your cunt still feels tender and sensitive, but when he notches himself at your entrance you’re struck with a headier sense of want.
He hisses, finally able to feel the sopping heat of you exactly how he’s been wanting to. If he were an even worse man than he already is, he’d be flipping you over and bullying himself in far too quickly for your comfort.
Gentle and slow isn’t typical for him, but for you he tries, even if what comes out is a mutated version of soft dominance that feels innately appropriate when paired with your soft whimpers.
“M’gonna fuckin’ break you, tiny girl.” Dallas confesses in a wayward moment of honesty before slipping his swollen tip inside of you.
It accepts him with a quiet, slick noise that ricochets like a gunshot in your room, rendering you unable to react to his previous statement.
“Oh-! Dallas-”
He grits his teeth around a molten groan as he feels the first inch of your soaked, gummy walls, already gripping him far too tightly. It’s better than air, and he can’t help but slide himself in as far as you’ll let him, pulsing with every heartbeat.
Blunt pressure overrides the foreign sensation of being filled, slowly but surely, with something you’ve never felt before. He’s so, so warm inside of you, and you want him deeper - don’t want any part of you remaining empty without the feel of his dick entirely lodged in place - but he’s soon hitting resistance and you start to feel the sting of the stretch.
Dallas pauses his hips and growls in the back of his throat, low and completely wrecked.
“Gotta relax, lil one-” he drops down low over you, careful not to disrupt the angle, and swallows your next airy moan when it comes, “...squeezin’ me like a goddamn vice.”
“S-s’too big, Dal-”
“God-” he chokes at your whine, the visceral boost of ego and eroticism proving nearly too much, “I know, baby…y’weren’t made for cock like this, were ya.”
He gently pulls your lower lip down with a thumb, seemingly trying to decide something before sliding it into your mouth and ignoring your little whimper of surprise.
“Suck,” he prompts, and you listen.
It’s demeaning and incredibly degrading; you’re literally suckling on his thumb like a vapid whore while he splits you in two, leaking all over the sheets as your body betrays just how much you like this and just how much it disagrees with your fears.
He nearly cums from your responding sound alone, entirely lewd and dripping with need.
“That’s it, good girl-”
You mewl around his finger as he slides in another inch, eyeing him like a perfect little bimbo who knows nothing else but to worship her man.
Dallas fights off pinhole vision, “Y’like that? Like hearin’ me tell y’how good you look takin’ my cock? Fuck…”
Your mouth falls open as he pulsates inside of you, the sudden sensation both too much and perfect at the same time.
“Course y’do…knew you’d be dirty. Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight-”
His thumb stays on your tongue, holding your mouth open as he watches you take every agonizing inch of him your body will allow. You’re so wet that all he has to do is take it easy and wait for you to keep opening up for him, even if he jumps the gun a bit between each ribbed ring of muscle. Relentless, he keeps feeding it to you, eyes flitting between your face and swollen little pussy struggling to accept his agonizing length as he bullies it into you.
Tears well up and spill over, your glassy eyes tugging at everything but his heartstrings.
Dallas feels his lungs constrict, “That’s it - cry for me, sweetheart.”
He takes his thumb out of your mouth so he can drag a knuckle across your cheek, brushing away a wayward tear and tasting it around a lecherous echo. You don’t know why, but you feel the way the action makes you clench around him.
Dallas frowns around another groan, “Christ, doll. Keep takin’ me nice ‘n deep, just like that.”
The oxygen keeps expelling from your lungs as he keeps pressing into you, deeper and deeper, until you swear no more can fit inside of you. You’re already so full, stuffed to the point of bursting, and you didn’t know your body could take this much even though you know childbirth is a thing and the marvels of anatomy are very real.
It’s a dull sting that grows with every other inch until he has to stop, forced up against the back wall of your cunt that you know to be your cervix.
Finally, you’re completely full of him, stretched out and squirming and whimpering at the feel of it while he growls from above.
“Fuck, there y’go,” Dallas is murmuring down at you in awe, “can’t even take all of it…you’re so fuckin’ small.”
He’s running a hand across your waist and pausing at your stomach. Initially you’re a little confused, caught between tears and trying to slow your breathing down, but when you feel a concentrated pressure, you lift your head to check what he’s marvelling at.
The pad of his thumb is rubbing up against an obvious bump just under your belly button, one that you immediately worry about until you feel him throb and see it move.
It’s him - you can actually see him rearranging your organs from the inside out.
Your eyes widen in shock, stupefied by the concept of something being able to reach deep enough and being big enough that such blatant evidence of its presence can exist.
“Dallas…” a whimper is all you can manage, warbling around another sob when he pulses.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he rumbles at you between ragged breaths and black spots dancing in his vision, “y’see that? S’how deep I am, pretty girl. Told ya I was gonna ruin you.”
You wail, and he chooses that exact moment to start moving.
Initially when he starts to pull away you think you’ve done something wrong, but instead of drawing out all the way, he only pulls out a few inches before doubling back and letting the tip of his cock kiss your cervix again with an obscene squelch.
The friction isn’t quite as nice as what you felt earlier, but you figure that this is all a little new and maybe you’re not doing something right; maybe when it’s all said and done you can ask him how to-
Oh.
Oh, fuck-
It’s on the sixth or so roll of his hips that pleasure blooms low in you, and suddenly everything clicks.
Dallas sees the exact moment you start to feel it - really feel it - and grins as he watches you cry out. You’re caught hook, line and sinker, absolutely pliant in his hands.
“There it is,” he presses a little harder against the spot where his tip is protruding from your skin, “feels good, don’t it? Told ya y’just needed t’get filled up.”
How he’s treating and talking to you is…entirely staggering. On top of that, despite the slow speed, he’s just huge and pressing up against every single spot inside of you. You’re already dangerously close to passing out, and every movement of his hips draws more breath out of you.
“Hnn-” the fingers gripping his chest dig in, little fingernails nearly drawing blood, “a-ah! Dallas-”
You have to swallow the ridiculous amount of saliva that’s built up in your mouth before you start drooling and really giving him something to tease you over.
He kisses you only briefly in an attempt to refocus you, “Gotta breathe for me, sunshine.”
You try - you really do. But it’s hard when every drag of him against your walls feels like flint on steel and ignites you to kingdom come.
The cool metal of his St. Christopher slides against your collarbone while you whine, a stark reminder that there exists a world of stimuli outside this bubble of ecstasy.
You’d almost forgotten.
Once he settles into an easy rhythm, able to see what you can tolerate, it’s pretty much game over for both of you. There’s no way you’ll be able to go back to a life before this kind of unimaginable euphoria, and there’s no way Dallas is going to unlatch his claws from you. It’ll be a cold day in hell before anyone pries his decayed, dead fingers off of your soul.
He’s gone, absolute filth pouring from his mouth while he ravages you. There isn’t a single thing on Earth that could get him to shut up at this moment.
“You’re mine, doll. Fuckin’ ruined you.”
“God, keep takin’ it, just like that.”
“That’s it - y’like it deep like that, don’tcha?”
“Perfect fuckin’ girl, all tight ‘n needy. All mine.”
Every single word is laced with awe, sheer reverence at the fact that he has been the first - the only - to create and witness this. He watches you like he’s found religion, blind faith enrapturing him.
One particular thrust has you squealing and curling your toes, wide-eyed as you clamp down on him. Every pornographic sound that comes from your coupling bounces off your walls and settles into your brainwaves, frequency tuned and locked onto him.
“S-so deep…” you trail off, absolutely unused to using the dirty words he’s so comfortable with.
Dallas goads you into it with a sharp laugh, pointed and cruel, “Deep in your what, baby? Say it.”
You want to, but your brain has encountered a mental blockade. The whimper you let out instead isn’t satisfactory enough, and he slows the roll of his hips.
“Ain’t wanna say it, huh? Gonna make me train you like a dumb lil puppy?”
You whine at the insult and feel yourself contract, astounded that you enjoy this. How is it possible to like being talked down to this much? To be told with absolute certainty that you’re no better than a silly animal with base impulses should make you want to smack him instead of begging him for more.
“Y’like that too,” Dallas snickers at you, “fuckin’ figures, filthy girl.”
He goes back to circling your clit slowly, breathing in the greedy noise you make and cutting off his own grunt when you tighten around him.
“Gonna be good for me ‘n say it?”
It doesn’t take very long to break you down.
“S’so deep’n’my pussy…” you slur it out, flushed and desperate for him to just get on with it so you can feel that blinding crack of pleasure again.
Everything is tensing and clenching far too fast-
“That’s it,” he starts up again with a teasing chuckle and a throb at your gasp, “ain’t so hard, was it? Like a bitch in heat…”
The nasty insult hits you far harder than it should, knocking away your appropriately appalled noise.
Something snaps and before you can help it, you’re cumming with an astounded gasp, pulsing around him and frantically crying for him.
“Oh, fuck-” he almost chokes as he watches you fall apart, stalling his hips to let you ride it out and delirious with how you feel losing it on his cock.
He barely manages to stave off an impending orgasm. Honestly, it’s a miracle that he hasn’t lost it yet; he couldn’t have asked for anything better - you’re the perfect little template to mold into his exact wants, and you’re lapping it up like a true vixen.
“That’s what’m talkin’ about - there y’go. Goddamn-”
You’re so tight and soaked and syrupy, suctioning around him as you whine through the waves of heat.
Dallas can taste the purity he takes from you with every passing second, devouring the essence of your virtue like a starving vulture.
When you come back alive with a wet inhale, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look up at him with half-lidded glassy eyes, the last thing he expects is for you to beg for more. He’s already driven you past the point of mindlessness, making you forget anything and everything except for him and the way he keeps filling you up.
To his surprise, you rally yourself rather quickly, albeit with a little difficulty.
“Dal-” you warble, sniffling and clutching his trapezius muscles, “pl-please don’stop-”
A disbelieving beat of laughter leaves his mouth, “Split you open ‘n you’re still beggin’ for more…Christ.”
He can feel how close he is, the coil of simmering tension pulled taut and prime to snap. It’s unhelped by you and your constant noises of sin, deflowered and debauched, spurring him further along with the knowledge that he’s successfully defiled you in such an intimate way.
You’re so wet that you can feel the dampness of the sheets underneath you and register how sticky the backs of your thighs have become. Slippery, indecent sounds accompany every thrust, and even if his hips can’t fully meet yours, the weight of his thrusts has your headboard hitting the wall with a dull thud.
“F-feelsogood-” you sob, somehow constricting around him further.
Dallas groans like he’s been shot and lowers himself further over you, accepting his fate.
“I seen those pills y’take every mornin’, angel,” he pants into your ear like a devil on your shoulder, “gonna lemme cum in this sweet pussy? Make y’feel all nice ‘n warm?”
Two things wash over you in that instant: blinding, lustful acceptance that your boyfriend is about to be the first person to ever cum inside of you if you let him, and surprise that he’s been keeping track of your behaviors much more closely than you imagined.
Dallas is definitely not as stupid as most folks believe him to be. It’s a little disconcerting, but your hindbrain lets go of the worry because he won’t stop annihilating your little cunt with vicious, brutal thrusts that echo in their wetness and send your thoughts scrambling.
“Nnnghh-” you try to vocalize your hesitation between squeals and cries.
“What, y’don’t want it?” He pulls back and holds you by the jaw, the pads of his fingers sinking into your cheek, “I can stop anytime, darlin’.”
Your panic is immediate when you keen up at him, “N-no! Don’t s-stop-”
He can’t help his resulting snicker even if he’s right on the cusp of an orgasm, fighting to hold off. You shudder when his thumb drops back down to your clit, curious to see if he can squeeze any more out of you today.
“What’s th’magic word then, lil one?”
An angelic gasp leaves your swollen lips at his touch, mouth rounded in a perfect ‘O’ shape, “Please…”
“Please what?” Dallas teases even as he feels the tug of euphoria start to bubble over.
This time your words are spoken with significantly less hesitation, inhibitions having been replaced with hedonistic desires. You’re quaking harshly, so tense with pleasure that you’re certain you’ll be sore in more than one place come morning.
“P-please cum in m-my pussy-”
It’s enough to make him implode, and he feels the chain reaction ignite before he can help it.
“Fuck…y’want my cum, baby? Want me t’fill you up? Take it-”
Something in his brain shuts down as he gives himself over to whatever animalistic code in him dictates release, grip tightening on you to keep you in place as his thrusts turn more vicious. He doesn’t slow or falter even when you pulse around him, blindly fisting the sheets with trembling fingers.
“Dallas-”
He reads the urgency in your voice, sees the physical warnings and ignores them, not having expected your body to be able to create such a response given how rare it is.
But when you lock up around him, tense and tight, he feels the intensity of you gripping on him much more vigorously than usual.
“DALLAS-!”
You shriek and squeal with each one of his motions, slick squirting from you in bursts as he keeps hitting the gummy ring of muscle that indicates he’s gone deep enough. Whatever type of reaction you’re experiencing feels much too pressurized and sharp compared to the previous three cliffs you’ve been shoved over, but it stays within the realm of harsh pleasure. You’re so doped up on him right now that the reasonable part of your brain screaming ‘what the fuck is happening’ becomes muted, though you still have enough wit about you to hope that this isn’t anything totally abnormal.
Something in his chest gives harshly at the sight of you gushing around his cock, and vocalizing anything else beyond a cursed shout becomes impossible given what he’s just coaxed out of you.
“Oh, fuck-”
Dallas spills into you with a final thrust, pulsing harshly and filling you with rope after rope of cum. It’s too much and too deep, immediately flooding you and leaking out of your swollen little cunt in warm rivulets as you continue to contract around him, but you don’t have any mind to complain.
You’ve never felt so wholly filled and plugged up, woozy with satisfaction and a deep, dirty sense of gratification at every throb of him against your cervix. There isn’t even any room to feel fear or confusion over whatever completely alien bodily reaction you’ve just had.
For all intents and purposes, you may as well be floating right now, weak and lethargic with dopamine, ever so content to stay in this bed. Briefly, you find yourself wondering if it would be too much to ask him to do this again before you both go to sleep.
It isn’t until the fuzziness has cleared from your senses that you’re able to open your eyes without your vision swimming or the room spinning, and it’s then that you feel the bite of his teeth. He’s clamped down at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder - a direct, possessive action that urges you to stay put and accept that you’ve been claimed.
Your walls give one last clench at the emotion that such a gesture prompts, and it makes Dallas unlatch his canines from your skin with a low, appreciative hum.
He’s a picture of pure carnality when he raises himself back above you, and you’re entirely entranced by him. Even in this moment of aftershock you wait for his direction, wide eyes trailing over his features like your life depends on it. He’s watching you closely, scanning for any alarm or signs of regret before accepting that your mesmerization is all-positive.
“Did s’good, sweet thing,” he rumbles, dropping a long kiss on your lips that settles in your bones like sizzling hot asphalt.
Given his track record, gloating or smugness would be typical here. Instead, he substitutes them both for reassurance because he knows that in order to truly lock you down and successfully keep you pliant and willing, you need tending to.
Dallas pulls away to assess the fallout and reap the spoils of what he’s done, but when you stare up at him, intensely curious and submissive and teeming with sincerity, he realizes far too late that he’s played himself. In his blind, all-consuming efforts to transform you into a subservient little pocket pussy, he hadn’t counted on the possessive response that his system involuntarily provoked.
Whether it be chemical or hormonal, every cell in his body screams for him to take care of you, watch over you, keep you close and satisfied and full in more ways than one. He didn’t count on such a severe dose of obsession to surge through him so dramatically. It drops into his bloodstream and spreads like a virus, pheromones bleeding from every pore.
So when you ask him for it ‘again’, all shy and sugary and not even able to push yourself to say the words even if you were just begging for him to cum inside of you not one minute ago, he can’t even bring himself to feel bad about metamorphosing you, because he’s been equally affected by his own wicked games.
“Yeah pretty girl,” Dallas laughs in near incredulity at what he’s experiencing, licking another kiss into your mouth, “we c’n go again.”
A/N: please let me know if the tag list is working properly!
Tag List:@itsalwaysyoutoo@shotbyeros@pinkbabydollblythe@theoneandonly-vrg@taylor-27ttpd@littlemisscobrakai@screamingoverfiction
Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, BEN Drowned, Eyeless Jack, X Virus, Tim/Masky, Brian/Hoodie
Literally nobody requested this I just wanted to do it LMAO
NSFW below the cut!
Jeff
☠︎︎ Jeff is always teasing you like the smug little asshole he is
☠︎︎ this time it involved taking your weapon
☠︎︎ cue very cliche flirting while holding it out of your reach
☠︎︎ except you weren’t having it all
☠︎︎ so you tackled him
☠︎︎ once you were both on the ground the situation really just devolved from there
☠︎︎ you managed to pin him down and straddle him, but he was still holding it as far away as he could
☠︎︎ so you ended up doing a little bounce motion while trying to reach for it without getting off of him
☠︎︎ Jeff immediately notices this and drops the weapon
☠︎︎ his hands fly to your hips and grinds you down hard
☠︎︎ “if you wanted to ride me you should’ve just said so”
☠︎︎ you’re absolutely mortified and try to get away but he grips your arms and pulls you down onto him even more
☠︎︎ you’re not going anywhere now
Toby
✘ Toby is so fucking feral for dry humping noooo
✘ like especially missionary dry humping
✘ he just loves to hold you down, get in between your legs and grind himself against you
✘ He does this in any situation where he can’t fuck you right then
✘ like if you guys are on the way back from a mission and you move in such a way (unintentionally) that gets him riled up it’s over
✘ he’s pushing you to the ground in the woods
✘ and truly, if he had it his way he’d fuck you right then and there but when you whine and protest he relents
✘ but not fully
✘ god he would be so desperate and lowkey almost whiny
✘ like just grinding himself into you and picturing you all exposed and spread open for him
✘“Fuck, I wanna be inside you so fucking bad, mein Mädchen.”
✘he doesn’t stop until a) he’s so frustrated himself that the only option is rushing you back home so he can bury himself inside you or b) he comes in his pants
Ben
⚠︎ Ben uses sex as a weapon LMAO
⚠︎ so he’s really only dry humping to tease you, to deny you of what you really want
⚠︎ what did you do to deserve it? Nothing really, he just likes to deprive you
⚠︎ but he won’t just let you sit and grind for a bit
⚠︎ no, Ben makes you do it for hours
⚠︎ he’ll have you straddle him and force you to keep your hands on his chest
⚠︎ “Yeah, that’s it. Move those hips. Show me how bad you want it.”
⚠︎ and at this point you’re damn near sobbing because you’ve already came more times than you can count and your clit feels almost raw from the friction but you just need him inside you so bad
⚠︎ “hmmm… just give me two more and I might consider fucking you.”
Jack
𖤐Jack fucking loves dry humping
𖤐 mostly because his cock is too big and he is too strong for his own good
𖤐 so he’s always scared of hurting you
𖤐 and after a particularly rough encounter, he refused to fuck you for weeks
𖤐 not because he didn’t want to, but because he felt so bad about hurting you, and he didn’t want to mess up again
𖤐 so instead he has you straddle his lap, wearing nothing but your panties
𖤐 he’s guiding your hips with his hands and kissing your neck UGH
𖤐 “you’re doing so good baby, just like that.”
𖤐 you can feel his big bulge under you and you’re begging for him to fuck you
𖤐 but he does not give into temptation because he knows what’s best for you
𖤐 plus he really does like watching you move your hips on top of him, especially since when he fucks you it’s almost always him doing most if not all the work (completely of his own doing)
X Virus
☣︎ You knew Cody was working and it was better to not interrupt him
☣︎ but that’s no fun at all
☣︎ so you sit on his lap
☣︎ “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
☣︎ you continue being a massive distraction, wiggling around in his lap until you can hear his breathing start to pick up
☣︎ when you decide to start grinding your ass back and forth on his clothed cock, that’s when he snaps
☣︎ suddenly you’re bent over his lab bench and his hand is gripping your hair, holding your face down
☣︎ and he’s holding your arms behind your back with his other hand
☣︎ Your skirt rode up when he bent you over and he’s so fucking hard pressed against your thinly clothed cunt
☣︎ “This is what you wanted, huh?”
☣︎ and when you’re too embarrassed to answer he starts grinding his cock against you
☣︎ “What’s wrong, slut? You wanted to be a distraction. C’mon, pull down your panties.”
Tim/Masky
꩜ lowkey, I don’t think he’d be all that into it
꩜ not a dry humping truther
꩜ he would likely only do it for a little bit as a tease and then he’s getting straight down to business
꩜ unless you really liked it then he would have you do it on top of him
꩜ he’d move your hips with his hands, making sure you don’t go too fast and keeps your movements at a steady pace
꩜ “don’t get too excited, you can keep it steady, I know you can.”
꩜ but even then he can only take it for so long
☆ Masky does the type of dry humping where he bends you over and pounds you through the clothes
☆ To the point where it kinda hurts a bit
☆ And it’s always a punishment
Brian/Hoodie
𖣐 Brian been a dry humping supporter since day 1
𖣐 loves to do it anywhere, anytime
𖣐 but especially in situations where it can get you guys in trouble unfortunately
𖣐 like you guys are watching a movie with everyone and you’re sitting in his lap
𖣐 and you feel him start to subtly grind your hips onto him
𖣐 you know better than to fight it because he will quickly make it known to you who’s in charge
𖣐“Just be a good girl for me and keep quiet.”
𖣐 And he gets you all riled up until you have to make an excuse to leave the room and then he follows after you a few minutes later
☹ Hoodie doesn’t do dry humping he’s straight up just slipping it into you while you guys are watching a movie or sitting on the couch
☹ He does not give a single fuck who’s around
☹ If anything, you might try to initiate it for a moment but even just one roll of your hips and it’s over because now you’re getting his cock inside you
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Summary: How will they react to their partner calling them pretty boy?
Pairings: Yeon Sieun x Gn!reader, Ahn Suho x Gn!reader, Oh Beomseok x Gn!reader, Kang Wooyoung x Gn!reader, Park Humin x Gn!reader, Go Hyuntak x Gn!reader, Geum Seongje x Gn!reader, Na Baekjin x Gn!reader
Genre: Headcanons, Fluff
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Boys Blushing, Emotional Vulnerability, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Soft Boys, Secretly Loves Compliments, Everyone Is Down Bad, Comedy, Romance
Masterlist
Yeon Si-eun
He blinks once, genuinely convinced he misheard you because "pretty boy" is probably the last compliment he expected to receive.
When you repeat it with complete sincerity, the tips of his ears turn pink, and he quietly adjusts his posture to hide how flustered he actually is.
"Pretty isn't exactly the word I'd use," he mutters, but he never tells you to stop saying it.
Every time you call him "pretty boy," he responds with a small sigh that sounds annoyed, yet there's always the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
He'll pretend to be reading while you're complimenting him, but he'll reread the same sentence three or four times because he can't focus anymore.
If you gently cup his face and repeat, "You're my pretty boy," he'll completely freeze for a second before softly asking, "...Are you finished?"
Secretly, he wonders what exactly you find pretty about him, and later catches himself looking in the mirror longer than usual.
He'll never openly admit that he likes the nickname, but if you suddenly stop using it, he'll quietly notice almost immediately.
On particularly stressful days, hearing you casually call him "pretty boy" somehow eases the tension more than he'd ever admit out loud.
Ahn Su-ho
The second you grin and call him "pretty boy," he bursts into laughter because he genuinely wasn't expecting it.
"Pretty? Me?" he asks with the biggest smile, clearly entertained rather than embarrassed.
Five minutes later, he's already teasing you by being overly dramatic and asking, "Still your pretty boy?"
He'll purposely lean closer just to hear you say it again because he finds your reactions adorable.
The nickname becomes something he proudly owns, and he'll randomly remind you of it whenever he's feeling playful.
He'll jokingly ask whether his face or his personality is prettier, fully expecting you to compliment both.
If someone overhears you calling him that, he isn't embarrassed in the slightest—in fact, he'll grin and throw an arm around your shoulders.
Whenever you seem shy about giving him compliments, he'll gently encourage you because hearing your affection always brightens his mood.
Every now and then he'll look at you with the most smug expression imaginable and ask, "Who's your favorite pretty boy?"
Deep down, despite all the joking, your compliment genuinely stays with him because he knows you mean it.
Oh Beom-seok
The moment the words leave your mouth, his eyes widen, and he just stares at you in complete surprise.
His cheeks slowly become bright red, and he immediately looks away because he doesn't know how to handle compliments that sincere.
"You... really think so?" he asks quietly, sounding almost afraid you'll change your mind.
Every compliment from you becomes something he remembers for days, replaying it over and over in his head.
If you affectionately hold his hand while calling him your pretty boy, he'll smile so softly it almost doesn't seem real.
He's incredibly shy whenever you say it in public and gently asks if you can save the nickname for when you're alone together.
The nickname slowly becomes one of the few things that consistently makes him feel genuinely appreciated.
Whenever he's feeling insecure, you don't even have to notice—calling him "pretty boy" somehow reassures him more than long speeches ever could.
Eventually, he starts smiling the instant you begin speaking because he secretly hopes you're about to call him that again.
Although he rarely says it aloud, your simple little nickname becomes one of his favorite expressions of affection.
Kang Woo-young
He raises an eyebrow the first time you call him "pretty boy," then lets out an amused chuckle.
"That's a new one," he says, sounding more curious than embarrassed.
Instead of denying it, he confidently asks, "So... what exactly makes me pretty?"
He enjoys making you explain yourself, smiling wider every time you list another feature you love.
Once he realizes how much you enjoy teasing him, he'll intentionally maintain eye contact just to make you flustered instead.
He'll jokingly accuse you of being obsessed with his face whenever you compliment him too much.
If someone interrupts the moment, he'll casually continue the conversation later because he's genuinely interested in hearing every reason.
Whenever he catches you staring at him, he'll grin knowingly before asking, "Thinking about your pretty boy again?"
He'll occasionally tease you by borrowing your own nickname, calling himself your "favorite pretty boy" just to hear you laugh.
Even though he acts confident, hearing genuine affection from you always makes his expression soften more than he realizes.
Park Hu-min
He immediately laughs so hard he almost doubles over, convinced you're joking for at least the first few seconds.
"Pretty boy? Me? That's hilarious," he says while still laughing, though there's obvious amusement in his eyes.
Once he realizes you're serious, he scratches the back of his neck with an unexpectedly bashful grin.
He'll spend the rest of the day dramatically posing whenever you look his way, asking if he's "pretty enough now."
He absolutely loves playful affection, so the nickname quickly becomes one of his favorites.
If you randomly call him your pretty boy during an ordinary conversation, he'll grin so widely people nearby immediately know he's happy.
Whenever you're having a rough day, he'll purposely joke about being your "official certified pretty boy" just to make you smile.
Behind all the jokes, he treasures the fact that you notice things beyond his strength or reputation.
Every single time you say it, he ends up smiling like the happiest person in the room.
Go Hyun-tak
He nearly chokes the first time you casually call him "pretty boy."
"Pretty? Seriously?" he blurts out with complete disbelief.
His immediate instinct is to deny it because he thinks words like "handsome" or "cool" fit him much better.
When you insist he's pretty, his ears slowly turn red while he awkwardly tries changing the subject.
You quickly discover that repeating the nickname completely destroys his composure every single time.
If you poke his cheek afterward, he'll grumble dramatically while trying—and failing—to hide his smile.
Eventually, he starts pretending to hate the nickname simply because he enjoys watching you say it even more.
Around his friends, he'll act completely embarrassed, but once you're alone, he'll quietly ask, "...Do you actually mean it?"
Your reassurance always makes him noticeably more relaxed, even if he pretends otherwise.
Before long, hearing "pretty boy" from you becomes something he secretly looks forward to every day.
Seo Jun-tae
His brain completely stops working for several seconds after hearing you call him your pretty boy.
His face becomes bright red almost instantly, and he starts nervously laughing because he has absolutely no idea how to respond.
"I've... never been called that before," he admits in an almost whisper.
Every compliment from you feels incredibly precious because he's still getting used to believing he deserves them.
He smiles so brightly afterward that it's impossible not to notice the confidence boost you've given him.
If you continue complimenting him, he'll become even more flustered and hide his face behind his hands.
Later that night, he'll remember the moment word for word while smiling to himself.
Whenever he's feeling uncertain, your nickname becomes something that quietly echoes in his mind and gives him courage.
He'll eventually gather enough confidence to shyly call you a sweet nickname back, though his voice is barely above a whisper.
He never stops blushing whenever you call him your pretty boy, no matter how many times you say it.
Geum Seong-je
He smirks immediately, clearly amused that you chose "pretty boy" instead of something tougher.
"Pretty?" he repeats with a teasing grin. "I was expecting handsome."
He leans closer with obvious confidence and asks if you'd like a better look.
Although he acts cocky, your compliment clearly boosts his ego more than he'd like to admit.
He'll deliberately fix his hair or straighten his clothes whenever he notices you looking at him.
If you stubbornly keep calling him your pretty boy, he eventually gives up arguing because hearing it actually feels nice.
He starts using the nickname to flirt back, asking if his pretty face is distracting you again.
Around other people, he keeps his usual confident attitude, but when you're alone, his smile becomes noticeably softer.
He secretly enjoys that your compliment focuses on something gentle rather than intimidating.
Na Baek-jin
He pauses for just a fraction of a second before looking at you with quiet curiosity, clearly surprised by your choice of words.
"Pretty boy?" he repeats calmly, as though carefully analyzing the nickname instead of reacting emotionally.
His expression barely changes, but if you know him well, you notice the tiny upward curve of his lips.
Rather than denying it, he simply asks, "That's how you see me?"
If you confidently answer yes, he holds your gaze a little longer than usual, silently appreciating your honesty.
The next time you call him your pretty boy, he responds with a small smile.
During quieter moments together, he'll occasionally rest his forehead against your shoulder and softly ask, "Still think I'm your pretty boy?"
Though he'll never openly admit it, hearing that nickname from the person he loves becomes one of the few compliments capable of breaking through his usually composed exterior.
» he's not the tallest (5'8) so it comes as a bit of a shock when he sees you for the first time. did you skip a couple grades?? are you in the right grade school???
» doesn't think much of the height difference honestly—you're short there's not much to it. it's only deeper into the relationship that he starts to become hyper aware of it.
» every time you go to hug him, he relishes at how well you just tuck under his chin. when cuddling, he'll pull you flush against his chest and stroke your head in a soothing manner, lulling you to sleep while you're completely surrounded by everything sieun
» gets too used to looking down at you that it makes it a little awkward when he's faced with his friends again. looking up is so much work compared to just glancing down at you, especially since he isn't rewarded with seeing your cute face but baku's instead :/
» analyzes everything you do. you're just so fascinating in how you move (a bit creepy, but whatever sieun..) he notes down the way your face slightly scrunches when something is just barely out of reach, or how you tippy toe just to pat his head, or how your head blends into the crowd just a bit too well and he loses you sometimes— yeah. he's whipped
» being not much of a talker, he silently does everything for you. he'll grab all the items you need off the top shelf, presenting it like an expectant puppy and preening slightly when you praise him for it
» locks onto you pretty firmly in crowded areas. his hands tightly hold yours, ensuring that you won't escape his grasp. "losing you is such a hassle because of how hard it is to find you" - that's the excuse he prepares when you point it out, but you know he does it mostly because he likes holding your hand
» speaking of hands, yours are actually small in comparison to his. sieun's always been on the smaller side in the hand comparisons that baku and gotak make him do. when he noticed just how tiny your hands are, it made him want to hold them more. (something inside him is unlocked once he realizes the size diff between you guys..)
» not one to initiate physical touch, but when he does he usually goes for a back hug. you're like a portable teddy bear with how you just get dwarfed by him. his hands wrap around your waist and he breathes in some of your scent, perfectly content where he is
fin
a/n omg i accidentally posted when i wasn't ready (only had the gif LOL) and i lost the ask i'm so sorry anon!! i hope you see this.. 🙏
weak hero boys x fem! reader 18+ (separated scenarios) ☆
summary: weak hero boys with fem! reader who decides to wear a sexy lingerie to surprise them
featuring: yeon sieun, ahn suho, oh beomseok, park humin, go hyuntak, seo juntae, geum seongje, na baekjin
warnings: suggestive (minors dni!!), intended lowercase, usage of y/n, established relationships
author’s note: anytime i write fics that include multiple characters at once, i’m always curious who left the best impression on you — so let me know in the comments who made you giggle and kick your feet the most lol 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ
yeon sieun ໒꒱
sieun was studying at his desk, pages full of notes scattered around him. he didn’t even hear you come in until the door to his room was swung open and you stepped inside, arms full of shopping bags.
“enough of homework, sieun! i’ve got something better.” you announced excitedly.
he didn’t smile. he never really did. but his eyes flicked up to you, softening just a touch.
“what is it?” he asked, voice even but attention fully on you now.
you stepped closer, grinning. “not yet. close your eyes first. and keep them closed till i tell you, okay?”
he exhaled slowly, pretending to be put-upon, but he obeyed without question. his hands came up to cover his eyes, and even like this, he looked composed — back straight, shoulders relaxed… but you could tell he was listening to every tiny sound, trying to figure out what you were doing.
“don’t peek!” you warned.
“i’m not.” he said quietly — and he meant it. he’d never go against your word.
finally, when you were done, you said brightly “okay, all done! you can look.”
he dropped his hands — and then froze right away.
your lingerie glowed softly in the light, delicate straps hugging your waist, stockings pressed high against your thighs. you shifted nervously, suddenly aware of just how intensely he was watching you.
his ears turned pink first. then the tips of his cheeks. then the rest of his face.
“d–do you like it?” you asked, suddenly shy in a way he’d never seen from you.
he didn’t answer.
he just stood, quietly, slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movement would break the moment. then he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you — not messy or rushed, but deep, careful, like he was memorizing the feeling.
“i… love it.” he murmured against your lips, breath unsteady in a way he’d hate anyone else besides you to hear.
he guided you backwards with a gentle hand on your waist until he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his lap. you straddled him, and he swallowed hard, fingers brushing the lace at your hips as if he didn’t quite believe you were real.
“for once, you were right… this really is better than homework.” he said, trying to sound calm, but his voice betrayed him — softer, warmer, tinted with awe.
you laughed breathlessly “everything i offer is better than your homework—” but the rest of your sentence dissolved into a quiet gasp the moment his lips found your neck. not hurried, not aggressive, just slow, deliberate, searching for that one spot he knew made you melt.
his analytical mind, always calculating, always observing, focused entirely on you now. your breath. your skin. your reactions.
and beneath his usual stillness, you could feel it — the intensity, the devotion, the quiet, dangerous protectiveness that he never let anyone else close enough to see.
“you’re… beautiful..” he whispered against your throat, voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should say it aloud “too beautiful.”
his hands kept exploring your body — fingertips tracing the lace along your waist, the ribbon on your hip, the delicate seams of your stockings. every part of you he touched, he memorized.
his eyes were half-open, half-lidded, like he physically couldn’t look away from you even if he wanted to.
“i want you to keep this on the whole night…” he whispered, voice low “it’s… really pretty.”
his fingers tightened around your thighs, right where the stockings ended, squeezing gently. the contrast between his cold hands and your warm skin sent a shiver through you.
you moaned softly, surprised, almost startled, at the initiative he was taking. usually, you were the one guiding him, teasing him, pulling the reactions out of him one by one. but tonight? he wasn’t hiding behind his quiet.
“if i knew a pretty lingerie set was all it took to make you this excited,” you giggled breathlessly “i’d have done this way sooner.”
sieun’s gaze flicked up to yours — sharp, dark, heated in a way that made your giggle die in your throat.
“don’t.” he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh “don’t tease.”
the words weren’t a warning. they were a confession.
a little shaky, a little vulnerable.
like he wasn’t used to wanting something this badly.
he pressed another slow kiss to your lips, more sure this time, his hand gently pulling you closer as if afraid you might disappear.
“just… stay like this for a bit…” he whispered, breath warm against your mouth “i want to look at you.”
and he did. quietly. intensely. like you were something precious he wasn’t sure he deserved, but couldn’t stop reaching for anyway.
ahn suho ໒꒱
you and suho had a sleepover planned at your place tonight. he was supposed to swing by after his shift and the moment you heard a motorcycle pull up, you rushed to get ready for your big reveal — the little surprise you’d been planning for him all day.
“your delivery boy is here!” he yelled playfully through the door, voice muffled but obviously tired. he stretched, letting out a huge yawn he didn’t even bother to cover… which was exactly when you opened the door.
there he stood, mid-yawn, and you stood there in a lacy bra and matching panties, stockings hugging your thighs, and the only thing even remotely decent being his hoodie hanging loosely off your shoulders.
you rolled your eyes.
“i was gonna say something sexy, but that yawn kinda killed the mood.” you giggled, watching his brain absolutely shut down.
the second he realized how long he’d been staring, he stumbled inside in a panic, slamming the door shut behind him so no one else could possibly catch a glimpse of you like this. the bag of snacks he brought? forgotten instantly, dropped right onto the floor as he turned back to you, stunned all over again.
“did i die? is this heaven?” he breathed out, genuinely dazed.
you blushed and lightly smacked his chest.
“heaven is waiting for you in the bedroom… if you’re not completely dead after your shift that is.” you teased, shooting him a wink as you started walking towards your room.
the teasing barely finished leaving your lips before he practically jogged after you.
“for this i have plenty of energy!” he laughed, watching you flop down onto the bed. he stopped at the edge, practically tripping over himself as he hurried to undress down to his boxers.
the moment he finally got out of his pants, he practically climbed onto the bed after you, still slightly breathless — partly from rushing, partly from sheer disbelief.
“i swear…” he muttered as he crawled over you, hands settling on either side of your hips “you can’t just… stand there looking like—” he waved his hand helplessly at your entire body “—that, and expect me to act normal.”
you grinned, tugging lightly on the strings of his hoodie that hung off your shoulders “normal isn’t fun though, is it?”
“not when you look like my personal religion.” he fired back instantly, cheeks dusted pink as he lowered himself, kissing slowly down your jaw. he was warm — the kind of warmth that made your knees weak.
his hands slid up your thighs, thumbs brushing the tops of your stockings as he whispered against your neck “i rode here thinking we were gonna watch movies and nap. but you—” he kissed the spot under your ear, voice dropping lower “—you had other plans, huh?”
you shivered, tightening your legs around his waist. “maybe. depends if you’re good.”
he froze for a second, then laughed — that soft, breathy suho laugh that always made you melt — and gently pushed you down onto the pillows.
“oh, i’m good.” he murmured, pinning your wrists for just a moment, teasing, not actually holding them — just enough to make you gasp “i’m very good when it’s for you.”
then he let go, sliding one hand behind your thigh to pull it over his hip, his gaze drifting over your body again like it was some miracle he wasn’t supposed to touch.
“god… the hoodie looks better on you than it ever did on me.” he breathed out, fingertips tracing your waist “you really wore all this for me?”
“do you… like it?” you whispered, suddenly shy under how intensely he was looking at you.
suho’s grin turned impossibly boyish — messy hair, flushed cheeks, eyes warm and hungry at the same time.
“like it?” he scoffed, leaning down until his lips brushed the corner of yours “baby, i’m obsessed.”
he kissed you — not sloppy, not rushed, but slow and deep, like he’d been waiting all night for this. one hand cupped your jaw, the other traced your waist, sliding up your ribs deliberately, touching every curve like he was memorizing it.
you let your own hands wander too, fingertips dancing up his arms, gliding over the warm stretch of muscle across his back as he hovered above you. he dipped his head, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, each press just a little hungrier than the last.
“may i?” he asked, voice low and breathless, as he took your leg and lifted it. after your tiny nod, he slid his hand down, hooking his fingers under the top of your stocking. then, painfully slow, he rolled it down your thigh, over your knee, all the way to your ankle.
his eyes never left your skin.
when he finally slipped it off your foot, he laughed softly, holding the stocking between two fingers like it was made of gold.
“is there any chance,” he said, gaze flicking up to you with a smirk so warm and wicked it made your stomach twist “that i could take this home as a souvenir?”
you kicked him in the shoulder lightly, but he only leaned forward, letting your ankle rest over it, kissing the inside of your calf just to make you flustered.
“perv…” you muttered, smiling despite yourself.
“your perv.” he corrected, lips brushing your skin. “and i’m keeping it unless you stop me.”
he tossed the stocking somewhere behind him without even looking, then crawled back up your body, mouth finding yours again — deeper this time, needier, his hands already sliding under the hem of his hoodie on your shoulders.
“god,” he murmured between kisses “i can’t believe i get to come home to this.”
“you better believe it and do something about it, huh?” the second the words left your mouth, you regretted them — not because you didn’t mean them, but because of the way suho froze… then smirked. a low, dangerous, playful little smirk that always meant you were in trouble.
“oh? is that a challenge?” he murmured, voice dropping just enough to make your stomach twist.
before you could answer, he was already on you, gentle but fast, kissing down your throat with a heat that made your back arch off the bed. he pushed the hoodie off your shoulders like it offended him, tossing it aside without even looking.
“i wanna see all of you.” he said, almost to himself, thumb brushing your bottom lip before he went back to your neck, kissing, sucking, leaving warm, red marks blooming on your skin.
you gasped and grabbed at his shoulders, feeling his smile against your neck.
“suho—”
“mm?” he hummed, pretending to be innocent while deliberately slipping your bra strap off your shoulder, letting it hang crookedly “you told me to ‘do something,’ remember?”
his fingers traced the edge of your lingerie, slow enough to tease, firm enough to make your breath catch. his eyes dragged down your body — one stocking still on, the other leg bare, your hair already messy, face flushed.
“god…” he exhaled, leaning back just enough to look you over, licking his lips unconsciously “you get prettier every second i touch you. that’s not fair.”
you swallowed, flustered “i-it’s not my fault—”
“no,” he cut in softly, leaning down again, lips brushing your collarbone “it’s definitely mine — and i’m not stopping until you look even messier for me.”
oh beomseok ໒꒱
you and beomseok spent the entire afternoon shopping — or more accurately, he spent the entire afternoon insisting you let him spoil you. you didn’t plan to buy anything expensive, you even told him multiple times that you didn’t need anything, but he was stubborn in that soft, insecure way of his.
“it’s okay.” he kept repeating as he guided you from shop to shop “i… like doing this for you.”
that’s how you ended up with a pandora bracelet decorated with charms you secretly chose because they reminded you of beomseok, a new dress that made his ears turn pink when he first saw you wearing it in the fitting room, shoes that matched the dress perfectly, and several bags filled with little things he thought you might like.
beomseok carried every single one. even though he looked exhausted, he also looked… happy. like every bag in his hands was proof he was worthy of you. because somewhere in his mind — poisoned by years of bullying, abuse and loneliness — he still believed that buying pretty things was the only way to keep someone close.
you squeezed his arm, trying not to think about how much you adored him for reasons he never gave himself credit for.
but then… a mischievous idea hit you.
“i think there’s one more shop i wanna visit.” you said lightly.
beomseok perked up immediately. “oh? which one? i’ll take you.”
“victoria’s secret—”
you didn’t even get to finish.
his entire face went red, ears to neck, like someone splashed hot water on him. he stiffened, eyes widening, completely short-circuiting.
you burst into laughter.
“dear, if you’d feel more comfortable, you can wait outside, okay?” you teased sweetly.
he nodded so fast it was almost comical, then shoved his card into your hand like he was defusing a bomb.
beomseok assumed you’d buy something practical. a new bra. maybe cute pajamas. something normal… something safe.
what he did not anticipate was walking out of the shower that night and seeing you sprawled on his bed like a fantasy he didn’t think he was allowed to have.
tiny lace bra. matching panties. stockings with little bows.
you propped yourself up on your elbows, smiling “i wanted to thank my man for treating me so well today,” you giggled, giving your chest the tiniest playful shake “consider this… a little surprise.”
beomseok stopped breathing.
literally stopped.
“we’re like an old rich couple, don’t you think?” you continued teasing, biting your lip “my rich husband spoils me all day… and then i spoil him all night.”
the poor boy malfunctioned.
his face turned crimson instantly, eyes darting everywhere because he didn’t know where to look — at your legs? your chest? your smile?? it was too much. all of it was too much.
his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with them. he swallowed hard, shoulders shaking slightly as he took a step closer.
until now, intimacy between you had always been soft, slow, with dimmed lights. he always undressed carefully, shyly, almost like he felt unworthy of being seen.
and now you were lying here under full lights, wearing lingerie bought with his (technically) money, waiting just for him.
it overwhelmed him.
but in the best way possible.
“i… you…” he whispered, voice embarrassingly shaky “w-why are you… so… like this… for me?”
his heart was racing so hard you could see it in his chest. because no matter how much he loved you — he never quite believed he deserved you like this.
“beomseok, why are you asking something so silly?” you softened instantly, the teasing melting into something warm and gentle. “because i love you.”
his breath stuttered.
you always said it like it was the easiest truth in the world — and somehow that made it even harder for him to process.
“and if…” you leaned back on your palms, lashes fluttering in slow, deliberate temptation “you’re in the mood, i suppose you won’t let an almost naked girl wait here alone in your bed… right?”
your voice dipped just enough to make his face burn brighter.
he swallowed, took a deep breath like he needed to brace himself, and walked over. every step was hesitant but wanting — like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to approach you.
he sat on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped uselessly between his knees, shoulders stiff. he didn’t know where to look. he didn’t know where to put his hands. he didn’t know how to even exist in this exact moment without combusting.
you were just so… woah.
almost unreal.
almost too beautiful for his eyes, too confident for his shaky heart.
before you, he only saw people like you — girls this enchanting, this boldly pretty — on magazine covers he hid under his mattress, or posters in stores he passed by too quickly.
but now you were real. and sitting in his bed. and wearing lingerie that he technically bought for you.
and you were looking at him like you were the lucky one in this room and not the other way around.
“i… i don’t…” he whispered, voice breaking embarrassingly as he stared at his trembling hands “i don’t want to… mess this up.”
you blinked, your smile softening immediately as you scooted closer until your knee brushed his.
“hey,” you whispered, placing your hand gently on top of his — slow enough for him to pull away if he needed. he didn’t. “you’re not messing anything up. we’re just… here. together. and i want you.”
his breath hitched at that.
finally, he dared to lift his gaze — shy, overwhelmed, and shining with something warm and terrified.
you squeezed his hand.
“beomseok,” you murmured, leaning your forehead against his “you don’t have to know what to do. you just have to be with me.”
his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
and then he whispered, so quietly it was almost a confession to the space between you two “okay… then can you… show me? just a little?”
“of course.” you breathed, brushing your fingers along his jaw “i’ll go slow.”
beomseok tensed at the first touch — not in fear, but because it sent a shiver through him so intense he didn’t know what to do with it. he wasn’t used to gentle affection. not like this. not directed at him.
you cupped his cheek, turning his hesitant gaze towards you.
“look at me.” you whispered softly.
he did. and the second he met your eyes, his shoulders relaxed like your calmness grounded him.
you leaned in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to his lips. not rushed. not teasing. just warm and guiding.
his breath hitched, and after a moment, he kissed you back, clumsy at first, but eager, like he was memorizing every movement you made.
you pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth “see? nothing to be nervous about.”
beomseok stared at you, cheeks burning, chest rising and falling fast.
“i’m… i’m not nervous.” he lied instantly.
you grinned “sure.”
he opened his mouth to argue, but the moment your hands slid down his shoulders, gently feeling the muscles tense beneath his shirt, his words dissolved into nothing.
you leaned closer, resting a hand on his chest, right over his racing heartbeat.
“you’re shaking…” you murmured.
“i’m fine.” he croaked, even though his voice cracked in the middle.
you giggled softly and let your fingers trail down to your own thigh, adjusting one of the lacy garters slowly, deliberately. you didn’t even have to look at him to know he was staring.
his breath faltered.
hard.
“you… you look…” he swallowed, eyes darting away then back like he couldn’t help it “…you look like someone i’m not supposed to even touch.”
your heart squeezed.
you moved closer, guiding his hand gently, placing it on your thigh, over the soft edge of the stocking.
his breath stopped completely. again.
“you can touch me, beomseok,” you whispered “i want you to.”
his fingers curled instinctively, squeezing lightly, and the moment he did, he panicked “sorry—! was that too—”
“it was perfect.” you murmured, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth “you’re perfect.”
that word hit him harder than anything else.
his whole expression softened, like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth blooming in his chest.
slowly he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to his warm body. the move was was shy, almost uncertain, but it was him, taking initiative for once.
he held you tight — not desperate — but just like a boy who finally felt wanted.
you felt him relax against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, arms still resting on your waist, while you played gently with his hair, wanting him to relax more. he still felt nervous, but then something inside him shifted.
maybe it was the how your “because i love you” kept playing in his head, or the soft way your fingers combed through his hair patiently…
whatever it was, beomseok suddenly inhaled sharply, like something inside him clicked.
he lifted his head.
his eyes weren’t wandering anymore — they were locked straight on yours.
focused.
intent.
wanting.
he leaned in and kissed you.
not the shy, soft kiss from before — but a real one. deep. full. hungry in a way he had clearly been holding back for a long time.
his hand came up to the back of your thigh, fingers trembling but firm, pulling you tighter against him like he finally stopped being scared of wanting you.
you let out a little sound into his mouth, something between a gasp and a whimper. he froze for half a second, startled by his own boldness.
then he kissed you again. harder.
like he couldn’t help himself anymore.
when he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless.
his lips were slightly swollen, his cheeks flushed, his chest rising and falling quickly.
he swallowed, thumb brushing your lower lip “sorry…” he whispered “i don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
you smiled, dizzy, warm, and absolutely gone for him.
“don’t be sorry,” you murmured, leaning forward so your nose brushed his “i liked it.”
then, quietly, but with that same beginning confidence he responded “good… because i think i want to kiss you like that again.”
one of his hands slid up your back, steady for once. the other stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking the garter strap.
you felt his voice more than heard it as he whispered against your mouth “just… tell me if i ever go too far.”
you cupped his face gently “you won’t.”
he exhaled shakily — relieved, thrilled — and kissed you again, softer this time but no less desperate.
for the first time tonight, beomseok wasn’t just overwhelmed.
he was wanting.
and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
your breathing was still uneven from the kiss when beomseok gently but firmly guided you backwards all of s sudden.
one careful push to your shoulder, and you were lying down on his bed, your hair fanned out around you like something out of a dream.
he hovered above you for a second, almost stunned by the sight — like his brain needed time to register that this was real. that you were real.
then he kissed your neck.
slowly at first, almost testing the waters.
soft lips brushing your skin, then a little braver… warmer… more lingering.
you let out a breathy sound that made his entire body tense and his pants uncomfortably tight. and then something snapped in him again.
with a sudden surge of confidence he didn’t know he had, beomseok grabbed both your wrists and pinned them gently above your head.
not rough.
not forceful.
just firm enough to make your heart skip.
“is this… okay?” he whispered against your collarbone.
“y-yeah…” you breathed, already melting.
that tiny bit of permission made him bold again. he kissed down your neck, then your shoulder, then the soft line of your collarbone. each kiss a little deeper, a little hungrier, but still so careful like he was afraid you might break.
he let go of your wrists only so he could slide lower.
his hands traced along your waist, your hips, the lace of your lingerie, and you instinctively shifted, one leg falling open.
he froze.
then very slowly, he guided your thigh upwards… placing it over his shoulder.
the position made your breath hitch.
and beomseok… beomseok looked like his soul left his body for a moment.
his hands rested on your thighs now, thumbs brushing the bow on your garter. he swallowed hard, eyes lifting to meet yours.
half-lidded.
dark.
in awe.
the lace brushed against his shoulder, and you watched the realization hit him — that you were dressed like this for him, that your legs were literally wrapped around him.
his voice came out rough, barely a whisper “you’re… so beautiful.”
you felt your heart twist at the sincerity in his tone.
he lowered his head again, leaving slow, trembling kisses up the inside of your thigh, enjoying how you squirmed lightly under his touch.
he paused, his forehead resting gently against your skin, breathing you in.
then he looked up at you again, from between your legs, eyes warm and flustered.
“i… i don’t know how i got lucky enough for this,” he murmured, fingers tightening on your thighs “but i’m not letting go.”
you reached down, touching his cheek softly.
“you don’t have to.” you whispered.
and when he smiled, still overwhelmed and shy, but finally confident in his desire, you realized you’d never seen anything more beautiful either.
park humin (baku) ໒꒱
you were sitting on baku’s bed, covered in a blanket, looking all innocent, even though you were anything but that at the moment — a wicked plan forming in your mind. you scrolled on your phone, waiting for baku to notice, while he paced around the room in complete chaos.
“i’m late for practice, gotak is gonna kill me!!!” he yelled as he packed his bag, shoving his shoes in messily, tossing in a half-empty water bottle, and now frantically searching for his lucky jersey.
“y/n, have you seen it anywhere??” he looked at you with the saddest puppy eyes, and that’s when you decided to reveal it — you slowly pulled the blanket off, showing that you’d been wearing it the whole time.
that alone did something to baku’s heart. he always blushed seeing you in his clothes, but in his jersey, with his number and name on it… you were beyond sexy.
“babe, you’re the most pretty, beautiful, hot, gorgeous, gorgeous girl to ever walk the planet earth, but if you love me you want me alive, i suppose, and if i don’t get to practice in 10 minutes gotak is gonna kick my ass so—” he rambled as he walked over to you to take off the jersey.
but the moment you lifted your arms and let him pull it off, his heart stopped.
underneath — a red lingerie set, a tiny bow in the center of your lacy bra.
he stared at you for a few long seconds, his face turning the exact color of your bra. then he finally muttered “okay, this is worth dying for.” and laughed before immediately plopping himself onto you.
you giggled as his hands started exploring the material hugging your body so perfectly, his lips trailing messy kisses along your neck.
“baku— you’re really not going?” you giggled as he continued kissing you like he’d been deprived of oxygen for weeks.
“practice? what practice?” he muttered against your collarbone, voice muffled as his hands slid over your waist, fingers tracing the edges of the lace like he was trying to memorize it “never heard of it. doesn’t exist. coach can bench me forever.”
you laughed and tugged lightly on his hair — and he whimpered.
that was new.
baku froze for a second, eyes going wide, before he leaned back just enough to look at you properly.
and god, the way he looked at you… like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to worship you or combust on the spot.
his gaze traveled down your body slowly, lingering on every bit of red lace, the bow, the straps, all of it hugging you perfectly. his cheeks burned hotter the longer he stared.
“you’re… unreal.” he whispered, voice dropping an octave without him meaning to “i mean— you always are, but this? this is like, illegal levels of hot.”
before you could tease him, he grabbed your waist with both hands and pushed you back into the pillows, climbing over you with that cocky grin he only got when he was really flustered.
“you seriously wore this under my jersey?” his thumb brushed the bow between your breasts, barely touching you but making your breath catch “you trying to kill me, or…?”
“maybe i just wanted to delay you a little.” you smirked.
baku laughed breathlessly, leaning down until his lips were at your ear “congrats,” he whispered “mission accomplished.”
his hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer in one smooth motion — way more confident now, like the initial shock melted away and left him buzzing with adrenaline instead.
he kissed you again, messier this time, all heat and urgency, like the world outside his bedroom no longer existed. his lips moved down your jaw, your throat, your chest — he couldn’t stay still for a second, too overwhelmed, too electrified by the sight of you in red.
“god, i can’t—” he breathed against your skin, laughing at how hopelessly turned on he sounded “you look so good i forgot how to breathe.”
you cupped his face gently, pulling him up to meet your gaze.
“baku,” you teased softly “gotak is seriously going to murder you.”
he smirked, leaning down until his forehead touched yours.
“then i’ll die happy.” he whispered, kissing you again — slower this time, deeper, like he wanted to savor every tiny bit of you.
go hyuntak (gotak) ໒꒱
hyuntak always knew exactly how to make you flustered. he knew your sensitive spots, the pet names that made you blush, how to push you just enough so that you’d gasp or squeak, and then, after you were sure your heart might explode, he’d flick your forehead and grin, saying a simple “you’re cute.”
so, you decided it was time to give him a taste of his own medicine.
you’d secretly ordered a matching lingerie set in royal blue, his favorite color, with delicate white bows scattered across it.
your plan was simple: invite hyuntak over to play videogames, then make him completely lose his composure for once after seeing you like this.
when he arrived you were wearing an oversized hoodie, keeping the erotic display hidden… for now.
for the first twenty minutes, everything seemed normal, until hyuntak noticed there was something odd about you.
“hey, you’re distracted today. you keep losing!” hyuntak said, frowning at the screen. usually, losing meant a fit from you, so this calm threw him off.
“i… i guess i have something else on my mind.” you admitted, your voice low.
“oh yeah? and what’s that?” he asked, finally glancing at you.
“this hoodie… it’s just so uncomfortable.” you said, carefully avoiding his eyes.
he laughed, reaching for the zipper of your hoodie right away “that’s it? then take it off, it’s nothing—“
however, the moment the hoodie slipped from your shoulders and revealed the lingerie beneath, hyuntak froze. his jaw dropped and his eyes widened like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“…wow.” he breathed, voice low and almost unsteady, still staring.
for the first time, the usually confident, teasing hyuntak looked completely flustered, like he’d walked into a dream he wasn’t sure he deserved.
he couldn’t move. for a few seconds, he just stared, chest rising faster than usual, like he was trying to process what he was seeing.
every instinct in him was screaming to touch you, to pull you closer— but at the same time, a little hesitation crept in. his hands, calloused and rough from fights and endless hours on the basketball court, felt almost alien like compared to how soft and delicate your body looked right now, wrapped up in that lingerie like a precious gift.
“y/n…” he murmured, voice low, almost shaky “you… you look insane.”
he reached out tentatively, brushing a fingertip over the lacy material near your breasts. the contrast made him flinch in surprise — so soft, so warm, it was almost too much.
“hyuntak…?” you whispered, tilting your head, letting him see that you weren’t pulling away.
that gave him the courage to move closer, slowly, as if approaching something fragile he didn’t want to break. his hands traced the curve of your waist, then slid a little lower, skimming over the bows on your lingerie.
“god… you’re… like… perfect.” he breathed, eyes half-lidded, voice rougher than usual. his usual teasing confidence had completely dissolved, replaced by a raw need to be close to you.
he paused for a moment, just taking you in, pressing you gently against him, feeling the softness beneath his rough palms.
“i… can’t believe this is real.” he murmured, and for once, there was no joking in his tone. just awe, and that unstoppable, almost desperate need to be near you.
he leaned down slowly, just enough that his forehead brushed against yours, hands still exploring lightly along your waist and hips. you, feeling bold, tilted your head and pressed soft kisses along his neck, humming lightly against his skin.
“hey, hey… what’s gotten into you? the lingerie, now this?” he murmured, his voice low, teasingly rough, one hand sliding to cup your jaw while the other kept you close by your waist.
“i… i wanted to fluster you.” you admitted, voice small and a little breathless.
he chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your heart beat faster, and leaned just a little closer, eyes half-lidded, smirk tugging at his lips “oh really?” he whispered, letting his nose brush yours lightly.
you nodded, blushing furiously, biting your lip “did it… did it work?” you asked, meeting his gaze.
hyuntak could swear he physically felt his heart hammering in his chest, his cock getting uncomfortably hard in his pants.
“you bet.” he breathed, and before you could react, he leaned down, lips capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss, pressing his full weight against you and gently forcing you back onto the bed, hands still firmly holding your waist and jaw as he claimed the moment entirely.
seo juntae ໒꒱
you were hanging out at juntae’s place after school, however he was extra tired today — probably because hyoman had been annoying him nonstop lately. the moment his back hit the blanket, he was out.
you couldn’t help but smile at your sweet, exhausted boy before quietly opening his laptop to put on the show you two had been watching last time.
but as you scrolled through his tabs, something… unexpected caught your eye.
a crunchyroll window.
rascal does not dream of bunny girl senpai.
you clicked — and there she was on the screen — anime girl with long bunny ears, strapless black bodysuit, tights, a little fluffy tail.
your cheeks burned immediately.
juntae? into something like this?
the thought alone made you grin. and just like that, an idea started forming in your head.
a few days later, you texted him saying you weren’t feeling well and asked if he could come over. sweet as always, he rushed to you with a plastic bag stuffed with instant soups and way too many tea flavors.
but when he arrived, your front door was already a little open.
he froze.
“y/n?” he whispered, stepping inside cautiously.
then his phone buzzed.
come to my room please.
he swallowed hard, nodded to himself like it was some mission, and walked down the hall.
the moment he opened your bedroom door, he stopped dead in his tracks.
his entire face flushed immediately.
because there you were.
sitting on the edge of your bed in a full bunny girl outfit — ears, black bodysuit, sheer tights, even a little fluffy tail.
“h-hi…” you smiled, suddenly shy.
juntae made a sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a gasp, gripping the doorknob so hard his knuckles went white.
“y–y/n…? w-why… what—” he stuttered, eyes darting everywhere except at you because whenever they did he turned even redder “why are you… dressed like that?”
you tilted your head, letting the bunny ears flop a little.
“well… you seemed to like this show a lot,” you teased softly, patting the spot on your bed beside you “so i thought maybe my boyfriend would like this too.”
juntae finally met your eyes, completely flustered, voice cracking “i— i mean— i do— i really—”
he shut the door behind him with his foot, still pink from his ears to his neck.
then, stiff and awkward, he padded closer until he stood right in front of you, eyes glued to the floor because looking directly at you was clearly too much stimulation for one man.
“can i… i mean— c-can i take a picture?” he mumbled, clutching his phone with both hands like it might fly away “only if you’re okay with it! i just— i… i wanna remember— i mean!! it’s just— you look—” he broke off, flustered mess.
you couldn’t help but giggle, leaning back on your hands in a way that made his breath hitch “a picture, hm? and what would you need that for, juntae?”
his eyes darted up to yours for a split second before he panicked and looked away again, ears burning “i-i don’t know! i just… you’re so— i’ve never— i didn’t think you’d ever… wear something like this. for me.”
you softened, reaching out to tug him a little closer by his sleeve. he followed instantly, stepping between your knees like he was under a spell.
“if you ever wanna see me like this again,” you whispered teasingly “all you have to do is ask. i’d dress up for you whenever you want.”
his breath punched out of him.
“i—” he blinked rapidly, like he might actually combust “you… you would?”
“of course” you smiled, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand “you think i didn’t notice that you logged that anime in your crunchyroll account as the most rewatched one?”
“oh my god—” juntae covered his face with both hands, mortified “i wasn’t— i didn’t— it’s not—”
you gently lowered his hands and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to finally look at you.
“hey,” you whispered “i did this because i wanted to. because it clearly makes you happy.”
juntae’s eyes softened, shy and adoring all at once. he leaned in just enough that his forehead touched yours.
“you’re… literally my dream right now.” he breathed out, trembling a little “like— actually. i… i didn’t think i’d ever get to see this for real.”
“well,” you smiled, tugging lightly at his shirt to pull him closer “believe it.”
he let out a tiny, helpless laugh — overwhelmed, red, and utterly whipped — before finally snapping a single picture with shaky hands, looking at you like you hung the moon.
geum seongje ໒꒱
seongje came home late again — not unusual, but what was unusual, was the fact, that tonight the apartment felt very quiet. he kicked the door shut behind him and ran a hand through his hair “hey, babe?” he called out.
no answer.
his eyes narrowed “…weird.”
he wandered through the apartment, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, like he half-expected something to jump him. when he reached the kitchen, he stopped dead.
a note.
wear this and find me in the bedroom ;)
next to it — a headband with red horns.
he huffed a laugh, shaking his head “just what are you planning, y/n?”
he picked up the horns, twirling them around his finger like he was considering whether to simply play along with whatever that you had planned for him or let you earn it on his own terms… for now he kept the headband in his hands.
he pushed open the bedroom door. darkness swallowed him.
“okay, babe just what are you up to—”
the light clicked on.
he froze.
you sat pretty in the middle of the bed — soft white lingerie, lace corset hugging your every curve, delicate angel wings behind you, a tiny halo glowing above your head. sweet. innocent. heavenly.
and absolutely designed to make him lose his mind.
“ta-dah!” you giggled, leaning forward so the corset pushed your cleavage up just a little more “like what you see?”
his smirk was instant, slow and predatory.
“oh, angel…” he stepped closer, voice dropping into that low, dangerous purr “you have no idea how much.”
he shrugged off his windbreaker in one motion, ready to pounce on you, until your palm met his chest, stopping him before he even managed to get on the bed.
“uh-uh” you tapped the red horns still in his hand “i’m not interested in mortals tonight. only demons.”
he stared at you for a long second, something wicked sparking in his eyes.
then he laughed — quiet, dark, amused. the kind of laugh that meant trouble.
“so that’s the game, huh?”
he slid the horns onto his head, pushing his hair back.
“fine. but don’t say i didn’t warn you.”
he leaned in close enough that his breath warmed your cheek “you want a demon? i can play a demon.”
his fingers hooked gently under your chin, tilting your face up “just make sure you don’t regret inviting one into your bed.”
you swallowed, cheeks burning “i won’t.”
the moment the words left your mouth, his smile shifted — less playful, more hungry.
“good.” he murmured “then let’s play.”
you barely had half a second to breathe before seongje grabbed your waist and pulled you into his chest with a rough, excited grin.
“you look way too innocent to be saying things like that, you know?” he muttered, eyes dragging over you like he didn’t know where to stare first “makes me wanna ruin the aesthetic a little.”
he leaned down, lips brushing your neck with passionate kisses, that quickly enough turned into teasing bites that made your breath catch.
he was still standing by the edge of the bed while you were kneeling in front of him, looking up at him with glossy eyes, your halo a little crooked to the side from how he’s handling you, and your gentle hands grabbing onto his shirt for balance. all of that was a sight that made him tight in his pants.
your breath hitched “s-seongje—”
“yeah?” he teased, leaning down so your noses almost touched “you nervous already? i have barely touched you yet. did the angel already get wet from tasting just a little bit of danger?.”
you pushed at his shoulder lightly, flustered “shut up…”
he laughed — that low chaotic laugh that always meant he was enjoying himself way too much. seongje flopped himself onto the bed finally, quickly guiding you to sit right on top of him. your wings bounced awkwardly behind you and you scrambled to fix them.
“don’t touch those,” he said immediately, grabbing your wrist mid-movement “they’re cute. i like them.”
you blinked, blushing “you… like the wings?”
“they make you look fragile.” he shrugged, eyes glinting “and that’s fun.”
you rolled your eyes at him “you’re impossible.”
“yeah and you dressed up like a fantasy i’m pretty sure i’ve had since… forever on a random tuesday,” he countered, tugging at the ribbon of your corset with a wicked grin “so i think we’re even.”
you rolled your eyes and instead of talking back to him, you leaned in, pressing your mouth to his — and, just like always, the kiss turned messy in seconds. seongje never kissed you gently — he kissed like he fought. his tongue immediately pushed past your lips, claiming every bit of space he could, your teeth knocking lightly together as he deepened it without a hint of hesitation.
one of his hands slid to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you how much stronger he was, while the other wandered upward, cupping your breast. you let out a soft moan against his mouth, instinctively pressing your body closer, chasing his heat.
“for an angel, you’re pretty damn sinful.” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot, his smirk brushing your skin. “tell me, angel… were you always like this, or was it me who corrupted you like this?”
he pulled back just enough to look at you again — really look — eyes roaming over the halo, the wings, the delicate white fabric hugging your curves, your flushed face and eyes full of love, just once again reminding him how lucky he was, that someone like you would ever give yourself to a wicked man like him. he looked almost stunned for a second, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or drag you straight into hell with him.
“how are you real…” he muttered, mostly to himself, tongue grazing the corner of his mouth as if tasting the kiss you’d just shared “looking all divine and innocent, but somehow managing to be the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.”
his fingers tightened at your waist, possessive in that reckless, seongje way.
his then eyes flicked up to the red devil horns sitting crooked on his head and his grin sharpened instantly — dangerous, slow, like he’d just remembered he held all the power in this little game.
“right… i’m the demon tonight,” he said, voice dropping into something low “means i get to be a lot meaner than usual, doesn’t it?”
and just like that he pulled you into another kiss, his hands wandering all over your body, squeezing and lingering in places he knew were sensitive, just to get a reaction out of you.
you were in for a long ride…
na baekjin ໒꒱
baekjin was sitting in his dim office at the bowling alley, finishing some homework, when suddenly your contact name lit up his phone screen.
you didn’t text him often. he’d told you to only message when you really needed something — he wasn’t the type to talk mindlessly on the phone for hours. so the moment he saw your name, he immediately sat up straighter.
can you come home soon? i need you.
that was all the message said. and of course, worry hit him instantly. with the life he lived, he could never be too careful, especially when it came to you.
he packed his things, locked the office, and went home without wasting a single second.
“y/n?” he called out as he stepped inside, the entire apartment swallowed in darkness. he didn’t like this. not at all.
he went straight to the bedroom.
and there — soft candlelight, flower petals scattered across the bed, and most importantly you sitting at the edge of it in a black lacy corset that pushed your breasts up exactly the way he liked, a silk robe draped over your shoulders that did absolutely nothing to hide the sinful sight you were presenting him.
he swallowed hard, losing his composure for a moment “you… you texted me that you needed me. what is all this about?”
you stepped towards him with that teasing glint he knew too well, fingers already reaching for his tie “i didn’t lie, baekjin. can’t you see how needy i am?” you murmured as you undid the knot slowly “it’s late… you should relax.” your lips pressed to his neck.
hesitation melted the moment he felt you. his hands slid to your hips, then lower, warm palms brushing over your bare thighs.
“what’s even the point of dressing up like this if i’m just gonna tear it off you?” he growled when your teeth grazed a sensitive spot on his neck. his fingers tightened around your soft flesh.
“because i want to look pretty for you. don’t you like what you see?” you whispered, pulling back to meet his eyes. “besides… i don’t mind if you undress me. this corset’s pretty tight.”
with that, you let the silk robe fall from your shoulders, pooling soundlessly on the floor. then you turned around, presenting him your back — the delicate lace ties winding down your spine — waiting for his hands to finally touch you.
baekjin’s breath hitched the moment the robe slipped off your shoulders. for a second, he just stood there — jaw clenched, eyes darkening, every rational thought evaporating as he took in the way the corset hugged your waist. you felt his stare burning down your spine before he even touched you.
then, finally, his hand slid up your back… slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of you before he even loosened a single ribbon.
“you did all this…” he murmured, voice low and dangerous as he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear “…just to get a rise out of me?”
you could feel his smirk without even seeing it.
his fingers tugged on the first ribbon — not enough to loosen it, just enough to make your breath catch. he enjoyed that, the power, the control, the way your body reacted before he even told you to.
“you really think i’m letting you play with me like this?” he asked, finally pulling the ribbons loose one by one, painfully slow.
your knees nearly buckled as the corset loosened around your waist.
he chuckled under his breath “careful. you can’t fall yet.”
when the last ribbon came undone and the corset fell down to your feet, leaving you bare in front of him, he grabbed your wrist and turned you around, pulling you flush against his chest. his eyes were half-lidded now, gleaming with something possessive and hungry.
“you looked pretty,” he said, thumb dragging slowly over your lip “but i like this even more. when you’re coming undone just because i touched you.”
you swallowed hard, and he smirked again, because he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“get on the bed.” he ordered, voice dropping even lower, his hand squeezing your jaw just enough to make your breath hitch. “you wanted me, didn’t you? then act like it.”
and as you backed up towards the bed, he followed you with slow, confident steps, like a man who finally had what he wanted in front of him, and wasn’t planning on letting you go for the rest of the night.
fin.
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─────────────────────────────────── ego - romy mars
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: You hate Toby Rogers. Hate. He’s immature, and whiny, and gets in your way more often than not. Proxies are meant to work together, but you two just don’t. Fights are prone to happen, but when your hands accidentally find his throat, Toby accidentally finds out that he likes it. You hate him. And he hates you. So why can he suddenly not jerk off without thinking about your hands on his neck? Why does he want you to do it again??
✦ . Characters: Ticci Toby x Female Reader, Proxies
✦ . Note: Suprise fic! Please please please mind the tags, there’s a whole lot going on in this story. Yes, this was supposed to be the German Toby fic, but I decided I was too lazy to follow through, so white-boy Toby it is 💔 Nonetheless, please enjoy whiny Toby! I’ve been wanting to make a reader-dominant fic for a while, and I finally got around to it! Happy reading!!
────────────────────────────────────────────
You hated Tobias Rogers. Hated. Even now.
The lake was so still. The kind of stillness that made the air heavy, as if even the water held its breath in anticipation. Moonlight fractured across the surface in sharp, silver shards, illuminating the awkward shapes of two figures dragging something heavy across the moss-slick ground.
You and Toby.
The corpse hung between you like an anchor, its weight making your arms ache with each step. The smell of damp earth and decay was thick in your nose. Every time Toby shifted his grip, the body smacked against the ground with a dull thud.
“Careful,” you hissed, slipping on a wet root. “It’s not going to sink if you—”
“Maybe if you d-didn’t drop your end every t-two seconds,” Toby grunted, voice muffled under his bulky muzzle, “we’d be done a-al-already.”
You glared, tugging on your end. “Excuse me for not wanting to ruin my boots in swamp water.”
“Oh, right,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping, “because t-this job is about fashion.”
The two of you stumbled to the edge of the shore, shadows from the Slenderwoods curling around you. The trees loomed like sentinels, tall and skeletal, their branches swaying with a sound that was almost a whisper. You hated this place at night—the way the silence seemed alive, watching, waiting. Toby, of course, didn’t seem to care. He didn’t care about anything, as far as you were concerned.
You heaved the body once, twice, then shoved it into the water with a final grunt. It splashed hard, ripples spreading outward until the lake swallowed them whole. You didn’t know the man, didn’t even really care to, it was just another job from the Operator. For a moment, you both just stood there, catching your breath, staring at the dark water as the final inches of the body sunk into the abyss.
“Happy now?” you muttered.
“Real p-pro-professional,” he replied flatly.
Your teeth ground together. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass,” he shot back without hesitation.
The exchange was so familiar it almost felt rehearsed. Every mission ended like this: harsh words, rolled eyes, and the tension of two people forced into each other’s orbit who simply didn’t fit. The only difference is Masky wasn’t here to break it up.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried.
When Slender first made you both proxies, you’d done what Masky and Hoodie told you: learn each other’s strengths, cover each other’s weaknesses, trust is mandatory. And you tried. You really did. But from the very first mission, something had been off.
Maybe it was his immaturity—the way he cracked jokes in the middle of grim work, or the way he blew off orders to do things his own reckless way. Maybe it was your frustration—your need for control clashing violently against his chaos. Every step he took felt like it undermined yours. Every word out of his mouth made your patience snap just a little thinner.
You weren’t blind, though. You saw how efficient he was, how quickly his hatchets moved, how easily he carried violence without hesitation. He was good—annoyingly good. Which made it worse. Because you should have worked well together. You were both proxies, bound to the same faceless master, trapped in the same mansion and forest. On paper, it made sense. In practice? You were oil and water.
Some people just weren’t meant to click.
“Guess we’re d-done here,” Toby muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, the brief flare of orange glow painting his face in harsh lines as he unstrapped his muzzle to take a drag. “W-We’ll never get a-along, will we?”
You gave a humorless laugh, wiping splatters of mud from your jeans. “Not a chance.”
He exhaled smoke into the night, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Fine by me.”
The lake was silent again, just as still as if there wasn’t a body sinking to the bottom now. You turned, hauling back toward the direction of the mansion and away from him, but the walk back was worse than the mission itself. The Slenderwoods closed in on all sides, branches scraping like claws, owls hooting too low, too human. Every shadow moved if you stared too long, but none of that was as grating as the boy trudging a few feet beside you.
“You could’ve at least waited before stabbing him like that,” you grumbled, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill. “The plan was to corner him—”
“The p-plan was slow,” Toby interrupted, his voice sharp and smug. “He was running. I stopped h-him. Problem solved.”
“Problem solved?” you scoffed. “You nearly blew our cover, dipshit. He screamed loud enough to wake the entire county.”
Toby snorted, kicking a stone off the path. “Still got h-him in the end, didn’t we? He’s f-fish food now. You’re welcome.”
You threw him a glare sharp enough to cut. “I didn’t ask you to play hero. There’s a difference between efficiency and being reckless, and you wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face.”
He tilted his head, grinning as he puffed a dark cloud of cigarette smoke towards you. “Guess t-that makes me reckless, then.”
The banter didn’t stop until the looming silhouette of the mansion swallowed you both in its shadow. The Slendermansion sat hunched at the edge of the woods, its black windows like hollow eyes. The air grew heavier the closer you got, as if the walls themselves were listening, feeding.
Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you tossed your gear onto the table in the main hall. The familiar smell of stale smoke, mildew, and faint copper clung to the air, but it was the home you knew. Masky was already there, arms crossed, watching the two of you like a teacher sick of breaking up the same fight between the same students.
“You two done?” Masky asked flatly, eyes narrowing.
“Ask him,” you said at once.
“Ask her,” Toby fired back.
Masky groaned, dragging a hand down his mask. “Every damn time…”
From the couch, Hoodie let out a quiet snicker without looking up from his notebook he was sketching in. He never interfered much, but the slight shake of his shoulders told you he found your constant arguments entertaining. Infuriatingly entertaining.
Kate was sprawled in one of the armchairs, cleaning one of her knives with a rag. She raised her eyes just long enough to catch the tail end of your glare-and-growl routine. “You both need to grow up,” she said bluntly.
You opened your mouth to protest, but Toby beat you to it. “I a-am grown up,” he said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, flicking the final ashes from his cigarette onto the grimy floor before tossing it.
Kate arched a brow. “Mhm.”
You smirked at that, but it only lasted a second before Toby turned his mockery back on you. “D-D-Don’t get too fuckin’ cheeky—you’re not e-exactly winning any maturity awards e-either.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Says the guy who nearly fucked up tonight’s mission by charging in like a bulldozer.”
“And you would’ve l-let him get away while you m-made a speech ab-about ‘proper execution,’” Toby countered, mimicking your voice in a whiny falsetto that made Hoodie snort louder.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered, throwing yourself into the opposite armchair with a huff.
Masky’s sigh was sharp, final. “I don’t care how you got it done. The point is, it’s done. Next time, don’t cause such a fuss and just get the damn thing over with.”
The words settled between you like a warning. But even warnings didn’t last long in this house. The air was too thick, the walls too close. You felt Toby’s eyes on you from across the room, smug, as if he’d won something.
You looked away first.
And that was the problem. Around Masky, Hoodie, and Kate, you could breathe. The dynamic worked. Missions went smoothly enough. The mansion felt tolerable, almost like a twisted version of family. But with Toby? It was always barbed words, tense silences, and the gnawing thought that you’d never, ever get along.
And yet… you were stuck together, whether you liked it or not.
── .✦
Life in the mansion was cramped, but not in the physical sense. The house itself stretched wide and tall, with too many rooms, too many halls that seemed to change direction when you weren’t looking. Space wasn’t the problem. People were. Or more specifically—Toby.
Morning started with a fight more often than breakfast.
You were standing in the kitchen, half-awake, nursing a chipped mug of bitter coffee when Toby barreled in, raiding the cabinet like a raccoon.
“Did you ta-take the last of t-the cereal?” he asked, voice scratchy from sleep.
“No,” you said, sipping slowly. “Kate did yesterday.”
Toby pulled the box down anyway, stared at the empty bottom, and turned on you. “So you k-knew and didn’t say an-anything?”
“Not my job to babysit your stomach,” you said dryly, turning your back on him.
By the time he stomped off, Hoodie was already leaning against the doorway, watching the exchange like it was a morning sitcom rerun. He muttered something about “placing bets next time” before pouring his own coffee and disappearing.
Later, it was weapons.
You had your knives laid out on the coffee table, sharpening them methodically, when Toby came over and plucked one up without asking.
“Don’t touch my stuff.”
“Relax,” he said, flipping the blade in his palm. “I was j-just looking.”
“Looking with your fingerprints all over it,” you snapped, snatching it back.
Masky’s sigh from the couch was loud enough to shake the windows. “I swear, it’s like living with children.”
Kate didn’t even look up from the book in her lap. “That’s because it is.”
Toby threw his hands up. “What, so s-she can throw a fit but I’m the p-problem?”
“Yes,” Kate and Masky said in unison. You couldn’t help smirking at that.
Dinner was the worst.
The table was long enough for space, but somehow you and Toby always ended up across from each other. Tonight it was stew—Masky’s attempt at “normalcy,” though the meat was questionable at best. You didn’t eat together often, but it was a joint effort when you did.
“Don’t hog the b-bread,” Toby said, reaching across the table.
“I’ve had one piece,” you shot back, yanking the plate closer.
He lunged, you pulled away, and in the struggle the whole loaf toppled onto Hoodie’s lap. He froze, staring down at the mess, then at both of you with the slow, simmering irritation of a man two seconds from throwing something heavy. Kate snorted. Masky pinched the bridge of his nose.
Slender wasn’t around much, but you sometimes wondered if he kept you two paired just for his own amusement. Because every day, it was something. The fights were never big enough to break anything, never serious enough to leave bruises. But they stacked. They simmered. They filled the halls like static, humming between every word and every glare. And yet, for all the irritation, all the arguments, neither of you ever walked away for long. Missions still got done. The mansion still ran. Somehow, despite it all, the two of you stayed orbiting each other—gravitational pull you couldn’t escape, even if you wanted to.
── .✦
It was one of those heavy, still evenings where the Slenderwoods felt closer than usual. The air smelled like damp pine and smoke, a thick fog mist rolling over the dense grass underfoot. You and the others sat out on the creaking porch, ashtrays cluttered between boots and half-empty bottles of water. Masky smoked slow and deep, his mask balancing on the top of his thigh as he leaned back onto the wooden seat. Kate leaned back against the railing, picking at the chipping paint on the wood, eyes sharp but distant. Toby sat a little too close to you, tapping his leg like a drumbeat you couldn’t ignore.
You lit your own, trying not to acknowledge him, exhaling a sharp cloud into the humid night.
“So…” Toby finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Anyone e-else notice she always steals the li-lighter first?”
You shot him a look. “I do not.”
“Shut up, boy.” Masky started.
“Yeah, you do,” he said, grinning beneath the thick goggles that he had pushed up into his hairline. “It’s l-like a compulsion or something.”
“Or maybe you’re just too slow to keep track of your things,” you fired back.
Masky groaned low under his breath, muttering something that sounded like not this again. Before the argument could spiral, Hoodie pushed open the porch door and stepped outside, tucking his notebook into his jacket. His voice cut through the quiet with the weight of a dumbbell on your chest. “New mission,” he said simply.
Everyone straightened.
“All of us?” Masky asked.
Hoodie nodded. “Yeah. Orders came down. Tonight.”
The group exchanged looks. Missions that required everyone weren’t common—they usually split duties to keep the mansion covered. When all five were pulled, it meant something bigger, something messier.
“Guess family outing it is,” Kate said dryly, dumping her ashtray onto the gravel siding below.
── .✦
When darkness settled fully, the mansion stirred alive. Boots thudded against wood floors, gear clinked against belts, and weapons gleamed under dim light. Everyone had their rituals: Masky checked his sidearm three times at least, Hoodie adjusted straps across his chest, Kate wiped down her blade a final time. Toby spun his hatchets between his fingers like a magician showing off. You rolled your eyes and double-checked the knives at your thigh. The air was thick with anticipation.
The pickup truck waited outside, dark paint faded from the sun, battered, and smelling faintly of gasoline and smoke. Masky slid into the driver’s seat without a word, Hoodie riding shotgun as he pulled up the map on his cracked cellphone.
That left the back.
You climbed in, immediately pressed against the left side. Toby hopped up on the right, his knee bouncing instantly like he was vibrating with restless energy. Kate sighed and planted herself squarely between the two of you, arms crossed, glaring dead ahead through the windshield. The truck dipped and squeaked on its hinges are you all settled in, then rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the black woods.
It only took a few minutes before Toby started.
“You’re sitting t-too close,” he muttered.
“I’m not even near you,” you said flatly.
“You do-don’t need that m-much space.”
“You don’t need to breathe, but here we are,” you shot back.
Kate’s elbows shot out, hitting both of your ribs at once. “Shut up. Both of you.”
You winced, rubbing your side. “Ow—”
“Don’t tempt me to hit harder,” Kate warned, eyes forward.
Masky’s voice floated back from the front seat, dripping with amusement despite himself. “This is going to be a long drive. Quit fighting and occupy yourselves.”
Hoodie didn’t even look up from the map. “Longest one yet.”
The engine hummed, the woods blurred past, and the truck rolled deeper into the dark. Despite Kate’s solid wall between you, you could still feel Toby’s presence—like static in the air, buzzing just out of reach. And you hated how much you noticed it.
── .✦
The truck rattled down the backroads for nearly an hour before Hoodie finally spoke.
“Target’s in the clearing past Miller’s Gorge,” he said, tapping the map image across his phone screen. “Couple of locals have been sniffing around the woods, talking about setting up cameras, trying to ‘catch something.’ Boss wants them gone one way or another.”
Kate exhaled a sharp breath. “So like, wannabe monster hunters.”
“Exactly.” Hoodie’s voice was calm but clipped. “They’ve already posted online. If they get anything solid, Slender won’t be happy. This isn’t one we can take half-measures with. We need it erased.”
Masky grunted. “So we wipe the whole camp.”
“Why all of us?” you asked, leaning forward from the back.
“Because there’s at least five of them,” Hoodie replied. “Armed. And cautious. Not idiots out for ghost stories—people who want proof. People who will fight back. They apparently realize that the stuff they’re hunting is more than just ghosts.”
The weight of his words settled in the truck. Everyone went quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and Toby’s restless knee bouncing against the truck bed.
“Should b-be fun,” Toby muttered.
── .✦
When the truck finally rolled to a stop, the woods were suffocatingly dark, thick with crickets and the distant sound of running water. Masky killed the headlights, and everyone piled out, boots crunching softly against dead leaves.
The air was tense but focused. The group fanned out at the tree line, eyes scanning the faint glow of campfire in the distance. Voices drifted—male, confident, laughing, the kind of laugh people made when they didn’t know what waited for them.
Masky handed out orders quietly. “Pairs. Hoodie with Kate. I’ll take her. Toby—” He paused, as if even he hated saying it. “You circle wide and cut off any stragglers.”
Toby scoffed. “Solo? Figures.”
“No one wants to deal with your noise,” Kate said bluntly, earning a sharp laugh from Hoodie.
Toby shot her a look, but Masky had already moved, tilting his head toward you. “Stay sharp.”
You fell in beside him easily. Working with Masky was… natural. His movements were measured, precise, and he didn’t waste time on unnecessary words. You mirrored his pace without thinking, both of you flowing silently through the trees like you’d trained together for years. Every signal he gave, you read instantly. Every shift you made, he accounted for. It was seamless.
Behind you, faintly, you heard the sound of Toby muttering curses under his breath as he hacked through brush on his solo path. You didn’t have to see him to know he was irritated.
Masky glanced your way briefly, as if he could read your thoughts. “Ignore him.”
You smirked faintly. “That’s the plan.”
Together, you and Masky reached the edge of the camp without a sound. You crouched low, watching the five men move lazily around the fire, rifles slung across the backs of their folding chairs, a camera rig propped against a log. Beer cans were littered everywhere, dozens of containers of eaten food and trash on the forest floor between their tents. They were unprepared.
Masky leaned close, voice low. “On my signal, we take the two closest. Hoodie and Kate will flank right. Toby will cut off anyone who runs.”
You nodded, knives already loose in your grip. The firelight flickered across the blades, and the thrill of the hunt tingled in your chest.
For the first time all night, you felt steady. Focused. Like the tension from the mansion and the truck ride had melted away into clarity. This—this was what you were good at.
Masky snapped his fingers, the unspoken signal.
The campfire crackled, throwing lazy sparks into the night. The men didn’t know they were being watched. Didn’t know that five shadows had slipped into their circle of light like wolves closing in.
Masky moved first. His pistol coughed quietly through the silencer, a muted pop, and the man nearest the fire slumped forward without a sound. At the same time, Hoodie slipped behind the next, arm locking around his throat, blade pressing in until the man’s gurgle faded. Kate was quicksilver, gliding from shadow to shadow before sinking her knife between ribs and twisting, her target crumpling into the dirt while her hand held tight over his gaping mouth. You were already in motion, your knives flashing as you closed the distance. Your target barely had time to look up before you drove steel across his throat. Hot blood spilled, spraying across the fire, sizzling as it hit the flames. You let him drop, pulse steady, breathing smooth.
It was clean. Precise. The four of you moved like clockwork.
Then a shout split the clearing.
You spun, heart lurching, eyes scanning. One of them had bolted—no, not bolted. He’d seen and decided to fight back. Toby’s voice rang out through the trees, strained, guttural. “Got one!”
Through the smoke, you saw him—locked in a brutal struggle with the biggest of the group. Broad-shouldered, stronger than the others, swinging wild fists that clipped Toby’s jaw and nearly sent him sprawling. Toby snarled, teeth bared beneath the thick muzzle, trying to drag the fight into control, but the man was too strong, too desperate. Toby couldn’t feel the punches that were thrown, but they still jarred him nonetheless.
Without thinking, you darted forward. You grabbed the hunter by the collar and yanked him backward off Toby, the two of you wrestling him to the ground. Your knee pressed into his chest, pinning him just long enough to shout—
“Get up! Now!”
Toby staggered to his feet, hatchet already in his grip. His chest heaved, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wild and bright. He didn’t hesitate.
The hatchet swung.
It sank into the man’s skull with a sickening crunch, the force so hard it sprayed hot blood across your face, soaking into your shirt, spattering down your arms. The warmth hit before the shock did.
You gasped, jerking back in disgust. “Toby!”
He yanked the hatchet free, crimson dripping down the blade, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. For a second, he looked almost proud of himself.
“You—you just—” You swiped at your face, smearing blood across your cheek. “Are you serious?!”
“What?” he said, shrugging like he hadn’t just drenched you. “I-It worked.”
You stared at him, mouth open, hands sticky with blood. “You could’ve aimed! You could’ve waited until I—”
“There wasn’t time!” he shot back, bristling. “He was go-gonna throw you off. I finished i-it!”
“Finished it? You fuckin’ soaked me with it!” Your voice cracked, frustration boiling over. Blood dripped down your face, sticky, hot, stinking of iron. And Toby just stood there, smug behind his mouth guard, hatchet still wet, staring you up and down.
That was it. You lunged at him.
“HEY—” he barked, staggering back as you grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and slammed him into the dirt. You smeared bloody hands across his face, dragging thick crimson streaks down and across his eyes.
“There!” you spat, shoving harder. “How do you like it?”
Toby snarled and shoved back, the two of you tumbling into a heap of thrashing limbs. He rolled, trying to pin you, but you twisted, fist snapping across his jaw. The crack of impact echoed, sharp in the clearing.
“You’re insane!” he growled, throwing a hand that glanced off your shoulder.
“I’m insane?” you shouted, driving your elbow into his ribs. “You’re the one who—”
The words cut off when you shoved your hands to his throat, pinning him to the ground as he tried to sit up. Your fingers locked tight, squeezing hard. His body bucked beneath you, hatchet clattering out of his grip as he clawed at your wrists.
“Get—off—” he choked, his voice rough, broken. His head thrashed in the dirt, but your grip only tightened. The blood smeared across both of you now, sticky and warm, the world narrowing to the sound of his ragged gasps and the hammering of your pulse.
“Dammit!” Masky barked from somewhere beyond. “Enough!”
Kate’s voice cut sharper. “You’re gonna kill each other!”
But you didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until you felt his pulse falter beneath your palms, until his eyes widened—not with anger, not with panic—but something else.
Something strange.
Toby’s body trembled, his breath stuttering under your hands, but instead of pure desperation, there was… heat. A rush. A dizzying flood through his veins that wasn’t entirely fear. He should have been furious, terrified, clawing harder. But as your fingernails dug into his skin and the world blurred at the edges of his vision, something dark curled inside him. Something you could physically see stirring in him.
“You’re…crazy…” he rasped, the grip of your wrists faltering as his eyelids began to flutter. You felt your heart skip, but it wasn’t enough to register, not when Masky and Kate were on you in a second.
“Enough!” Masky barked, grabbing you by the shoulders and hauling you backward with a force that made your chest wrench from Toby’s throat. Kate shoved between the two of you, her knife still tight in her hand, eyes blazing.
“Are you out of your mind?” she snapped at you. “You’re both fucking children.”
You jerked in Masky’s grip, still seething, still tasting the heat of rage in your mouth. “He’s a fucking idiot!”
Toby rolled onto his side, coughing, ragged gasps rattling out of him. One hand clutched at his throat, the other dug into the dirt, nails carving furrows. Blood was smeared across his face, his hoodie, everywhere—but he wasn’t looking at you, only at the ground beneath him.
For the first time since you’d known him, Toby was silent.
No muttering. No insults. No half-crazed laughter at your expense. Just… silence. He sat up slow, pulling the mouth guard back into place, eyes fixed somewhere past you all. When he stood, it was without a word. He brushed dirt off his hoodie, hatchet hanging limp in his hand, and started toward the edge of the clearing.
“Toby,” Hoodie called after him, tone sharp, warning. But Toby didn’t answer. Didn’t even look back.
The rest of the night crawled like rot under the skin.
You all worked the scene in tense, heavy silence—dragging bodies, dousing blood with gasoline, scattering ash into the brush. Every now and then you caught a glimpse of Toby through the smoke, his shoulders hunched as he hacked the bodies into smaller pieces to fit into the bonfire you were throwing them into, his jaw clenched tight. No jokes. No muttered complaints. Just methodical, mechanical movements.
When you stripped out of your bloodied shirt near the stream nearby, scrubbing your arms raw in the freezing water, you could feel his eyes burning into your back from across the bank. Not glaring. Not mocking. Just… watching. Quiet.
By the time you trudged back to the truck, smelling of iron and smoke and death, Masky was rolling his eyes, muttering about “immaturity.” Kate looked like she wanted to strangle the both of you herself. Hoodie, as usual, said nothing—just kept his cigarette glowing, eyes narrowed.
But Toby? He climbed into the bed of the truck without a sound, hatchet propped against his knee, gaze fixed on the passing trees.
The silence pressed down heavier than the arguing ever had. And the longer it stretched, the more you hated it.
── .✦
The week that followed felt… off.
Toby didn’t pick fights. Not even little ones. Not the tiny jabs that had been part of your daily rhythm—the back-and-forth you’d grown used to, the words that always bounced off walls like sparks. He moved through the mansion like a ghost, quiet, methodical, focused only on smoking, weapons, and missions.
When he did speak, it was clipped, necessary. Orders, reports, directions—never aimed at you. His eyes flicked past, not meeting yours. You caught him glancing at you once or twice when he thought you weren’t looking, but it was fleeting, and every time the sight made your stomach tighten with a strange mix of satisfaction and unease.
The bruises on his throat were obvious even if you didn’t look close. Dark purple and angry against the pale skin, fading slowly but leaving deep, persistent marks. You’d caught him passing in the hallway once and remembered the weight of your hands around him, the raw heat of adrenaline and anger. A pang of guilt twisted in your gut—you’d let him get to you—but alongside it, a sharper, quieter thrill: for the first time, you had one-upped him. You had won.
At first, that smugness warmed you. You told yourself you’d earned it. You replayed the moment in your head, felt the power, the control. Toby hadn’t laughed at you. Toby hadn’t mocked you. He hadn’t even argued. For once, the scales had tipped.
But the relief didn’t last.
Toby didn’t bounce back. Not like every time before. The chaos that had defined him—the relentless teasing, the petty fights, the fire in his voice—was gone. He didn’t sneak into the kitchen and steal your lighter just to rile you. He didn’t flick ash onto your boots and smirk. He didn’t mutter under his breath or make jokes you’d spend the day wanting to punch him for.
The absence was strange. Hollow.
By the third day, it felt almost wrong. The mansion, which had been loud and infuriating, was quieter than it had ever been with him there. You realized you had grown used to his presence—not the violence, not the chaos itself, but the rhythm of it. The constant tension that had made your skin crawl was now a kind of anchor, a pulse you hadn’t realized you relied on.
And now? It was gone.
Every time you passed him in the halls, your chest tightened. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wouldn’t speak. He didn’t react to your snide comments or half-hearted insults. You felt a creeping, uncomfortable feeling settle over you. Part guilt. Part frustration. Part… longing? The tension, the conflict, the constant sparring—it had been exhausting, yes. But now, without it, you were left staring at a quiet, withdrawn version of the boy who had once been the most unpredictable part of your day.
The deeper the week stretched on, the more you realized that what you’d thought was triumph had turned into something else entirely: a slow, gnawing emptiness.
You had won the fight. But you might have lost him.
But you should be happy… right?
── .✦
Another mission order came in from Slender. You were checking your gear in the corner of the mansion’s main hall when Hoodie appeared, silently sliding a small pack over his shoulder.
“You’re with me on this one,” he said, voice low, precise, as always.
You nodded, hefting your own weapons, already going through mental checklists. This was routine. Simple. Easy. Comfortable.
Then the door creaked, and Toby stepped in. You froze—just a little. The mansion felt a little smaller with him there. He moved quietly, deliberately, but there was an edge to his posture you hadn’t seen since… that fight.
“I should g-go,” he said.
Your hands stopped mid-adjustment, eyes darting to Hoodie.
“You?” Hoodie asked, brow raised, tone careful. “Like… you two?”
Toby didn’t answer at first. He just leaned against the doorway, faint shadows under his eyes, arms crossed. Then he met Hoodie’s gaze, and there was… determination there. A quiet insistence.
“I’ll handle it,” Toby said. “I need t-to go. Need to get o-out of the house.”
You blinked. Dumbfounded. Alone… with me? Your chest fluttered with a mix of nerves, disbelief, and something else you didn’t want to name yet. You stared at him, really stared, and realized the bruises on his throat were almost gone—just faint traces of pink fading into pale skin.
You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair. “It’s alright,” you said, finally. “I can go with him.”
Hoodie’s eyes shifted between the two of you, expression unreadable. Then he let out a long, resigned sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “But try not to kill each other before you even get there.”
Toby didn’t say anything to you immediately. He just stepped aside, giving you a narrow space to move past him. And then—your eyes met his for the first time all week. No words. No sarcasm. No fights. Just a look that was sharp, quiet, heavy. There was something in it—curiosity, tension, and maybe the barest trace of acknowledgment
You swallowed. He didn’t look like the Toby who laughed at your every irritation or goaded you endlessly. He looked… different. Still the same chaotic energy under the surface, but tempered. Careful. Watching. Waiting.
You nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He nodded back, then stepped out together into the night. The mansion grew smaller behind you, the faint glow of lights fading, and suddenly, the woods felt wider, quieter, trapping the two of you together.
After the mansion had long disappeared behind the two of you, you tried to break the silence first. “So… you actually decided to acknowledge me. Must be a full moon or something.”
Toby glanced at you briefly. A slow, measured nod. “Yep.”
You frowned, adjusting your grip on your pack slung over your shoulder. “And… you’re not going to pick a fight, bark something sarcastic, or pretend you’re better than me this time?”
Another nod. Short, clipped. “Nope.”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Wow. Silent Toby. Real terrifying.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance your way. Just kept moving as you followed behind. The tension built like static. Every step you took felt heavier, filled with the weight of all the words unsaid between you. The heat of your own irritation grew, but it was tangled with something else—something that made your stomach twist and pulse.
Time passed, and you knew you were close to your destination when the scent of musk travelled around you.
“You know,” you muttered, testing the waters again, “we could at least plan this out before running in there and—”
But he didn’t wait for a reply. Not really. He veered slightly off the path, silent and purposeful, already moving ahead toward the dark silhouette of the warehouse you were assigned.
Your jaw tightened. “Seriously?” you snapped under your breath, jogging to catch up. “Do not pull this shit, Toby.”
He didn’t look back. Just a brief flick of the head, a nod toward the structure. No words. No argument.
The warehouse loomed as you reached the clearing—old, corrugated metal walls rusted, shadows pooling in every corner. Faint light spilled from windows shattered long ago, revealing crates stacked in uneven towers. The smell of damp wood, oil, and smoke drifted out to meet you. Someone had set up shop here, smugglers taking advantage of the abandoned structure, thinking no one would come. Unluckily, it was stirring commotion in the Slenderwoods, so they had to be rid of.
You stopped just outside, lowering your weapons slightly. “Okay. So—”
Toby was already moving. Hatchets swinging low in his grip, steps silent as he circled the side entrance, scanning, analyzing, slipping into shadows like he owned the place.
Your irritation flared. “I said we should plan—”
No response.
You ground your teeth. He didn’t even acknowledge your words beyond a brief nod to indicate he’d seen you. The careful, silent Toby—the one who had stopped fighting with you, stopped talking to you altogether—was moving without you, ignoring every attempt at control, ignoring the chaotic rhythm you had always relied on when paired.
And somehow, that made you feel even tenser than a shouting match ever could.
The warehouse groaned under its own weight as you slipped inside, shadows thick and stale air heavy with oil and dust. Somewhere deeper in the building, muffled voices echoed—low, muttering, careless. The smugglers thought they were safe.
You crouched low, pressing into the dark, and flicked a look toward Toby, ready to signal how to split. But he didn’t wait. He was already moving, sliding between stacks of crates and disappearing from your sights.
Your jaw clenched. Fine. You’d adapt.
The first smuggler came into view around the corner, cigarette ember glowing as he leaned against a crate. You tightened your grip on your knife and slid closer, focusing on quieting your movements, heart syncing with your breath—
—but Toby slipped in from the opposite side faster than you could realize. His hatchet rose and fell before you could reach striking distance, and the man dropped in silence, cigarette rolling across the floor as blood sputtered from his throat. He couldn’t even scream.
You froze, teeth grinding.
Really?
Shoving down the irritation, you darted toward the next shadow—another guard, pacing near the stairwell. You timed it, waited for him to turn, and lunged—
—but Toby’s arm shot out, shoving you back against a crate. You caught yourself with a hand before you made noise, eyes blazing as you turned on him—only to see him already driving into the man’s spine. The smuggler collapsed at his feet, blood seeping into the concrete. Toby held his mouth to keep him quiet, but the wretched coughing still echoed slightly.
Your pulse spiked hot. “What the fuck—” you hissed low.
Toby only gave a short glance, then moved on. No words. You stalked after him, every nerve on fire. This wasn’t an accident. He was cutting you off, stealing every strike, sliding into your space just a second before you could land it.
Another smuggler. Another opportunity. You adjusted your grip, prepared to move.
And then your foot hooked on something.
You stumbled, catching yourself on a crate with a dull thud. Looking down, you saw it—Toby’s boot had slid out at the last second, tripping you. He didn’t even look back, just stepped in and slit the throat of the smuggler you’d been aiming for.
Hot rage seared through you.
This wasn’t clumsy overlap. This wasn’t the two of you failing to mesh. No. This was intentional. Toby wasn’t just ignoring you anymore—he was playing with you. Undermining you. Pushing you, tripping you, cutting you off, every move designed to make you burn hotter, to make you snap.
The warehouse was a graveyard of broken bodies by the time you and Toby pushed deeper inside. Crates stood like crooked tombstones, the smell of blood thick and metallic in the air. Your knife hand ached from clutching tightly for too long, but not from use—because every time you moved in, Toby was there first. Every time you breathed, he was already cutting the air ahead of you.
You were shaking with it now. Rage crawling under your skin like fire ants.
It wasn’t just that he was faster. It wasn’t just skill. No—he was watching you. Waiting for you. Moving not around you, but through you. Blocking, tripping, shoving. Every chance you reached for a kill, his hatchet stole it from your grip at the very last second. And he knew. God, he knew.
The bastard was doing it on purpose. You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw hurt. Your breath sawed in and out, shallow, furious, your chest tight with the effort of holding yourself back. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if words or a scream would come out.
Then you reached the last room.
The final smuggler was cornered near a busted loading dock door, fumbling with a pistol in shaking hands. His eyes went wide at the sight of you both, the whites bright in the dim light. Your grip tightened on your knife. Yours. This one is yours.
But Toby moved. Of course he did. He strode forward with that same unnerving calm, hatchet gleaming, as if this was just another tally mark to add to his collection. He didn’t even look at you as he raised his arm, claiming the kill before you could take a step.
Something inside you snapped. Before he could swing, you hurled your knife.
The blade hissed through the air, so close you heard the whisper of it graze Toby’s hoodie as it buried itself in the smuggler’s torso. The man crumpled with a strangled gasp, blood pooling as your knife jutted from his ribs. He was already dead by the time he hit the floor.
Silence rang out for a heartbeat. Then Toby turned. Slowly.
His head cocked, hair falling into his face, eyes burning from behind his goggles. His voice came low, rasping, edged like broken glass. “You almost h-hit me.”
“Good!” you exploded, stomping forward, your voice shaking as it poured out of you. “I should’ve aimed for you instead!”
His chest rose and fell, ragged. “What t-the fuck is yo-your problem?”
“You’re my problem!” you spat, closing the distance until you were nearly nose-to-nose. Your finger jabbed hard against his chest, smearing blood into the fabric. “You won’t stop. You cut me off, you trip me, you push me out of the way like I don’t matter!”
He shoved your hand away, heat sparking in his tone. “You don’t g-get it, do you? You ne-never fucking get it.”
“Oh, enlighten me then!” You threw your arms out, voice bouncing off the metal walls. “What exactly am I missing? That you’re such a big man because you can steal kills out from under me? That you think you’re the only one who knows what the hell they’re doing?”
Toby’s hands curled into fists, shoulders tense, body vibrating with contained rage. “You think t-this is about y-you?”
You laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “It’s always about me when you make it this way!”
His chest heaved as he stepped closer, hatchet still gripped in his hand though lowered, his voice raising to match yours now. “Maybe if y-you weren’t so busy proving yo-yourself every goddamn second, I-I wouldn’t have to clean u-up your me-messes!”
You shoved him hard, your palms slamming against his chest. He staggered a step but didn’t fall, coming back twice as hot, his own shove rattling your teeth as you stumbled back against a crate.
“Mess?!” Your voice cracked, raw with fury. “You’ve been sabotaging me since the second we stepped in here, and I’m the mess? You think I can’t see what you’re doing?”
Toby’s laughter broke then—sharp, ragged, almost unhinged, though there was no humor in it. He dragged a hand across his face, shaking his head. “You’re s-so goddamn blind.”
“Oh, screw you—” You lunged, shoving him again, and this time he grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward until your faces nearly collided. You could feel his breath hot against your cheek, could see every drop of blood spattered across his muzzle.
The room buzzed with it—your rage, his heat, the echo of all that pent-up chaos finally unleashed. The fight wasn’t about the smugglers, wasn’t about the mission. It was about the two of you, about everything that had burned too long without a spark to ignite it. And now, you were both on fire.
Toby’s grip on your wrist tightened, and before you could wrench free, you shoved him hard into another crate. The metal screeched as it shifted under his weight. He snarled and came back at you, tackling you full-force. You both went down hard, the concrete jarring every bone in your body. His hatchet skittered away with a clatter, forgotten in the heat of the struggle. You clawed at his hoodie, slamming your knee up to catch his ribs, and he grunted, twisting to roll you beneath him.
“Why now?!” you shouted, your voice tearing raw through your throat as you shoved at him. “Why the fuck this week, Toby?!”
His laugh came cracked, bitter, his breath hot against your face as he pressed you down. “Why do y-you care? You liked it better w-when I shut the hell u-up, right?!”
You twisted, bucking your hips, flipping the both of you onto your sides, rolling across the dirt-stained floor. Broken glass scraped your palm, but you didn’t let go. “You didn’t speak to me for days—nothing! Then suddenly you just have to come with me? Just so you can trip me and screw me over?”
He gritted his teeth, voice rough, guttural. “M-Maybe I wanted t-to see how you’d h-handle it. Maybe I w-wa-wanted to see you squirm for once.”
Rage spiked through you, sharp and white-hot. You slammed your elbow into his chest, forcing him onto his back. He gasped, coughing, but his hands were still at your arms, nails biting.
“Is this payback?” you snarled, your breath coming ragged. “For me choking you out? You sick little shit—you couldn’t just say something, you had to do this? Are you fucking five years old?”
He bucked up, trying to roll you again, and the two of you smashed into a half-rotted crate, splinters bursting. The smell of mold and dust coated your tongue, acrid and foul. You shoved harder, knee digging into his ribs until finally—you broke free of his grip and pinned him flat against the concrete. You straddled his waist, your hands pressed hard against his shoulders, forcing him down. Both of you were panting, sweat and blood smeared across your skin, breaths shallow with fury.
And then—something shifted.
Toby’s head tilted back, baring the flushed stretch of his throat. His pulse throbbed there, fast and strong. And he was looking right at you, eyes wide and unblinking behind the streaks of dirt and blood.
Not fighting. Not mocking. Just… giving. Exposing his throat, silent, his gaze locked on yours as if daring you to finish what you’d started last week.
You froze. The world narrowed to the hollow of his throat, to the heat rolling off his body beneath you, to the fact that he wasn’t pushing you away. He was waiting.
Your heart lurched, fury colliding with confusion. You ripped your hands off him and stumbled up, standing over him. “What the fuck are you doing?” you demanded, voice sharp, trembling.
Toby stayed on the floor, chest rising and falling, throat still exposed. Slowly, his familiar grin returned—thin, crooked, unsettling. But he didn’t answer. He just chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t steady. It cracked halfway out, like he couldn’t quite hold it together.
“Go on,” he rasped, voice roughened by the fight—and maybe something else. “Do it a-again. Thought y-you liked shutting m-me up.”
Your stomach flipped. Heat curled low in your spine, but rage fought its way back to the surface, blinding the confusion you felt. “You’ve been fucking with me all night,” you hissed. “Cutting me off, tripping me, stealing every kill. And this—” your eyes hovered over his throat, his pulse hammering beneath skin still faintly stained with last week’s bruises “—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
His grin faltered, but his eyes never left yours. Nervous. Hungry.
You almost laughed, disbelief bubbling sharp in your chest. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “You’ve been trying to piss me off so I’d choke you again?”
The silence was answer enough. His jaw worked, his breath shallow, silently chasing the contact he wasn’t brave enough to ask for.
Something ugly and electric knotted in your chest.
“You’re fucking sick,” you spat, standing to put space between you. “All this—what—just to get your little fix? You’re pathetic.”
He sat up slowly, tearing at the strap of his muzzle and shoving the piece off his face—the metal clattering against the cold floor, and finally let out a low laugh—broken, ragged. “Maybe. But you w-were gonna do it, weren’t y-you?”
You turned away, disgust coiling hot in your chest, but Toby’s voice followed—low and sharp, like a knife slipped between ribs. “Guess I w-was right. You only e-e-ever look good wh-when you’re on top o-of me.”
That was it.
You spun, fury surging bright and blinding, and launched yourself at him. You couldn’t care anymore if this was some perverted goade, he would get what he asked for now. He hit the floor hard, head bouncing off concrete with a dull thump, and before he could so much as blink, your hand was clamped around his throat.
“Oh, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you snarled, leaning close, your words dripping venom. There wasn’t a muzzle to block you anymore, so your noses were practically inches from each other. “Poor little Toby, can’t get off unless he’s gasping like a fish. Pathetic.”
His grin widened even as your grip tightened, lips split and cracking, teeth flashing. His laugh jerked and stuttered, turning to wheezes under your palm, but he didn’t fight you off. Not this time. Instead, his hands slid down, fumbling and quick, finding your thighs where you straddled his abdomen. He gripped tight, fingers digging into your pants hard enough to bruise, like he was holding onto an anchor while you cut the air out of him.
You squeezed harder, your mockery coming in ragged bursts. “What, you like this? Huh? You want everyone to see those bruises again—so they’ll know exactly what I did to you?”
His laugh dissolved into a groan, his eyes glassy, unfocused, lips parted on shallow, rattling gasps. And then—his hips jerked up against you. Once. Twice. You lurched forward with the movement, your full weight pressing down onto his throat as his body bucked beneath yours, desperate, uncontrolled. Your palm bore down harder, your thighs pinning him in place, and his grip on you tightened until it hurt.
It was obscene. Violent. Maddening.
Your grip faltered when his hands crept higher on your thighs, rough palms sliding toward dangerous ground. You ripped your hand from his throat, throwing your weight back to keep yourself steady before you toppled forward.
The second you let go, Toby’s laugh cracked open, wild and desperate, spilling into something frantic. He shot upright against your weight, grabbing for your wrists, his voice ragged with need.
“No—don’t fu-fucking s-s-stop—” His words broke into a choked rasp as his chest heaved. “Do i-it again—p-pl-please—”
You shoved him down hard, eyes blazing. “You’re insane—!”
“Yeah?” he spat, his voice catching, body twisting under yours. “Then fucking b-be insane with me, h-huh? Don’t just s-sit there acting li-like you don’t get o-off on t-this shit too!”
Your rage spiked, white-hot. “Are you serious right now? I nearly killed you last time, and this is what you want?”
“Yes!” His shout tore from his throat, cracking halfway through, echoing off the warehouse walls. “Yes, fuck—goddamn i-it, you don’t g-get it—I need it!”
The words hit like a brick to the chest, and you froze just long enough for him to ramble on, his voice rising, frantic, like the dam had burst and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He was panting for God’s sake.
“E-Ever since that night—when you h-had your hands on me—” His eyes flashed wild, glassy with something more than anger. “I-I couldn’t fucking s-stop thinking about it. I’d lay th-there staring at t-the bruises—every g-go-goddamn night—touching mm-myself to the thought of you choking me out, and it w-was the only thing that worked—”
You reeled back, disgust curling sharp in your gut. “You’re disgusting.”
He grinned—broken, shameful, desperate. “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I know. But when t-they faded—when the bruises were gone—” His voice cracked again, lower now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t finish an-anymore. Nothing worked. I’ve been going o-out of my fucking m-mi-mind—”
Your pulse thundered in your ears. “So you pulled this stunt tonight? Just to piss me off enough to do it again?”
“Yes! Jesus fuck! Yes!” he barked, eyes blazing with a feverish light. “I had to! I don’t c-care if you hate m-me, I don’t care if you th-think I’m pathetic, I just—fuck—” His hands clawed at his own throat now, red scratches blooming under his nails. “I need y-your hands here. No o-one else’s. Yours.”
You stared down at him, chest heaving, every nerve screaming between fury, disbelief, and something darker curling beneath. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve been choking your dick every night to the thought of me almost killing you?”
His grin faltered, teeth bared like he was half-laughing, half-breaking apart. “I wanted i-it. I still want it. I-I need you to finish me off, or I’m go-gonna lose my fucking mind.”
The words hung between you—hot, filthy, and raw. And for the first time since you’d known him, Toby wasn’t hiding behind his immaturity or his smirk. He was laid bare, trembling under you, begging with every cracked word.
“I hate you, Toby.” Your breath hissed out between your teeth, sharp and electric, as you slammed your hand back around his throat. His body jolted like you’d lit a match to it.
Toby’s moan tore out of him, shameless and guttural, the sound vibrating against your palm. His eyes rolled halfway back, lids fluttering, and he arched up into your grip like a starving man finally fed. “Fuck—yes—” His voice rasped high and broken, and the sheer relief in it made your stomach twist. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”
You leaned down, sneering inches from his flushed face. “Look at you. Pathetic little freak. Can’t even look at me without getting hard.”
His laugh cracked, feral, desperate, his mouth curling wide even as his breath stuttered in ragged gasps under your pressure. He coughed once, then sneered closer into your grip, gritting his teeth. “Say it a-again—fuck—say it—”
“Pathetic,” you hissed, tightening your grip, your thumb pressing against the thick veins running up his throat. “Sick little bitch.”
His hips bucked up violently, knocking you forward again, and this time he didn’t hold back. His hands shot past your thighs, fumbling frantically at his belt behind you. The buckle clattered against the concrete, his jeans yanked open with a clumsy desperation that made your blood thrum. You couldn’t see, but you could hear the moment Toby’s hand shot into his boxers and began jerking his cock wildly, moaning through labored chokes.
“Jesus Christ,” you spat, half a laugh, half a curse. “You’re actually jerking yourself while I choke you?”
“Not—j-jerking,” he wheezed, his grin splitting wider even as his face flushed red under your grip. “Just—getting ready—” His laugh broke into a cough, then another moan. “Fuck—I don’t care i-if you hate me, just k-keep squeezing—”
Your stomach knotted, fury clashing with something darker as you pressed down harder, feeling the frantic pulse hammer beneath your hand. You should have pulled away. Should’ve shoved him off and ended this disgusting display. But the way his voice cracked when you snapped at him, the way his body writhed beneath yours, hands trembling as he shoved his jeans lower—it sparked something hot and unsettling in your chest.
“I can’t stand you,” you breathed, voice low, sharp, and shaking with something you didn’t want to name. “You’re nothing without me.”
His moan bled into a laugh, high and frantic. “I k-know. I fucking know. That’s w-why I need you.” And god help you—your lips curled, the power surging through you like fire. You were enjoying it, too.
Your palm pressed harder against his throat, pinning him flat, your thighs tight against his ribs. Toby’s grin broke into something wrecked, lips trembling as his groans spilled shamelessly between shallow gasps.
“That’s it,” you hissed, leaning close, breath hot against his ear. “Choke on it. That’s all you’re good for.”
His hips jerked up violently, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs now, his cock straining free into the cool air. His hand wrapped tight around the base, already slick, already trembling. You could hear the sound of skin-on-skin, his fist moving insanely fast and brutal.
“F-Fuck—yes—” he choked, voice torn to ribbons under your grip. “Keep talking—don’t s-stop—please—”
You sneered, pressing your weight down harder, and he let out a strangled cry that almost tipped into a sob. “Look at yourself,” you spat, mocking, eyes blazing as you looked back to see him rut up into his own fist like a man possessed. “Wheezing like a dying dog. You’re disgusting.”
“Uh—hnn—f-fuck—yeah,” he rasped, grin stretching bloody and wild. “Say it a-again—call me that—”
“Disgusting. Pathetic. Useless little freak.”
His eyes rolled, breath rattling, hips pumping faster. You heard his boots scuff and slip on the ground below, kicking dust with every jerk of his body. His free hand clawed at your thigh, nails biting hard into your skin, grounding himself in your weight, in your hold on his throat.
“Harder,” he begged, voice splintering, a desperate whine breaking loose. “Please—please, don’t let g-go—don’t stop—fuck, I’m so c-close—”
And God help you—you squeezed tighter. You felt the pulse stuttering beneath your palm, his throat straining, his moans breaking into guttural wheezes as his body arched up beneath yours.
“You need me for this,” you hissed, lips curling in something that was no longer just anger. “You can’t even come without me choking the life out of you. Need me to make your little dick come.”
His hand blurred on his cock, hips bucking helplessly now, eyes glassy and unfocused as drool slicked the corner of his mouth. “Y-yesmmn—fuck, yehmmn—need you—need your hand—don’t let go—hnn—hah—”
And then he broke.
His whole body jolted beneath you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his hips bucked up hard. Hot release spilled across his abdomen and into his fist as he writhed, every vein straining under your hand while you squeezed him through it. His cock twitched violently in his grasp, his moans pitching higher, wetter, delirious. “Fuckfuckfuck—yes—” he gasped, trembling, his grip on your thigh bruising as he rode the high, every thrust messy, erratic, desperate.
You held firm until he sagged under you, chest heaving, throat raw and flushed purple where your hand pressed. Only then did you release him, wiping your palm against your jeans with a sharp sneer. “Fucking hell,” you muttered again, though your heart was hammering just as hard as his.
Toby lay there, grinning up at you with glassy, wrecked eyes, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He coughed once, rough and raw, then laughed—a cracked, unhinged sound. “Worth it.”
The warehouse smelled like iron and smoke, the floor sticky with blood, bodies slumped where they fell scattered throughout the halls. Normally you’d have cleaned—burned the place down or dragged the corpses to the woods. That was protocol.
But not tonight.
You shoved yourself off Toby’s chest, breath ragged, disgust curling sharp and hot in your gut. You wiped your palm against your pants until the skin burned, as if you could scrub off the memory of his throat thrumming beneath your grip, the moans spilling out of him, the mess he made of himself under you.
“Fuck,” you spat, turning on your heel. “Fuck this.”
Toby scrambled upright behind you, fumbling with his belt buckle, tugging his jeans back up with clumsy, shaking hands. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his hoodie damp with it too.
“W-Wait—hey—” he stammered, voice still rough, strained. He grabbed his hatchet and muzzle from the floor and scurried after you, footsteps uneven on the concrete. “Don’t—don’t make i-it a thing, okay? Just—forget it h-ha-happened.”
“Forget it?” you snapped, not slowing. “You’re sick, Toby.”
He laughed nervously, breath catching on the sound. “Yeah, well—you al-already knew that.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your stomach twisted too tight, too hot, your chest buzzing with something you didn’t want to settle on. You shoved through the broken door, the night air slapping cold against your damp skin, and started the trek back to the mansion. Behind you, Toby’s boots scuffed the dirt, never too far, dogging your steps like a shadow.
“C’mon,” he tried again, voice softer this time, more nervous. “Don’t g-go all weird on m-me. It doesn’t have to mean an-anything.”
Your fists clenched at your sides. “Shut up.”
Silence stretched between you after that, broken only by the crunch of leaves, the distant cry of some night creature in the woods. You didn’t look back, not once. But no matter how far you tried to walk ahead, he stayed just behind you—close enough to feel his presence crawling against your skin. Your chest heaved, every breath tight. Anger, shame, disgust—all of it roiled inside you, twisting lower until your stomach was burning, your thighs aching where his hands had dug into you.
Warm. You felt too warm. And you hated yourself for it.
By the time the mansion lights came into view through the trees, your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. You’d marched fast, hard, like if you moved quick enough, you could outrun the heat coiling in your gut, the way your pulse jumped at the memory of Toby’s voice breaking under your hand, at his eyes watering so easily.
But when you reached the porch steps, he was still there. Still trailing you. And no matter how you tried to bury it—your body still hummed with the echo of his moans.
“J-Just don’t say anything to t-them—”
“Shut up, Toby.”
The mansion’s door creaked open, hinges groaning into the quiet of the hour. You stepped in first, blood dried on your clothes, boots heavy with dust. The air inside smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old leather, warmth clinging to the walls after the chill of the forest outside.
Masky looked up from the couch where he sat sipping from a steaming mug. Hoodie was leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, while Kate perched on the armrest, picking at her fingers.
Three sets of eyes landed on you and Toby at once.
You kept yours on the floor, brushing past with a muttered, “It’s done.” Your voice was flat, clipped, nothing like the normal back-and-forth bickering they were used to hearing spill through the door after missions. Toby hovered behind you, shifting from foot to foot. His hatchet dangled loose at his side, his hoodie wrinkled, belt crooked like he’d thrown it back together in a rush. His mouth opened once, twice, but no words came.
Masky’s eyes narrowed. Hoodie straightened. Kate blew a huff of air through her nose, brows furrowing as her gaze bounced between you both. You didn’t wait for questions. You strode past them, your chest tight, your pulse hammering, Toby’s nervous fidgeting prickling against the back of your skull like static. Your boots echoed faint up the stairs, and when you reached your room, you shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Finally—silence.
You pressed your back against the wood, chest rising and falling, staring blankly into the shadows of your room. Your knees felt weak, like the fight had dragged out hours longer than it really had.
“What the fuck,” you whispered into the stillness. Your mind replayed it whether you wanted it to or not: his face slack with need, his body bucking beneath you, his voice breaking when you called him pathetic. The sound of him moaning your name. The way he’d begged you not to let go.
Your pulse jumped hard, traitorous, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as though that could cage it. How? How had this boy—the one who needled you, cursed you, fought you at every corner—made your stomach twist and your core ache with just his wrecked voice and shameless grin?
You growled under your breath, shoving off the door, moving on autopilot. Stripping out of bloodied clothes. Cleaning the grime from your skin in the dim light of the bathroom mirror. Your reflection looked wrong—flushed, unsettled, eyes too wide.
You tried to ignore it.
Back in your room, you tugged a shirt over your head and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them tight around yourself. The sheets were cool against your skin, the house humming faint and low in the background. You shut your eyes, forcing yourself to think of anything else.
But your mind betrayed you.
Every blink brought back Toby—the heat of him, the frantic way he’d clawed at your thighs, the rasp of his moans under your palm. You could almost feel his throat again, the thrum of his pulse weakening against your grip, the desperate way he’d pushed into your hand as if he couldn’t live without it. The way he insisted only you could do this for him—only you.
Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets. “Goddamn it,” you muttered, low, ashamed.
But your hands moved anyway. Sliding down, curling over your stomach, lower, until your fingers pressed against the ache that had been building since you walked away from him on that filthy warehouse floor.
Toby’s voice played in your head, raw and broken—Harder. Please. Don’t stop.
The sheets were stifling, heat curling in every inch of your body, but you burrowed deeper under them anyway, cocooning yourself as if that could keep the shame in. Your breath was uneven, pulse climbing higher the longer you tried to resist. Your hand slipped lower, into the waistband of your shorts, finding the slick heat between your thighs. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the realization made your stomach flip.
“Fuck…” you hissed under your breath.
But your fingers moved anyway. Slow at first, just circling, teasing, trying to convince yourself you weren’t really doing this. Except the moment you closed your eyes, you saw him again—Toby’s head tilted back, throat bare to you, his lips parted in a desperate grin as you squeezed down harder.
The memory made your hips twitch, your hand quicken. Your breathing grew rougher, sharper, filling the stillness of your room. The friction wasn’t enough—you needed more. You slid two fingers against your entrance, pressing inside and gasping at the sudden stretch, your body clenching tight.
And your mind betrayed you again.
You imagined it was his hands, not yours—rough, calloused palms pushing inside, desperate and greedy. You imagined the way he’d been bucking against you, hips jerking, like he was trying to fuck the air just to get relief. What if you had fucked him then? Would it have been as fast and desperate as his fist was?
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it. Your free hand clutched the sheets by your head, knuckles whitening as your pace picked up. Each press, each thrust of your fingers had your body curling tighter, chasing something you didn’t want to admit you wanted. Your thighs trembled. Sweat dampened your temples.
And then Toby’s voice flooded your skull, unbidden: Harder. Please. Don’t stop. I need you.
Your body jerked. A moan tore from your throat. You slammed your fingers deeper, grinding your palm against your clit until the ache sharpened into something blinding. Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, your body arching off the bed, breath caught, the sound of his pleading still ringing in your ears.
You stayed there, quivering, your hand still buried between your thighs as the aftershocks trembled through you. The sheets were tangled, your skin slick with sweat, your chest heaving. And when your mind finally cleared, disgust hit you like a wave.
You ripped your hand away, burying your face into the pillow, your body still thrumming with unwanted pleasure.
“What the fuck is wrong with me,” you whispered to the dark, voice breaking. But no matter how tightly you curled into yourself, no matter how hard you tried to will it away, the memory of his moans and the feel of his throat under your palm stayed burned into you.
“I hate that boy.”
── .✦
The mansion was never quiet, not really. Floorboards creaked, the woods whispered, doors groaned when opened. But between you and Toby? Silence had become the loudest thing of all.
You ignored him. Flat-out, stone-faced ignored him.
When he leaned against the doorway of the training room, flicking his pocket knife open and shut, waiting for you to snap? You kept punching the heavy weight bag, not giving him so much as a glance.
When he dropped some smartass remark during meals, fishing for the rise he always used to get? You chewed slowly, eyes fixed on your plate, not even flinching.
When he “accidentally” bumped your shoulder in the hall? You walked on, didn’t miss a beat.
It drove him mad—you could see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his tics flared sharper, faster when you didn’t bite back. But it drove you mad too, in a way you didn’t want to admit.
Because the bruises were back.
Dark, blooming fingerprints circling his throat like a necklace only you could’ve left. They were darker than last time, more intense. They peeked from under his collar when he tilted his head back, caught the light when he twisted just so. And every time you saw them, your stomach clenched.
You couldn’t help imagining him again, in that messy sprawl on the warehouse floor—eyes glazed, lips split, gasping for air under your hand. The memory tangled with the fact you knew he was jerking off to it every night, chasing that high you’d given him like some addict.
And then came the shame.
Shame because you’d done the same. Shame because your own fingers had dug into yourself with his voice in your ears, his body pressed against yours in your mind. Shame because it made you warm now, just thinking about it in broad daylight. You hated yourself for it.
The others noticed.
Masky groaned and rolled his eyes whenever the silence stretched too long in the room, muttering about “finally shutting the both of you up.” Hoodie, quiet as ever, glanced between you two with something unreadable in his gaze, like he was tracking pieces to a puzzle he didn’t want to put together. And Kate? She smirked. She didn’t say anything—yet—but her eyes lit up with amusement every time Toby walked in, bruises stark and ugly, your gaze flickering before you could stop it.
The mansion wasn’t built for subtlety. Everyone could feel the tension brewing.
And Toby? Toby basked in it. Even when you ignored him, even when your face burned with shame, you could see it in the edge of his grin, in the way he let his collar hang just a little lower. He liked that you saw the bruises. He wanted you thinking about them. Thinking about him.
── .✦
The porch was cold, even with the smoke curling warm in your lungs. You leaned against the railing, staring into the stretch of black trees. The woods whispered with wind and crickets, an endless, empty hum that should’ve eased your head but didn’t.
You were halfway through your cigarette when the door creaked behind you. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. His uneven footsteps, the scrape of his hoodie against the doorframe—Toby.
You stiffened immediately, flicking ash into the night, already crushing the half-finished cigarette against the rail. The second he stepped outside, you pushed off the porch, muttering, “Nope.” But before you could make it to the door, his hand shot out and grabbed your arm.
You spun on instinct, your fist colliding with his chest, hard enough that it would’ve left anyone else wincing. He didn’t even flinch. His head just tilted, eyes flicking from your hand to your face.
“You probably liked that too, didn’t you?” you spat, ripping your arm from his grip. “Bet you’ll jerk off to that later too.”
For a moment, the corner of his mouth curled up into a grin like he was about to shoot something smart back. But then it faltered. He swallowed, shifting his weight. “You can’t k-keep being mad at m-me,” he said, quieter than you expected.
You barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, that’s rich. What’s this—gaslighting me now? Pretending I imagined all your bullshit? You baited me into it, Toby. You made me—”
“I’m not saying th-that.” His voice cut through, sharper this time. He stepped closer, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting. “I’m saying… you d-did it too. You wanted it. D-Don’t dump all the blame o-on me like I’m the only fucked up o-o-one here.”
You blinked at him, the words burning hotter than the smoke simmering in your lungs. The laugh that came out of you was dry, ugly. “Wow. That’s your angle? Turn it around on me so you don’t feel like a creep?”
He shook his head quickly, stammering, “No. That’s not—fuck—” He scrubbed a hand through his messy curls, his tics pulling his shoulders tight. Then his voice dropped, raw and stripped. “I just… I hate i-it when you’re quiet.”
That stopped you.
His eyes flicked up to yours, no grin this time, no mask. Just something bare. “I can handle y-you being pissed at me. You c-can scream, throw punches, call me every name in the book—I don-don’t care. I’ll give it right back. That’s what we do.” He took a step closer, the porch creaking under his boots. “But this? Y-You ignoring me? Acting like I don’t exist? That’s wo-worse than any fight we’ve ever h-had.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse suddenly pounding in your ears.
“You always bounce b-back,” he went on, voice rough with an edge of desperation. “No matter h-how ugly it gets, you always come back a-at me w-with something. And now you’re just—gone. Silent. And it fe-feels like I’m fucking… nothing t-to you. And I can’t stand that.”
The words hung between you, heavy as the smoke drifting in the night air. You clenched your fists, struggling to breathe steady. Your chest felt too tight. His words were still in your ears, rattling around, refusing to leave. You dragged a hand through your hair, then crossed your arms hard, locking yourself in. Your gaze flicked down—just for a heartbeat—to his throat, where the bruises were stark against pale skin, then to his hands fidgeting at his sides. A sigh slipped out before you could swallow it down.
“God, you’re annoying,” you bit out, venom dripping. “You stand here begging for scraps of my attention like some whipped fucking dog.”
Toby’s lips twitched, but he didn’t fight back. He just nodded once, sharp, almost eager. “Y-Yeah. I am.”
You blinked at him, taken aback. Then the anger surged hotter. Even still, even as you tried to push him away, he was still enjoying it.
“You don’t even try to deny it? That’s how low you are? That’s how little self-respect you have?”
“Mmhm.” Another nod. His boots creaked closer against the porch boards.
Your arms tightened across your chest. “You’re disgusting, Toby. You make me sick.”
“Yeah.” Another step closer. His grin was small now, faint, but his eyes were locked on you like he was drinking it all in. Your nails bit crescents into your arms. You should’ve walked away—you knew you should’ve walked away—but the way he was letting you tear into him only made your pulse race faster.
“Say it,” you snapped, stepping forward yourself. “Say you’re a fucking disgusting waste of space.”
“I’m di-disgusting,” he echoed, nodding. “Waste of space. All o-of it. Go on.” He was right there now, only inches away, and still coming closer.
“You’re nothing,” you spat, your voice trembling with how hard you forced the words out. “I hate you.”
He nodded again, eyes bright, voice low. “Then hate me.”
And then he leaned forward. Not quick, not sharp—slow, steady, like he was giving you all the time in the world to stop him. His breath brushed your lips, his bruised throat bare and tempting, his whole body a dare.
Something snapped in you. Your hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. Hard.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” you growled, glaring into his eyes.
For a heartbeat, the night was silent, only your ragged breathing between you. His lips moved against your palm, hot breath searing your skin, but he didn’t try to pull away. He just looked at you, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if you’d given him exactly what he wanted.
Then his arms came up.
Before you could react, he wrapped them around you, hauling you flush against him. Your body collided with his, hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs, and that’s when you felt it—his bulge thick and insistent against your hip.
Your heart jumped. You recoiled, but he only crushed you tighter, his muffled voice spilling hot against your palm. “Can’t—fuck—can’t help i-it,” he mumbled under your hand, words slurring but frantic. His eyes were wild, pleading and burning all at once. “You don’t understand how good i-it sounds. The way you talk to me—how mean you a-are—”
“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped, pressing harder against his mouth, like you could shove the words back down his throat. And then—warm, wet, obscene—his tongue dragged across your palm. You jerked your hand back instantly, grimacing. “Motherfucker—”
The slap cracked sharp across his face before you even thought about it, your palm stinging from the impact. He didn’t even blink, face jerking to the side for only a moment. His laugh tore out, jagged and breathless, like it was the best gift you’d ever given him. “More,” he goaded, his voice breaking with a tic as his grin split wide. “C’mon—hit me again—”
Something boiled inside you. Rage. Heat. Hunger. You couldn’t name it, couldn’t separate it. You fisted his collar instead, yanking him down hard enough his head snapped forward. Your lips crashed into his in a violent, messy collision—more teeth than anything else, half-kiss, half-bite.
He made a noise deep in his chest, caught between a moan and a growl, and bit back. Your teeth scraped his lip, tearing it raw, copper flooding between your tongues as you devoured each other like a fight you couldn’t win. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was violent, greedy, your mouths clashing, biting, swallowing each other’s breath until you were dizzy. His hands gripped your waist, bruising, desperate, dragging you closer still.
The porch boards creaked under your stumbling steps as you shoved him back, and he only laughed against your mouth, teeth clacking yours, his breath ragged and burning hot as he kissed you like you were both still trying to draw blood.
Your teeth clashed again, the taste of copper thick on your tongue, and Toby groaned like it was ecstasy. His hands roamed rough, not searching but taking—fingers digging into your hips hard enough you swore he’d leave bruises through your clothes. You shoved at his chest, trying to push him back, but he turned you violently, pinning you against the porch railing. The wood bit into your spine. His mouth crashed against yours, sloppy and biting, like he was trying to consume you whole.
“Fucking—” you gasped between kisses, your nails clawing into his shoulders. “I hate you.”
“F-Fuck yeah you do,” he growled, teeth dragging along your jaw before sinking in just hard enough to sting. His hips ground forward, rough, shameless. His bulge pressed against your hip so hard you could feel every inch. “Show me just h-how much, baby.”
Your laugh broke into a moan, guttural and unwilling, as he rocked against you. That only pissed you off more. You tangled a hand in his curls and yanked his head back hard, exposing his throat. “Pathetic little pervert,” you spat, glaring at the bruises you’d already put there. Your free hand wrapped around his throat again, squeezing until his breath stuttered, and his eyes rolled for just a second.
He moaned just as loud and whiny as he had the other night. The sound made heat coil tight in your stomach. You pressed harder, relishing the way his pulse hammered under your fingers. He choked out a laugh, lips swollen and red, trying to lunge forward again—but you held him just out of reach.
“Say it,” you hissed. “Say you’re nothing. Say you’re mine to break.”
His grin split wide, voice raw and ragged as he rasped, “I’m nothing. I’m—fuck—I’m y-yours to break.”
That was all it took for you to slam your mouth back onto his, devouring him. Your bodies ground together in a messy, furious rhythm, every movement as much a fight as it was a touch.
Toby’s hand slid down, gripping the back of your thigh, hauling your leg up around his hip. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, bucking into you. Your nails raked down his chest, and he shuddered, growling against your lips. He bit at your bottom one hard enough to make you taste blood again.
The porch creaked, your breath echoed, and for a moment, the whole world was just this: violent mouths, grasping hands, and the line between hate and want blurring until there was no difference. You tried to shove him off, but he anchored himself against you with his hands—one gripping your waist, the other sliding lower, hot and slick, brushing over the waistband of your shorts.
You stiffened immediately, pressing back, but he didn’t stop. He shoved his hand down past the hem, his warm palm pressing flat against your fluttering cunt. You hissed, digging your nails into his shoulders. The pad of his thumb traced along your slick folds, the subtle heat radiating from your body under his touch making him groan low and uneven.
“Right—so defensive, but you’re soaked—” he panted against your jaw, dragging his fingers through your slick and probing against your entrance. You wanted to curse him, but your hips were too busy chasing after his hand, mind too muddled with want. “Y-You’re not very good a-at playing pretend.”
And then—careful, deliberate—he slipped a finger inside. The movement was slow at first, testing, curling just enough to brush the spot that made you gasp, hips bucking despite your effort to stay rigid. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat as your hands clamped over his shoulders, nails digging in hard, and yet your stomach tensed, core aching in unwanted, feral need.
“Goddamn it, Toby—get the fuck—” you tried to snap, but the words came out a whimper as his fingers moved in perfect rhythm with the heat coiling between your legs.
“Can’t stop,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw. “Your hands—your words—f-fucking kill me. I can’t help it.”
You clawed at him, nails digging into skin. He moved another finger in, slick and warm, curling expertly, pressing, rubbing, and suddenly the fire coiling low in your belly blazed out. You arched up, fighting, hissing at him through your teeth, but the sound only seemed to make him smirk against your jaw.
“You piss me off,” you spat, pressing back harder, rocking your hips against his hand in a mix of resistance and desperate need. Every nerve in your body screamed, every pulse of blood seemed to thrum straight down into the ache he was cultivating with each careful, greedy curl of his thick fingers. “You’re so fucking gross.”
“Yeah,” he moaned, the word rattling through him. “Gonna make you cum. I h-have to. Ne-Need to.” The sound—raw, desperate, unashamed—made arousal coil tighter in your belly. Your free hand tangled in his hair, yanking his face to yours again. Teeth clashed, lips smacked, and he grunted as you bit him, tasting yourself on him, smelling the deep earthy tones of him.
He bucked into you, nails digging into your hip, sliding his fingers faster, curling them deep, teasing you, testing you, making you gasp and growl your frustration into the night air. You tried to glare, tried to snap insults, but your body betrayed you, trembling, hips pressing against him, sliding back onto his fingers despite the growl of anger and disgust still catching in your throat.
“Told you,” he rasped, voice ragged, “I l-like it better when you’re pissy.”
You hit him on the chest, hard enough to make him grunt, and he chuckled, throat choked and vibrating under your hand. The contrast—his rough, hungry laugh and the slick heat of him inside you—sent fire lashing in your veins, spreading down and low, making your nails dig deeper, your chest rise faster, your body tremble like you were breaking apart. You tried to pull away, tried to scream insults, tried to shove him off, but every movement only made him grip harder, curling fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he held you flush against him.
“Fuck—Toby…” you gasped, teeth clenching, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie as heat roared through your body. His hand moved faster, rolling you expertly against him, pressing and curling until every nerve in your belly lit up. You clenched, tight, shivering, and suddenly the wave hit—sharp, overwhelming, and completely consuming. Your body quaked as your orgasm ripped through you, muffled gasps caught in your throat. Toby didn’t falter; instead, he held you steady, rolling you just enough to ride it out, keeping you flush against him, your arousal spilling all over his palm.
Your chest heaved, and you grabbed his jaw with both hands, pulling him down roughly into a kiss that was desperate and messy. His mouth moved against yours, hot and slick, teeth nipping as tongues tangled, groans muffled and raw. And then, just slightly, the feral edge simmered into something slower, almost tired—your bodies still flush, hearts hammering, lips pressed together as you clung to him, fingers gripping his shoulders and chest. Your legs threaded around him, your nails dragging along his back, and you shivered against the warmth of him, still trembling from release and the cold air outside.
Finally, he pulled his fingers out, slick and glistening, and tilted his head back just slightly. His eyes locked onto yours, dark in the dim porch light, and he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking them clean with a low hum that made your heart stutter.
“Fuck,” you panted.
You don’t let him think. You take his wrist like it’s a leash and pull, hard, the way you used to when dragging him out of some stupid accident—only this time your grip is charged, hungry. Toby stumbles after you, mouth parted, eyes bright and unsteady, like he’s both surprised and exactly where he wants to be. He tries to say something—stammer a protest, some jagged joke—but you yank him faster and his words die in the cut of your stride. You pull him through the mansion’s doors and into the warmth of the house, dragging him up the stairs like a toy.
Upstairs creaks under your boots; the house is quiet but for the ragged sound of his breathing close behind. When you shove the door to your room shut, it slams. The sound is satisfying, final. You press back against it, feel the cheap paint bite into your back through your clothes, and the world narrows until it’s only you and him and the hungry strain between your bodies pressed tight.
He drops to his knees without being told. You haven’t even made a sound and he’s already obeying—fast, focused, hands fumbling as he works the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down slow, reverent, as though he’s unwrapping something sacred and volatile. The fabric slips over your hips and slides to your knees, and you can feel the cool air lick at your skin. Toby’s head dips, lips brushing the inside of your thigh first like it’s a courtesy, then moving with increasing boldness.
You’re in control. You know it. You feel it in the slick press of your bodies, the steady drum of your pulse at the back of your throat. You lean forward, hands braced on his shoulders, and you start to talk down to him.
“Look at you,” you say, each word deliberate. You’re quieter now inside, trying your best not to disturb Masky and Hoodie only a few doors down. “On your knees for me. So ready.” Your fingers rake through his hair, rough enough that he gasps, chin lifting to give you access. He nods, desperate and grateful, eyes glossy. The motion is small, but it’s permission, and it makes something molten shift deeper inside you.
Toby’s face is close, warmth and breath and that wild laugh caught somewhere between fear and worship. He’s trembling—hands shaking as they find your hips, thumbs stroking, mapping, sliding up and under your shirt. He lifts his mouth and your name slips off his lips like a prayer. The sound is intoxicating. He’s pathetic on purpose: he knows that’s exactly what you want to see, and he gives it fully.
“You like the way you look when you beg?” you murmur, leaning down to press your forehead to his. “Like how it feels?.”
He swallows. His voice is a thin thing when it comes. “I—please. I like—hnngh, I like w-when you—” He breaks, breath hitching. “I like when you make me—when y-you choke me—when you sa-say those things.” His fingers curl into your hips like anchors, digging into your flesh.
You grin, and it’s all teeth. You like that he admits it. You like that he’s helpless to stop himself from wanting more, and you take your time making that want work for you. Hell, he couldn’t even cum without your help a week ago. One hand slides down his scalp, tilting his head, the other ghosts lower until the pad of your thumb brushes the tint in his jeans. He pants, a sharp, eager noise, and when you press that thumb—just a tease—he moans and jerks, hips lifting on their own.
“Good boy,” you whisper, the title slipping out like a command. “Work for me.”
He obeys like he breathes—fast. His hands grip your thighs, pull you closer, and he uses his mouth this time—not gentle, not careful, but greedy. When his lips close around your clit, and your back immediately hits the door, rattling the frame. He’s competent; his mouth knows how to coax sounds from you, how to lap his tongue through your folds, how to curl it in the right place. He sucks, he sucks hard, and you can feel it all rolling through you—the tug and the release, the heat pooling and then building again.
You press a palm flat to the crown of his head and drive him harder, encouraging, demanding, not letting him take the easy route. You want him raw, you want him ragged; you want him making up for every single ache he’s caused you. You lean your weight into him, hips rocking as his mouth works miracles, and you start to bark orders—softly but stiff.
“Faster.”
“Mhmn—” he hums, wrapping his hands behind your thighs, pulling you closer.
“Keep your eyes up, Toby.”
He answers by sinking his tongue into your cunt, forcing the muscle into the sticky sweet slick of your last arousal. His eyes flutter and roll, his nose pressing against your clit as he swallows every taste of you.
He’s shameless now, hands slamming up your thighs, hauling you closer until the pads of his fingers dig into the soft of your waist. He crushes his face between your legs, breath hot and urgent, tongue darting, exploring. When his fingers slide from your leg to between them, worming their way to your entrance with his tongue, you clench, eyes rolling with the stretch. He moans against you, the sound vibrating right up into your pelvis, and the crude, honest worship of it makes heat flare up into your throat.
You keep talking, degrading in that perfect, stinging way that makes him whine harder, do more. Each insult you throw is an instruction, each barb a route to deeper compliance.
“You want this,” you tell him, voice low and hard. “You want to be thrown around. Admit it.”
He lifts his head, face flushed, lips slick. He meets your eyes and says it plain, breathy and broken, “I wa-want you to hate me. I want you to hit me and h-hurt me.” He nods, like a man confirming the one truth he lives for.
“You don’t even—hah—even feel pain.”
“Let’s play pretend.”
That’s all you need. You press him back with a casual force, pressing down on his shoulders and forcing him flat to the floor. His back hit the wood, hoodie riding up, and you didn’t give him the chance to keep talking. You climbed over him, straddling his chest, knees planted on either side of his shoulders, the weight of you pinning him like prey.
“Shut up,” you spat, leaning forward just enough that your shadow swallowed his face. “You want to fuck me so bad? You’re gonna fucking earn it.”
Toby’s grin only widened. His hands went to your thighs automatically, not pushing, not resisting—just holding, squeezing like he was anchoring himself to you. His eyes, those wild, fractured things, were locked on your cunt hovering above him. His mouth fell open on instinct, tongue flashing out in a shaky, eager swipe across his lips.
“Fuck—look at you,” you muttered, rolling your hips forward until you sat fully on his face. His nose pressed firm against your clit, his tongue sliding up and tasting you with a hunger that sent shocks all the way down your spine. “On the floor, exactly where you belong.”
The sound he made against you was half-moan, half-chuckle, and the vibration shot straight through you. You fisted his messy curls, forcing his head back into the wood, rocking yourself harder against his mouth.
“Open wider,” you ordered, voice sharp, breath catching. “You’re gonna take every bit of me.”
He obeyed instantly, mouth parting, tongue flattening and dragging in long, desperate licks. He was sloppy, unashamed, drowning himself in you. Every time your hips rolled down, he groaned like he was savoring it, like he’d starve if you moved away. You ground against him harder, chasing the rhythm, riding his face with purpose. The slick sounds of his tongue working you filled the room, obscene and perfect. Toby’s hands clamped tight on your thighs, pulling you down harder, like he wanted to suffocate under you.
“Stupid weirdo,” you hissed between gasps, yanking his head tighter into your heat. “This is what you’ve been begging for, isn’t it? My pussy—fuck—my fucking hands on you.”
His answer was a muffled, ecstatic noise, hips bucking up from the floor uselessly. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t joke, couldn’t bite back. He could only take it—your weight, your rhythm, your degradation. He moaned into you again, and you felt the sound rip through your core.
You leaned back slightly, fingers twisted cruelly in his hair, your thighs trembling as his tongue curled just right, hitting that spot over and over. You threw your head back, breath breaking into ragged gasps, staring up at your ceiling just like you had a couple of nights ago—imagining how he would feel against you. It made your heart burn.
“God—fuck, Toby—don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He couldn’t. His mouth latched tighter, tongue flicking, sucking, devouring like it was oxygen. You rode him through it, thighs squeezing against his head, grinding down until the pleasure crested sharp and overwhelming.
When it hit again, it was violent. You clamped down around his tongue, body shuddering, a cry tearing itself from your throat as you came hard, grinding his face through the waves. Toby moaned with you, greedy for every second, every twitch, every slick pulse. The overstimulation was already building, your body growing so tried. You slumped forward on shaking thighs, chest heaving, still tugging his hair, forcing him to lap at you while aftershocks rolled through. Only when your muscles gave did you finally lift off, dragging your heat from his face and watching as he gasped for air, lips and chin wet, eyes glazed and wide.
You smirked down at him, breathless but still sharp. “Look at you. So pitiful.”
Toby laughed—hoarse, shaky, half-mad—licking his lips like he couldn’t bear to waste a single taste. “Do it again,” he begged, voice raw. “Please—ride m-me again.”
“Nah.”
Your thighs trembled as you rose off of him, knees shaky, breath uneven. Toby’s hands pawed uselessly at the floor, still reaching, still begging—but you ignored him. You staggered to your bed, hips heavy with the ache he left behind, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your burning skin, and you stretched out, lazy and languid, your feet still dangling over the edge, your back arching with the natural curl of exhaustion and satisfaction.
Behind you, you heard him scramble up—the shuffle of knees, palms on the floor, the frantic sound of him scurrying like a dog chasing its master.
“Stay.” The single command cracked through the quiet like a whip. He froze. “Don’t you fucking move.”
You didn’t need to see him to know he was obeying—you could feel the tension rolling off him, could almost taste the way he wanted to lunge forward, to drag his mouth back where it belonged. You felt his eyes bore between your legs, onto the mess he had created now cooling on your skin.
“P-Please…” Toby’s voice was a rasp, thick with need. “Please, let me—let m-me touch you—”
“I said no.”
Your words were final, and they cut. You heard him groan, guttural, muffling it into his fist. A second later, the sound of teeth scraping against knuckles filled the air—he was biting down hard just to keep himself quiet. You turned your head slightly, gaze dragging to where he stood, and what you saw made a laugh roll out of you, low and cruel.
Toby was doubled over, one hand fisting in his hoodie, the other clawing at the waistband of his jeans. The bulge strained hard and obscene against the denim, and he rocked into it like he could grind the ache away. He looked half feral, pupils blown, mouth wet, hair hanging in his face. Pathetic. Perfect.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” you teased, voice lazy with amusement. You knew it didn’t really hurt him, but he wanted to play pretend, didn’t he? “Can’t even move without thinking about me, huh?”
He groaned again, louder, his body jolting with the effort of restraint. His knuckles were slick with spit where his teeth dug in, and his free hand gripped his jeans like he could tear them open. You laughed again, sharper this time, and rolled onto your back. Your legs hung off the edge of the bed, feet brushing the floor, and you spread your knees wide, lazy and taunting. The motion was deliberate—an invitation, a cruelty, a display he couldn’t resist. It didn’t matter if he had already made you cum twice, you needed him to fuck you right now just to prove a point.
You were going to make this boy cum all by yourself. Not the idea of you, not his imagination—yourself.
“Go on, Toby,” you murmured, voice dripping with control. “Come here.”
Toby nearly tripped over himself getting to you, stepping between your dangling legs like he belonged there—like he had been waiting his whole life for it.
You leaned up onto your elbows, reaching a hand out to the edge of his waistband. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in jagged heaves as your fingers toyed with his belt, tugging it open with a cruel kind of patience. The metallic clink of the buckle rang loud in the quiet room, and Toby’s hands twitched at his sides, useless, trembling, aching to reach for you.
“Keep them there,” you warned without looking up. “If you touch me without permission, you’re done.”
He whimpered softly—pathetic and desperate—and forced his arms straight at his sides, fingers flexing, curling into fists as though nailing himself to the spot.
You unzipped his jeans with a sharp tug, knuckles brushing the hard swell pressing against the fabric. Toby hissed through clenched teeth, head falling back, the veins in his throat standing out under the dim light. You smirked, tugging the thick fabric apart, and then slid your hand under his waistband, under the last barrier.
The heat of him hit you first—feverish and pulsing. You pulled him free, and your breath caught despite yourself.
Toby’s cock was flushed, angry red, the skin tight and stretched, a bead of slick shining at the tip. His breath came out in a stutter when the cool air touched him, his thighs trembling under your gaze. He was thick in your hand, twitching, the veins standing out like cords beneath your grip. His pubic hair was just as messy and unkempt as the rest of his hair, running up in a smattered patch to his belly button, coaxing your eyes to the mouthwatering crease of his v-line.
You let go of him, rubbing that hand between your legs, wetting your hand with your own slick. Toby’s teeth practically chattered as he thrummed, watching you.
And you didn’t give him mercy. Not even a second. You dragged the same hand you’d just rubbed against your soaked core up his shaft, coating him in your slick before your fist wrapped around him fully. Toby nearly folded in half, a broken noise tearing from his throat as his knees buckled.
“Fuck—” his voice cracked.
You stroked him hard. Fast. Cruel. Your hand pumped with purpose, each stroke wet, obscene, loud in the heavy silence. His cock twitched violently in your grip, swollen and desperate, precum smearing across your knuckles as you worked him like you were wringing every ounce of need out of his body.
Toby ripped his hoodie off like it was strangling him, yanking it over his head and tossing it blindly aside. His chest was pale, scarred in streaks that caught the dim light of your room, his stomach taut and flexing with every jerk of your hand. His hair clung wild to his forehead, his lips slick, swollen, parted in ragged gasps. He looked ruined—an animal panting, feigning for you.
And fuck, you hated him. You’d always hated him. Hated the way he laughed, the way he berated you, the way he made everything harder than it had to be. But now—seeing him above you, trembling, literally begging for the mercy of your hand—something deep and feral cracked open inside you.
You tightened your grip and stroked faster.
Toby’s whole body jerked. His hands shot forward instinctively, clamping around your wrist, not to stop you, but to slow you down. His face was wrecked, eyes glassy and pleading, mouth falling open around broken words. “Please—please slow d-down—fuck, I—” He groaned, panting above you, chest heaving with every groan. “You’re—you’re gonna make me—fuck—too fast—”
Your grip went iron-tight for a moment, jerking him so hard his hips jolted forward—then you stopped. Let go.
Toby gasped, his body shuddering as the sudden loss ripped through him. His cock bobbed helplessly in the air between you, slick and flushed, veins throbbing as if the blood inside him had nowhere else to go. His chest heaved, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief.
You stared up at him, pure venom in your gaze, lips curling into a cruel little smile. “What did I say, Toby?”
His gaze shot down to where his hand still gripped yours.
“I told you not to touch me,” you hissed, shaking off his hand like it disgusted you. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? Can’t listen to anything.”
The mockery in your voice carved him open. He whined, stepping back an inch as if it physically stung, his cock twitching painfully in the air between you. Then, without warning, you sat up. Toby’s eyes darted down, confused, hopeful, but then widened when your hands went to the hem of your shirt. You peeled it off in one slow, deliberate motion, baring yourself, and tossed it carelessly aside.
His breath stuttered. He looked like you’d punched him in the gut. You leaned forward again, close enough that your breath fanned against his chest, eyes locked on his ruined face. You didn’t touch him. Not a single brush of your hand. You just sat back a little and watched. Watched as his hips twitched, as he tried to will himself not to reach for you again, as his cock leaked and throbbed helplessly, straining toward the heat of your body.
He writhed in it like it was killing him. His hands fisted at his sides so hard his knuckles cracked, his chest heaving with harsh, uneven gasps. His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. The desperation turned sharp, ragged.
“F-Fuck you,” he spat, the words rough, guttural. “You—you fucking t-t-tease—you think you’re—gah-goddamn better than me?”
You tilted your head, smirking cruelly. “I don’t have to think it.”
His huff came out half a snarl, half a whimper. He shifted on his feet, cock jerking violently, his whole body tight with the strain of keeping his hands off you.
“Don’t—don’t fucking d-do this,” he begged through gritted teeth, but even his curses broke into something needy. “Goddamn bitch—you can’t—fuck—you can’t just stop—”
“Oh, I can,” you murmured sweetly, leaning back on your elbows so your chest arched and his eyes dropped helplessly. “I told you not to touch me. You broke the rules. Now you get nothing.”
He actually growled, low in his throat, head dropping forward as he cursed again. His words were broken, a tangle of hatred and begging, teeth grinding as though if he didn’t use them to form insults, he’d cry out something weaker. “Fuck you—fuck—you’re s-so goddamn—” He groaned, thighs trembling. “Please, please—I’m begging you—don’t l-leave me like this—I’ll d-do anything—you h-hear me?”
The sound of his voice like that—shattered, strung out, caught between curses and pleas—shot straight through you. It stirred something low and hungry in your gut, made your skin prickle with heat. You smirked lazily, stretching your legs a little wider, making sure he saw everything. “You hate me so much, Toby,” you taunted, voice low, sultry. “So why are you begging me like a dog?”
He stared at you, jaw twitching with irritation. You tilted your head at him, lips curling into something cruel. His chest was heaving, his cock red and leaking, his fists trembling at his sides, and you knew he was about to break.
You dragged the knife in deeper.
“Aww,” you cooed, sliding off the edge of the mattress and rolling over onto your stomach. You crawled forward a little, your hips swaying as you moved further up the bed. Toby’s eyes followed every inch, wide and wild, his whole body shaking like an animal straining against its leash.
Then you stopped, sank down onto your elbows, your chest pressing to the sheets. You arched your back so hard it burned, your ass high in the air, cunt fluttering in time with your heartbeat. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, your voice low.
“Then come here, puppy.”
The word cracked him in half.
Toby didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up onto the bed so fast it shook under his weight, knees digging into the mattress as his hands clamped down hard on your hips. His boots scuffed the sheets, twisting them under his knees as he pressed behind you. His grip was bruising, frantic, like he thought you might slip away if he didn’t anchor you.
He slammed into you without hesitation, the force brutal and reckless. His cock drove deep, fast, urgent, and you gasped from the sharp, animalistic impact. He was panting, growling, releasing all the frustration, all the rage he’d been holding back, smashing into you like he’d intended on tearing you open.
“God—fuck!” he hissed, voice ragged, teeth clenched. “You—you’ve ruined me—stupid—fucking—”
You gritted your teeth, holding the bedspread tight, letting him feel your every shiver and thrum, every gasp and muffled cry. You pressed back against him just enough to meet each brutal thrust, riding his anger as much as he rode you. His hands clenched your hips tighter, dragging you back onto him with each slam. His motions were messy, desperate—no care for rhythm, only a need to fuck, to bury himself inside you, to release everything pent up in the past week. The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of you both, sheets twisting, skin slapping against skin.
“Yours?” you spat back, tone sharp and mocking. “You’re the one—hah—the one begging to fuck m-me—”
That stoked something further in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, reckless, as though trying to drive every ounce of need into you and make you feel his desperation. His growls turned to raw moans, voice trembling as he ground into you without restraint. One hand pressed against your back, the other gripping tight into the sheets beneath.
You could feel the stretch of him, hot and hard, sliding inside you in short, punishing jolts. Your stomach twisted, thighs pressed tight together, arching deeper with every slam, taking his animalistic pace.
The bed rocked under you, nails clawed into the sheets, every movement messy, filthy, primal. He was broken, panting, utterly at your mercy, and you turned your head to watch, smirking as he cursed and groaned, burying his face in your neck for support.
His lips found purchase, dragging wet, sloppy kisses along the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran through you, and a low, involuntary moan escaped your throat. Your hands shot up, tangling in his hair, yanking him closer to you, forcing his mouth against your skin as you pressed back against him, matching each thrust, each grind, each slick slide with your own desperate, hungry movements.
He groaned against you, teeth grazing your neck, and you bit back—literally—snapping your teeth down on his lower lip as he kissed you, mouth opening against yours in a collision of teeth and tongues. The kiss was violent, messy, consuming—an echo of the chaos that had always defined your dynamic. You shoved your body flush against him, hips rocking, back arching, dragging him as close as you could manage, fingers twisting in his hair like you were trying to tether him to you entirely.
“Fuck, I’m—” Toby rasped against your lips, breath rough, voice trembling. “I-I’m about to—shit, don’t stop—”
But you weren’t having it. Not yet. Not when you had the power, not when you could control him fully. With a sudden, deliberate push of your hips, you shoved him off of you, rolling the two of you until he landed on his back with a soft thump, sheets twisting beneath the force.
You straddled him immediately, knees planted on either side of his hips, pressing down with calculated weight. The shift of power was instant—Toby’s hands went to your hips instinctively, trying to find purchase, but you leaned back slightly, letting gravity work for you as you sank down onto him, his eyes watching as your cunt sheathed him.
“Mine,” you murmured, voice low, sharp, and all teeth and heat as you began to rock, rolling your hips forward and back with controlled, measured force. “This is mine from now on.”
He gasped, gripping your thighs, still trying to reclaim some sense of command, but you moved faster, harder, hips pushing down and pulling back like a pendulum. Toby’s head fell back against the mattress, hair tousled, lips parted in ragged moans, eyes glazed and desperate. Every thrust from you hit him with a sharp, relentless rhythm that had him gasping, shivering under your control. His hands gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin, begging, pleading, but you were merciless. You refused to move up and down, only dragging your hips back and forth, catching your clit on the tone of his pelvis.
“You like this?” you spat, leaning forward, pressing your chest against his, teeth brushing along his collarbone. “You like being mine, don’t you? Finally listening.”
“Yes! Fuck—yes!” he rasped, voice breaking, hands clinging to you. “You’re—fuck—you’re killing me—god, I’m y-yours—please—”
You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a wild, consuming kiss, tongue slipping inside to tangle with his as your hips rolled again, faster now, driving him closer to the edge.
“You whine too much, puppy.”
You leaned up slightly, pressing your palms flat against his chest, letting your fingers wander over the taut planes of his abs. The heat radiating from him was insane, skin burning, muscles tight under your touch. Slowly, you dragged your hands higher until your fingers latched onto the familiar groove of his throat—the place where all of this had started, where this little game had started between you.
Toby’s breath hitched immediately. His hands shot to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you as he thrust upward into your cunt. You gasped at the sharp, thrilling impact, the way his body forced yours down, bouncing you against him. He didn’t even hesitate—he wanted it, craved it, and he wasn’t holding back.
“Did you jerk off like this—hnngh—the first time I choked you? This fast?” you spat, voice low and sharp, watching his eyes begin to water.
“I—fuck—yes!” he rasped, tilting his head back, mouth open in ragged gasps. His hands slid higher, cupping your tits roughly, thumbs teasing, squeezing, forcing your movements to match his rhythm of jerking his hips up into you.
You grinned, biting down on your bottom lip as the chaos of it hit you. He was giving, he was taking, every motion messy, raw, and beautiful in its recklessness. You bounced down onto him, hard, each bounce of your hips shoving his cock deep, his hands clawing and forcing your body to meet his own.
“I hate you,” you hissed, brushing teeth over his collarbone, letting your grip tighten around his throat. “I hate you. I hate—hah—hate you. Fuck—don’t stop.”
Toby choked, face flushing against the grip on his neck, his breathing becoming labored. “Fu-Fuck—Fuck you bitch. Feels s-so—mmmnh—so good—” His hand reached around and slapped across your ass, grabbing the flesh in his palm and forcing your hips faster, forcing your pace to match his desperate thrusts.
You responded in kind, hitting his face with your palm once, twice, letting the sharp sting mix with the slick, hot heat between your bodies. He didn’t care. He couldn’t feel the pain, the slap, the rough hands on his chest, and it made him buck harder, moaning and growling in pure, unfiltered need. You slapped him again.
Toby’s growls turned sharp at that, low and dangerous, cutting through the thick, humid heat of the room. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, nails digging into your flesh as he thrust up against you. “You feel too fu-fucking good,” he spat, voice rough, teasingly cruel. “I’m gonna m-make you cum fi-first, bitch.”
“Oh, are you kidding?” you shot back, slamming down hard on him, hands wrapping tighter around his throat, eyes wild. “You’re gonna cum like the pathetic little pervert you are.”
His laugh was harsh, raw, vibrating against your hands. “You always h-have to—fuck—have to have a comeback—can’t j-just be quiet—”
You cut him off with another slap, your nail cutting his cheek where you hit him. A thin line of blood welled, and Toby stared at you through wide, frantic eyes. He grabbed harder, leaving dark purples across your hips and waist where his nails dug deep, tracing patterns only he could leave, marking you as his even as you marked him.
The room was chaos: skin slapping against skin, groans and curses tearing from both of you, bodies slick with sweat, hair wild and tangled, breaths ragged. Each thrust, each grind, each sharp slap or bite escalated the tension between you, a dangerous dance of dominance and pain and raw, primal need.
“C-Cum” he growled, tilting his hips, driving into you with bruising force, knocking the head of his cock against your cervix.
“Not before you,” you shot back, grinning fiercely, rolling your hips to match his pace, nails digging into the taut plane of his stomach as you leaned down to bite at his jaw, licking up his cheek to the spot you nicked him. Blood and sweat mixed, hot and sharp on your tongue, and it only pushed you both harder.
His hands dug into your thighs and waist, leaving angry red marks, dragging you down, forcing you to ride him with every ounce of strength and ferocity. You matched him blow for blow, bite for bite, scratch for scratch, until the two of you were a mess of raw, gleaming skin, bruises and blood painting the chaos of your struggle.
“I’m—fuck, Toby—fuck I’m coming—” you cried, digging your nails into his chest.
He whined, staring at the heavy way your eyes looked, his beginning to flutter shut. “Mhm—I c-can’t—hnn, I can’t stop—I’m gonna—”
Teeth sank, nails scraped, hips slammed, and finally the tension broke in a violent, shuddering peak. You both came together, voices strangled, wet, raw, bodies shaking, muscles trembling, bruised and marked and utterly wrecked. He snapped his hips one final time, and your cunt clenched against him so hard you felt the way he pulsed inside you. Every rope of hot cum filling you, claiming you. You milked every drop from him.
You collapsed against him, chest pressed to his, hearts pounding in furious synchrony. His breath came in ragged gasps, head tilted to the side, lips red, eyes glazed. You looked at him, smirk twisting across your lips even through the haze of post-climax heat.
“You’re disgusting,” you murmured, voice low, laced with satisfaction.
“And you’re worse,” he shot back, voice hoarse, smiling anyway despite the blood and mess.
For a moment, the fire between you softened just enough to let something else creep in. Your lips met his, sharp at first, teeth grazing, tasting the sweat and salt—but then, slower, gentler. The anger and frustration that had fueled you for the past two weeks melted, just for a second, into something almost tender. You kissed him, ignoring the slick heat still clinging to your thighs, the marks you’d left on each other, the bruises that would ache for days.
When you finally pulled back, your chest heaving, you allowed yourself a smirk, wet and satisfied. Slowly, achingly slow, you sat up, straddling him for one last lingering moment. He watched as your hips rose, his hands brushing your knees as you pulled him out, hissing at the tug before the final pop.
You felt the warmth slipping down your thighs immediately, his cum and your arousal making your cunt uncomfortably warm and sticky. You groaned.
“Fuck you,” you hissed, hitting his chest, Toby’s eyes nearly damn sparkling at the sight of his cum dripping out of you.. “You really are a damn dog.”
You collapsed onto the bed next to him, letting your arms fall across your chest. Your foot connected sharply with his side in a lazy, spiteful push. “Go away,” you muttered, tone sharp but breathless, still buzzing from the aftermath.
Toby groaned softly, but he didn’t move. Instead, he kicked his boots off with a quick, clumsy motion, then tugged the remnants of his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, surprised how they had managed to still stay on at all. He tossed them onto your floor. His eyes flicked to yours—but there was no pleading, no frantic edge this time.
Without a word, he crawled up next to you, chest brushing yours, arm draping loosely over your waist. You flinched slightly at the contact, the lingering warmth between you both still slick and potent, but the anger had faded into something heavy, intimate. Tense. The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and the raw, unspoken agreement that had finally, messily, solidified between you.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. You could feel him, warm and pressed against your side, heartbeat rattling in sync with your own. Your hands twitched, itching to push him away or move out of his reach—but instead, you let the silence settle, letting his arm lay limp across your waist.
Toby shifted slightly beside you, his fingers rubbing against your skin absentmindedly, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You know,” he muttered, voice low and tired, “I re-really don’t like being c-called a dog.”
You arched an eyebrow, smirking, reaching for your pillows and placing one under your head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t beg me like one.”
He rolled his eyes, but his gaze stayed locked on yours, sharp and intense, and you felt a flutter in your stomach you hadn’t expected. “Stop staring at me like that,” you said quickly, voice catching slightly. “You’re being weird. Go back to your own room already befo—”
He cut you off with a soft chuckle, leaning a little closer. “Can I k-kiss you again?” His tone was cautious, different from the heated demands of earlier, almost vulnerable.
Your heart thumped, and you stared at him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth, searching for something you couldn’t quite name. The air between you thickened, tense and electric.
Finally, you shook your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I hate you, Toby. That’s not going to change,” you said, flat but not cruel, voice almost a whisper.
Toby’s smile widened, slow and knowing, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Then hate me,” he murmured softly, leaning in.
And then he kissed you. Not hot, not frantic, not messy and angry like before—just a kiss. Soft, slow, a quiet brush of lips, a grounding anchor in the aftermath of a hurricane. It was a moment of connection, a fleeting affirmation that despite the violence, the teasing, and the mess of the past weeks, there was… something between you. Affection, of a sort neither of you had admitted until now. A weird type of longing.
When you pulled back, your foreheads brushed together for a second, eyes flicking to one another with something like understanding. No words were needed—just the weight of what had passed, and the subtle promise that, messy and complicated as it was, this was far from over.
But then you palmed his face, pushing his head away from you with a grin. He smiled against your hand, kissing it, too. His arm around your hip pulled you closer, and if you leaned into it, that’s nobody’s business but your own.
── .✦
The mission site was scattered with debris, slick blood, and the lingering metallic tang that you knew you’d have to clean up. The proxies moved efficiently, hauling bodies, wiping down surfaces, and gathering evidence, but you and Toby, as usual, couldn’t go five minutes without trading insults.
“God, you’re useless at this,” you snapped, throwing a wet rag at him that stunk of bleach and vinegar.
“I’m sorry Ms. Fucking Perfect, d-do it your damn self,” he shot back, voice sharp. You both glared at each other, daring the other to keep going.
Masky groaned behind you, rubbing his temples. “Are we still on about this? Just clean the goddamn blood.”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you stood and grabbed Toby by the arm mid-retort and yanked him up, dragging him with you. Masky shouted something, but you were already climbing the stairs and dragging him to the first storage closet you saw. His eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react further, you shoved the door closed behind him.
He barely had a moment to process before his hands were on you, lips crashing against yours in a fast, rough kiss. His tongue darted in, claiming, and your hands tangled up into his hair as he slid one hand down the front of your pants, fingers immediately finding their mark and pressing against your aching clit.
You gasped into the kiss, teeth clashing against his in a way that was half challenge, half need. His other hand clutched at your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, the chaos of the mission, the others, the world outside that small, cramped closet, ceased to exist.
And in that moment, you realized just how much had shifted between the two of you.
The bickering, the arguing, the constant pushing each other’s buttons—it was all still there. You still drove him insane, and he still managed to get under your skin in ways no one else could. But instead of letting it spill over, instead of making everyone else deal with the fallout, you’d found a… solution.
You snuck off during missions, hearts racing, to bite, lick, and fuck the tension out of each other. After dinner, when the others were distracted, one of you would find the other and drag them to some quiet area of the mansion and use their hands on the other, letting the frustration and irritation turn into heat that left you both gasping and sticky. At night, sneaking into each other’s rooms to whisper insults, spurring the other on just so they’d grab you and fuck you through the mattress. During missions, your trips taking longer because you’d have to stop and fight over who was going to give the other head first.
It was messy. It was reckless. It was everything the two of you had always been—and now, for the first time, it was satisfying. The anger became fuel, the hate became lust, and the fights that had once been a thorn in everyone else’s side became an intimate, electric game of control, dominance, and pure, unfiltered need.
And even as you found yourself pressed against him in this closet, hands gripping, hips sliding together, teeth clashing, gasps mingling with curses, you couldn’t help but smile.
Eventually, the door clicked open, and you both staggered out, breath still ragged, hands sticky, hair wild, but the world had resumed its usual pace. Toby followed a step behind, straightening his hoodie, adjusting his belt, hands now conspicuously idle. You fixed your hair, wiping the slick from your lips, tugging your shirt back down.
Without a word, the two of you fell back into your roles, hauling gear, wiping surfaces, and cleaning up the aftermath like the chaos of a few minutes ago had never existed. You moved in tandem with him only because necessity demanded it, but there was a subtle electricity in the air, just enough that you both noticed—but neither spoke of it.
Masky and Hoodie exchanged a look across the room, each raising an eyebrow. Hoodie whispered something inaudible, and Masky shook his head, muttering, “I don’t care. They’re quiet.” They were confused, but grateful that the usual bickering had been replaced by quiet efficiency. They didn’t care how it got to that point.
Kate leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes. She watched as you and Toby moved through the cleanup with the barest hint of coordination, eyes occasionally flicking toward each other in a way that suggested familiarity… maybe even fondness, if one squinted.
Sliding closer to you as you scrubbed a particularly messy patch of floor, she whispered, teasing, “What’s changed? I didn’t know you started liking him.”
You froze mid-swipe, wiping at the surface with one hand, and let your gaze drift lazily toward Toby. He was kneeling a few feet away, straightening a chair, annoyed and fidgeting as usual, completely oblivious to Kate’s question.
A slow, amused smirk curved your lips. “Nah,” you said, voice light as you stared at him. “I hate that boy.”
Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
Pairings: Yeon Sieun, Ahn Suho, Oh Beomsoek, Park Humin (Baku), Go Hyuntak (Gotak), Seo Juntae Geum Seongje, Na Baekjin x reader (all fluff)
Author's note: I've started watching Weak Hero and all the boys are so cute, I wanted to try my hand at writing some headcanons for them 💞 let me know if you think I should write more 🌸
Yeon Sieun
- Sieun spends weeks trying to convince himself not to ask you out. That it would just be a distraction, or worse, a detriment to your friendship. It's only when he realises he has absolutely no choice, because of how much of his time he spends with his thoughts wandering aimlessly to you with nothing he can do to stop them, that he decides to make a plan.
- He keeps a mental note of the times of day you seem happiest, wanting to catch you in the best possible mood and help his chances of a positive outcome to his question. You notice him lingering a little more closely than usual, thinking it's just his protective streak shining through, or his unusual way of growing closer with people.
- Eventually he catches you on a Friday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky on the kind of perfect day that just makes everyone smile. Except for Sieun, who looks positively alarmed as he gives you a small wave with one hand, a delicate bunch of flowers clutched in the other. He extends them to you in his signature silence before softly asking if you want to do something together over the weekend, as a date. He's careful to get the word date in there, to make sure there's no room for you to misinterpret his feelings.
- When you smile and nod, he feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest, thanking you for your time and hurrying home to plan the most statistically perfect first date possible with a subtle smile twitching across his lips.
Ahn Suho
- You and Suho are so used to spending time together that it makes asking you on a date strangely difficult. You don't bat an eye when he invites you to come eat dinner with him at the end of his shift, or to spend an evening riding on the back of his moped and helping him get less lost as he makes deliveries, so how can he make it clear that what he's asking now is different to all that.
- It's obvious that something's on his mind as he stands in your doorway that night, delivering your favourite food, despite you not placing an order for it. When you ask him what's wrong he starts by brushing it off, making a joke about how nothing's wrong when he's with you.
- When you roll your eyes at his terrible attempt at flirting, you notice he looks so much more serious than usual as he speaks, steadying himself with a deep breath before crossing the invisible boundary of your friendship and reaching his hand out to gently grasp yours.
"The next time we eat together, it's my treat. Because it's a date, okay?"
He's not so much asking your permission, as telling you the way he feels, and waiting to see how you react. Luckily, as soon as you agree all the tension in his body releases as he starts practically vibrating on the spot, pulling you into a hug before he realises he needs to get back to work!
Oh Beomsoek
- Poor sweet Beomsoek would need you to put in most of the work for him to ever feel ready to ask you out. He just can't picture a reality where you'd want him in the same way he wants you, that you'd choose him over any of the guys he's sure you could have if you wanted.
- It's obvious how deep his insecurities run when your friendship with him deepens, the way his eyes light up in pure surprise every time you ask him a question, or acknowledge his existence, his whole face beaming when you make sure he's included in yours and your friends' plans
- It might feel tough given how shy he can be, but you'd need to dial up the flirting to make it clear that you're expecting him to ask you out - make a point of inviting him to sit next to you and then bump your knee against his, ask to hold his hand when you're walking down the steep hill outside your school, and send him lots of texts and selfies when things remind you of him. Eventually, even Beomsoek will realise he's in way too deep not to at least try and take you on a date.
- Definitely feels more confident behind a phone than in person, so would ask you out via a message that he types and re-types a hundred times to try and get the wording perfect, forcing himself to hit send before he chickens out entirely. And when you react with a little heart emoji, he'll spent the next hour smiling at the screen and blushing like all his dreams have come true.
Park Humin (Baku)
- Baku is so sure that you're meant to be together, that he feels like asking you out is just a formality. Instead, he's the type of guy that just starts spending more and more time around, trying to show you how good of a boyfriend he'd be to help influence your decision when the time comes for him to suggest a date.
- You two would be friends anyway, but you'll notice that he starts spending way more time with his arm draped over your shoulder, walking close by your side every second the two of you are together, no matter who else is around. At even the slightest breeze, he's holding out his jacket for you to thread your arms through, and now your phone is getting a near constant stream of his thoughts and memes and anything else he can justify sending you to make sure you're thinking about him as much as he thinks about you. He'll even make a joke about how offended he is that he isn't your lock screen, insisting on taking a bunch of selfies together so you can use one and then send him one to match.
- Eventually after a couple of weeks of this act, long enough that half the school thinks you're already together, he'd casually announce that it's probably time you two made this thing official, and asks if he can take you out this weekend. He's exuding confidence as he speaks, but you can tell from his puppy dog eyes that this man would drop to his knees and beg if it meant you'd say yes.
Go Hyuntak (Gotak)
- Like Sieun, Gotak would start off just desperately wishing his feelings would go away, and being almost annoyed by how much he likes you and how many times a day he finds himself thinking about you and smiling out of nowhere. Matters would only get worse when he tries to ask Baku for advice and now has to deal with his best friend constantly poking him whenever you enter a room, and watching his chest tighten in response.
- If it had been before the injury to his knee, maybe Gotak would have been confident that you'd say yes when he asked you out, but now he's not sure how much he has to offer, or if you'll even think he's someone worth considering. He's not really the type of guy to gradually build up a friendship with you either, noticing you a few times and already trusting his gut that he knows enough about you to feel this way.
- He'd be so direct and straightforward when he asked you out, looking almost grumpy about the situation as he stands in front of you in an uncomfortable position of vulnerability. It would definitely be a surprise considering you've only hung out a couple of times, maybe exchanged a few smiles, but when you agree to go out with him, his cool guy facade would immediately drop and he'd start smiling like a little kid, telling you how much fun this was going to be.
Seo Juntae
- Juntae is a lot braver than most people give him credit for, and when he sets his mind to something, he's going to do his best to make it happen. So when he falls head over heels in love with you, he's going to make a plan to at least try and win you over.
- It starts casual, making sure he talks to you at least once a day - maybe just saying 'hi' with a sweet smile when you pass him in the hall, or talking about the weather at first. Then he moves to more personal stuff, still subtly though. He'll tell you that your outfit reminds him of something from a manga, and then ask you if you read any. He'll say he can't decide what snack to get, asking your favourite and then getting you one as well. Over time he gets a clearer picture of you as person, and every new bit of information just makes him more determined to ask you out, even if it leads to rejection.
- By the time his actions (and feelings) become obvious, he's moved onto giving you compliments and asking if you remembered to bring an umbrella today or if you want him to walk you home so you can share him. If you were to call him out on his flirting, he'd just grin and hide his face in shyness, but never deny it. Thankfully, you won't have the chance, because as soon as he's sure he can do it without making you uncomfortable, he'll be asking you on a date.
- He won't care if your friends are nearby and could potentially hear you reject him, and he'd make it very clear that there's absolutely no pressure because he has also really enjoyed becoming your friend more and more recently, but as soon as you see his sweet little smile you know you'll never be able to say no to him.
Geum Seongje
- While most of the boys in this group might end up overthinking asking you out, Seongje is an absolute under-thinker. He'd meet you once, like your vibe and then the second you make him laugh he'd make up his mind.
- Definitely the kind of guy who tells you when you're going out with him, rather than asking if you want to. You'd just get a DM from him out of nowhere with a time and a day, telling you to be ready for him to take you out.
- When he shows up at your door, never explaining how he knows where you live, and he sees that you took his text seriously, opening your door looking even prettier than he remembered, it would just boost his confidence more, his fingers threaded through yours before you're even off your porch.
Na Baekjin
- He's calculating and methodical with everything he does, and asking you out is no exception. He'd wait until he's studied you closely enough that he's confident your feelings align with his own, carefully studying your social media to work out the best date options and gifts he could bring to guarantee this goes well for you both.
- It's be almost intimidating as he calls you into his little office at the bowling alley, shutting the door behind you before presenting you with a drink from your favourite café, stating calmly that he'd like to the two of you to visit it together at the weekend as a date.
- His face is completely unreadable as his unblinking gaze waits for your response, just the slightest twinkle of joy in his eye as you nod your head and agree that would be nice. If you're really lucky, on the date itself he might actually smile for you, but when he does it's very worth the wait.
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𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıllı.ılı Habit/Evan x GN! Reader ıılıı.lllııılı.
"She’s My Collar - Gorillaz ft. Kali Uchis ⋅" ★
𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻
W/C: 4.2k // Summary: How Habit would romance you !! Both SFW & NSFW HC’s included !!
Tags: Marking, biting, canon level violence, pet play, slight dub-con, he’s manipulating you but lovingly (kind of), and Habit’s very questionable code of ethic’s
A/N: HE WONT LEAVE MY BRAIN. It’s so bad, but anyway !! ENJOYYY !! ^3^
𝐃𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐮𝐨 ➽──────────────❥
Why Do You & Him Work? ✰ .ᐟ
Habit’s view of you is… interesting, to say the least. He is sadistic and full of malice to his very core, and there is nothing on earth that could change that fact. Not even you.
However, the way he goes about it is different when it comes to you. For whatever reason, you fascinate him, enthral him in a weird, kind of useless way. And because of that, everything he does to you is increased tenfold on his behalf.
In his head, tugging your hair and hearing you yelp is equivalent to gutting someone and hearing them scream. Both acts give him the same amount of pleasure, and if they were put on a physical scale, they would be even.
Habit is basically micro-dosing on your suffering. If he wanted to chain you up somewhere, torture you with different knives, and break your spirit after months of psychological warfare- he would. It wouldn’t even make him blink, and he’d do it in a heartbeat if he had an itch that day.
The thing is, he just doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t need to. Doesn’t have to go to extremes to get that rush. He can get the same feeling that comes with stripping the humanity away from some poor civilian- from simply knocking a drink out of your hand.
Tripping you just enough to make you stumble forward, or giving you a forehead flick hard enough for you to scowl. Push his hand away with an irritated whine, and he’ll laugh. Not because this is a cute couple moment, but because you’re mad at him. You, in that moment, were irritated.
He can see it on your face, the way your expression contorts in annoyance and disdain. That is what gives him his rush.
In any other situation, you would’ve been long dead. It’s something not even he understands, whether by coincidence or sheer luck- he doesn’t get the urge to maim and slaughter when he looks at you.
And he found out with time that he couldn’t keep you constantly unhappy either.
After a period of persistently doing things that he knew you’d hate, he found himself strangely bored. Yet, he still didn’t want to kill you, even the idea of it seemed bland to him.
Therefore, hatched Habit’s Plan of trial and error.
He’d tried being consistently an asshole, so what if he was consistently decent? Well, by his standards, anyway. Weeks of him sparing you the tiniest speck of the bare minimum- and he was still bored.
He debated psychological torture, but eventually settled on trying the half-and-half method first. And that right there was his sweet spot.
He’d be good to you one day, then shove you around the next. It was a guessing game, and that’s what made it fun for him. Never going too far, because once again, he didn’t need to. It’d be pointless.
A waste of time to push you past your breaking point, and then your dynamic with him would change. Which meant your reactions would change, and he couldn’t have that, now could he?
ᯓ★
𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐳𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 ➽────────❥
How Do You Fit Into His World? ✰ .ᐟ
Meeting you on a whim, he had just decided he liked you. Maybe it was your tone, or your nervous fidgets, but none of that mattered. His sights were set on you; that had to mean something. A once-in-a-millennium chance, you were his since you’d gained a heartbeat.
Habit, in no way, shape, or form, believes you are his equal. That being said, what he feels for you is as close to “fondness” as he could ever possibly get.
He doesn’t experience emotion the way humans do. Habit physically does not possess the capability to care about anything or anyone more than he cares for you. It’s simply that his “love” will always be different from what you are used to.
If everyone on earth were a bug, or critter to crush and pick apart- you would be his pet rabbit.
An animal, sure, but one that was taken care of. Chosen, in a sense. He thinks -knows- you’re not the same as him. On the same level as him, but he sort of likes that about you. It’s not your fault you were born with a stupid human brain, with your weak body and fragile mind.
The way people look at dogs. They could mourn their dogs, grieve and love their dogs- but at the end of the day. To most, they are still dogs.
You don’t really ask your puppy if he wants a blue collar; you give it to him and expect him to like it. Because he doesn’t know better, because he is an animal. And you are the one holding the leash.
Still, despite knowing he is technically useless, you keep him anyway. Throw things like cheese slices at his face, and find joy in his distress. In the grand scheme of things, it’s harmless.
He’s only panicked because he doesn’t understand. He is only a puppy, after all. It’s endearing when he does dumb things, so naive to everything, it’s as charming as it is pitiful.
That is exactly how Habit sees you, how he digests your ‘relationship.’
You’re free to call him your boyfriend- he doesn’t care. It’s a word; it means nothing to him. It just appears to please you, and he needs balance for when he inevitably pisses you off again, so have at it.
He doesn’t think about the romance aspects of it; he just does things because you’ve talked about them. And it’s not like he minds seeing you enjoy yourself; you are still his pet bunny. And that means he has to pamper you at least a little.
Just like with animals, you can’t always neglect and shun them away with cruelty. Or else they’ll turn aggressive or mute.
The choices were: withering away from mental strain far too heavy for their minds to handle, or start biting the hand that feeds.
Either way, it was incredibly stale. Repetitive and bleak, the only reason it’s fun to mess with animals is because of the change. Your empty-headed pet wobbles adorably like a newborn deer, all because you’d sprayed water on the floor. You’ll scoop the thing up and console it softly. Even though you’re the one at fault.
Habit does the same with you, and it works without fail every time. He’ll yank on your hair, pinch your ass as you walk past, or randomly insult you vaguely. Then, when you turn around to yell at him or cry- he’ll kiss you.
The rare display of initiated affection stuns you, and you get that stupid little expression on your face. Lips parted, with your pupils dilated. Hands pawing at his chest with your dumb doe eyes. He has so much power over your subconscious, it’s comical. He finds it almost… cute. Almost.
ᯓ★
𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 ➽────────────❥
Love Languages & What They Mean To Him ✰ .ᐟ
Technically, he doesn’t have one. He more so just adapts to be whatever to appease you. But if we get down to the nitty-gritty, it’s acts of service and physical touch.
Habit would never vocalize what he wanted from you in your non-typical relationship; he simply takes things and expects you to memorize why.
Acts of service for him work slightly differently. Usually, people do these meaningful services for their partners without them having to ask, but with Habit’s “lifestyle.” That has often proven itself to be quite difficult; on top of that, he’d rather tell you what to do straight up.
If you want to be a good little bunny, you’ll wait for him to give you a direct order. It’s easier that way, then you can do your stupid couple shit, and he gets what he wants.
In return, you get affection.
He’s not cuddly, but head pats are decently frequent. They’re fast and require little to no effort, and they also seem to boost your mood quite quickly. So, win-win.
If you’re too down in the dumps for his liking- bad day and you are not giving him the right reactions, he knows he has to replenish your brain before doing what he wants to do. Pets are so fickle.
You’re sleepy, and sad, and not looking at him because you’re too busy being boring. He’ll slide up next to you on the couch, tutting under his breath, annoyed. Why aren’t you being all weird and touchy like usual?
Then it hits him- rabbits are fucking stupid. And can never solve their own problems. Which means he has to use his secret weapon, his never-failing, mighty trump card.
Bringing up a hand, he’ll start by brushing back the strays covering your face. Running his fingers through the strands before settling a large palm on your head. Ruffle your hair, and like the simple-minded thing you are, you’ll giggle. Does it with a straight face, too. He already knows it’ll work.
As expected, you throw yourself at him with a whine of his name. Start clinging to him as you usually do, and he’ll groan like you’ve burdened him. That’s a part of the act, though. All to see how your face twists up this time.
Habit doesn’t initiate domestic affection unless it’s strategic. However, he won’t stop you if you do.
If he’s not busy, you’re free to hold his hand, hang off of his arm, or hug him from behind. He isn’t excited, exactly, but he knows you need it.
That your little bunny brain will get sulky if he doesn’t let you cling to him, so he’ll roll his eyes and keep you close. For the sake of balance, your low can’t really be a low unless you’ve soared, right?
He doesn’t need rest the way you do. Your problem? You loved to nap and sleep.
Curl up in a sunspot under the windowsill, snoring the day away. That made it easy to keep you satisfied, though. So really, he couldn't complain.
Habit also has a habit of pinching your cheeks. A drive-by face squish, and he’ll walk off like he was never there to begin with. It worsens when you’re sappy or you’ve dressed up for him. Rambling about some cheesy date you planned.
It makes his hands twitch. Initially, he thought you’d invoked wrath in him the way everyone else did- but picturing it didn’t feel as good as he’d thought. He grabbed your head like a basketball. Shaking you a little seemed to do the trick.
That feeling is recurrent, though, much to his chagrin. When your eyes get big, and you stare at him like he’s hung the stars in your name. How foolish of you to believe he could ever love at all.
You’ll cuddle up to him, kiss his jaw, and laugh. He doesn’t know why you get away with doing these things; to this day, he still hasn’t figured it out.
But he’ll let you anyway, and he’ll keep letting you until you leave this earth once and for all.
Just because.
ᯓ★
𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐦 ➽──────────────❥
The Down & Dirty ✰ .ᐟ
Kinks on kinks, you think he has a problem. When you had told him you were ready for sex- his entire face lit up like a child on Christmas day. Running his tongue along his teeth as he pinned you beneath him, chuckling at every sound you made.
“What? Somethin’ bothering you? Don’t tell me you’re brain dead already.”
Mocking, while he pounded roughly into you. Habit degrades like no one's business, calling you a dumb whore for letting him have you like this. His hips are even meaner than he is, snapping against your ass, his hand pressing your back into a crystalline arch.
Spits on your tongue when you open your mouth to beg for mercy. A real nasty bastard too, thumb digging into the fat of your ass and fucking you from behind. He’ll spread you, roar with laughter when you whine about being embarrassed.
Tell him not to look, and he’ll make you take it over the mirror. Thrives off your humiliation, when you’re so far gone you can’t even speak. Leaving welts on your thighs, bruises in the shape of his hands- he loves it all. Branding you to the point it’s undeniable.
“Keep it in your mouth or I’ll break you, understand?”
Control, control, control. Habit gets off on authority, being able to see step by step how you submit is one of his favourite parts. That being said, he’ll make you do nearly gross and impossible tasks, and half the time, he knows you’ll lose.
Uses your throat and orders you not to swallow, and he’ll edge you for hours. Expects you to keep your mouth shut, hold his cum on your tongue while he plays with you to his heart's content. He’ll flip you suddenly, press your ankles by your ears, and fuck his whole weight into you.
Habit will shove his fingers under your tongue, mixing the saliva and seed together with a smile on his face. Prodding around your mouth, toying with you just so you gag- it feels borderline violating.
If you succeed, he’ll throw your legs over his shoulders, fill you to the brim as you claw at the sheets. Going until you pass out, round after round, you barely remember your own name by the end. The pleasure is ruthless and never-ending, you cum so hard it hurts, and he’s still not done.
If you fail, well. Better pray you don’t, because the sadistic side he hides (well enough) from you finally has the chance to shine. He’ll force you to ride him, refusing to lift a finger while you do the work. Pinching you hard enough to bruise, and he’s very cruel about it.
Buys you plugs to tug on, accessories, and collars for you to crawl around in.
“Move your hips, cotton tail- you wanna’ see what happens if I have to tell you again?”
Watches you bounce, desperately chasing your release. Salt streaming down your cheeks as you hiccup, you’ll claw at his bare chest, pleading for anything. It’s been over four hours, and he hasn’t let you cum once.
Making you rock your hips on shaky legs, and he’s lying comfortably below you. Arms over his head and tucked under the pillow.
Then he’ll abruptly plant his feet firm and slam you down. The pace he sets whites out your vision entirely, you’re drooling so much it dribbles onto his skin. You can’t talk, can’t think, letting out nothing but breathy little “Ah-ah-ah-”s. Your limbs go limp, and you collapse; it makes him snort.
Body jolting with each thrust, all you can do is lie there and take it. Being stretched open on his cock over and over again. It’s not his fault, you just look best when you’re crying, pretty with fat tears collecting at your lashes.
Ripe enough to eat.
ᯓ★
𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤 ➽──────────────❥
The Aftercare ✰ .ᐟ
Surprising everyone, Habit does not just throw a rag at you and call it a day. He’s not the most tender lover, but he is aware enough to understand the toll that it would take on your psyche. After he nearly kills you with his dick, he’ll groom you the way kittens do.
That’s how he justifies the care in his head. He is being a good owner and fulfilling his role well. If he doesn’t, he’ll have broken you beyond repair, and that would make him irresponsible.
The mortal mind is pathetically weak; if he doesn’t offer you at least something to hold onto, you’ll freeze up.
Retreat into your thoughts and dissociate more and more with time. Then he’d lose you, no more reactions, no more fun. You’d be a walking corpse with no purpose. Useless to him, and he was very doubtful that he’d find another “You.”
Wiping down your legs half-heartedly, just enough that your skin is less sticky. And he almost one-hundred-percent made you cry, making the chemicals in your brain swan dive when he got off of you.
This is when you’re the most fragile. The most moldable, which means he has to be careful. Skin on skin is an easy option, in his opinion; he doesn’t need to do much except lie you down on his chest. It also works the fastest when he pushes you slightly too far.
Your full body trembles, not fading completely when he finishes cleaning you- and he knows he’s overwhelmed you. That he’s been too mean.
Still hiccuping quietly, he’ll gather you up in his arms, holding you flush. Have you listen to his heartbeat till your breathing evens out.
Habit isn’t the greatest at comfort; the best you’ll get is a mumbled “Stop crying, you’re acting like I fucking hate you or something.” Or “I’m here, you’re fine.” As he trails his touch over the purple that blooms across your flesh.
It’s the softest he’ll ever get. The most genuine he’ll ever be.
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
Now Playing: Friday, March 28th. Approximately 12:48 AM. ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯
On his third victim of the night, with dark red splattered up his forearms, when you knock on the basement door. It was almost one in the morning, so why the fuck were you awake?
Straightening up, he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. Sighing, “Sorry, I gotta’ get that- would you mind holding on?” And he’s sure the guy would respond if he could.
Tied to a chair, with a hunting knife, struck right through his left thigh. His mouth duct-taped as he sobbed, pathetic. Not your kind of pathetic, yours was easy on the eyes- and this fucker was one unfortunate-looking son of a bitch.
Made him miss you just a little.
Snickering, he raises his leg, bringing it down with a hard stomp on the handle of the blade. The metal pierces bone with a grotesque crunch, and the guy wails. Choking on his own tears and vomit. Ah, like music to his ears, can life really get better than this?
Upstairs, on the other side of the door, you shifted weight from foot to foot, the cold of the hardwood seeping through your fuzzy socks. A soft pout on your lips when you hear the latch click. Glancing up, you met eyes.
Habit slouched against the frame, his black tee slightly damp from exertion. With his cap still on, and scarlet flicked across his face, you’ve never wanted to cuddle more.
He always looked so silly after his weird Halloween stunts that were never on Halloween.
Your boyfriend was a weird guy. He had the strangest hobbies, with a taste for fake blood and getting on your nerves. But you still loved him; his gnarled appearance had grown on you over time.
Mysterious as ever, he cocked his head to the side with a grin. Canines gleaming in the low light of the hall, he reminded you of a wolf. “Hey, cotton tail, whatcha’ doin’ out of bed?” And his nicknames were pretty funny too, always a different variety of the bunny category when he addressed you.
Rubbing your eye, you yawned. “I got cold, and I missed you. Are you almost done with your project? I wanna cuddle tonight.”
So naive, idiotic even. He liked to test you, walk the line of your trust. See how far he could go with this “eccentric hobbiest” act.
Humming, he tapped his chin in thought, “Oh, I don’t know... Mm, give me five minutes, and I’ll show you something really fun, how’s that?” Cheerful, and you nodded, a gentle smile on your lips. God, he could squeeze you to death.
Closing the cellar door, he descended the steps, whistling. The other man seemed somehow even more distraught. Apparently, knowing “help” was just out of reach could really sadden a guy, you know?
Crouching down in front of the chair, he yanked out the serrated knife in one move. His victim flailed in agony, and he laughed. “My baby loves props, so I gotta’ bring out the good stuff- you get it.” Shrugging, he rose, gripping the man's jaw firmly.
Blade in the other hand, Habit aimed the pointed edge right under his brow. Sinking the metal in, the flesh pierced with a pop. Muscles and veins snapping as he carved around the socket, finally letting the knife clatter to the ground when the organ had sufficiently loosened.
He pushes his thumb into the weeping cavern and hooks it beneath the optic nerve. Pulling the eyeball out with a swift tug. The tendons ripped easily, and he’d successfully removed the damn thing.
“Would you look at that, clean cut and everything. You’re lucky I’m fucking good at this.” Waving the gory sphere in front of the man's face, Habit reclined to admire his handy work.
Tossing it in the air, he spun on his heel, hopping back up the steps two at a time. And when he opened the door, you were still there. Now, sitting with your legs crossed on the floor, blanket tossed over your shoulders.
You were such a fascinating pet, he technically didn’t ask you to stay- yet you did. You always did make it easier for him; maybe he should reward you tonight. Kneeling before you, Habit held his hands behind his back. “You ready, bonbon?” Excitement oozed off of him, antsy to see if you’d splinter.
“Mhm.” With that, he whips a hand out, holding it up to you.
An insanely detailed and realistic eyeball was not what you were expecting.
Grimacing, you whined, pushing his arm away. “Habit- I know you think it’s super cool, and I think you’re really talented. But it’s so real looking, and it’s creeping me out.” You wrapped the fluffy duvet tighter around you.
Sometimes, you felt mean about not being that into it- it’s just that gore made your stomach queasy.
You were endlessly entertaining, he thinks. Continuing to shove it near you until you squeaked, cringing and swatting at his hand. Only letting up when you pouted, dropping your fists to your sides.
His face lit up with glee, and he snickered. “Such a baby, fine.” Rolling his eyes playfully, he stood. You really did trust him, huh?
Your mental so delicate, the idea of violence had your gut churning. He’s doing you a favour by sticking around; you literally wouldn’t last a second out there.
He finishes up quickly, dumping the carcass into a large freezer to deal with another day. And when he finally reached his bedroom, you were already snug as a bug. Blinking at him innocently from above the covers.
Such a stupid rabbit, yet his all the same.
Throwing on a fresh t-shirt, he crawled on top of you. The sheets pushed down along the way, so you could “Feel him.” You’d complained about it prior, and you had been good today. Habit was feeling generous.
Shifting, he slipped his arms under you, lying on you, and enveloping your entire frame. He felt like a weight blanket. You exhaled, content and warm. While you slept in his bed often, he was usually up and about. Tinkering with his assortment of weapons he’d collected, or spending his night in the basement.
You’ve never been down there; apparently, it was way too dangerous. Sharp objects and gadgets astray, it was simply too risky, he’d told you. He may have been different than the average lover, but he took care of you, and that was enough. Paid attention to little details, doing things without ever bringing them up.
Breathing in deeply, he nosed at your throat. The sensation had you huffing out a quiet laugh- the soft moment ruined when he bit down. Hard.
You yelped, jolting from the sharp pain. “Habit!” And he kisses the spot to soothe you.
Sniggering, “What? You gonna’ cry?” Sometimes, -and you don’t know how- you forget how much of an asshole he is. “You’re so mean to me.”
That had him pulling back, his arms caging your head. “Nah, I’m not. Trust me, because if I were-” dipping lower, he rested his forehead on yours.
“You wouldn’t be here, bonbon.”
Grin just a tad too sharp, he stared at you. Whatever that means. Raising a brow at him, you smacked your lips together. “Right?” He doesn’t know how you do it, so mundane, yet he can’t get enough. Perhaps it’s because he knows that you’re unaware, or that you’re moronic enough to brush off his threats. Either way, how fun.
He snorts, burying his face back into your neck. You’ve entertained him plenty, so he’ll let you rest, gifting you his intimacy. As close as he could get to it, anyway. This wasn’t awful; you were soft, weak. Comfortable to lie on, and completely vulnerable in this state. Unguarded, and leaving him to protect you.
Like a plush bear with feelings, how quaint. Far too giving, far too gentle, and faithful to the very end.
Yes, what a perfect rabbit to keep.
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
➽──────────────❥
A/N: OMFG all I do is think about him it’s so TERRIBLE T3T but babygirl Habit #canon :ppp
꣑ৎ― all characters depicted are 18 years or older consenting adults. │ wc: 2,5k
cw (please read & proceed with caution): adult content / s*xual themes / consensual adult intimacy / fluff / kissing / needy bf / h!ckies / strawberry jam involved / a little messy / slightly suggest!ve / bites / cutesy
pairing: boyfriend! yeon sieun x female reader
⤷ sypnosis: you and sieun are dating. his thoughts have been unusually needy all day, unable to stop thinking about how your lips would feel against his. eventually, the temptation becomes too much, surrendering to his need. finally giving in, he makes you his dessert.
۶ৎ author message ﹕this is a request by @lillycore ♡ enjoy!
"Can I request Sieun suddenly succumbing to the urge to desperately kissing reader (established relationship), pinning her to the wall and not wanting to let go of her?"
reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated ♡ + ↻
੭﹕﹒AGAIN, MDNI 18+ 彡
masterlist . ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐
ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ♬⋆.˚ Adore You - Harry Styles (Literally just PERFECT)
ᴺᵉˣᵗ ᵁᵖ ♬⋆.˚ Japanese Denim - Daniel Caesar
The grocery bags crinkle as you shove the door shut with your hip, almost dropping one of them. You shake your hair out of your face, some of it just sticks there anyway clinging to your eyes.
You quickly kick your shoes of at the door before heading into the kitchen to set the bags down on the counter. An easy smile on your face while you unpack.
“Sieun! Baby, I’m home!” you call out, your tone carrying through the apartment.
He usually came grocery shopping with you without you having to ask. Sieun didn’t like when you carried heavy bags alone. He especially hated when the plastic cut into your palms even if you promised him it was fine. Promptly urging him to pull the bags right out of your hands without allowing room for protest.
But today you insisted on going alone, pushing him back toward his desk and his unfinished work.
It doesn’t take long before you hear his footsteps.
The kitchen was open to the living room, one of those small yet cozy apartments, making you catch him in your peripheral vision. His cream quarter zip and sweats were still on from earlier. A slightly worn out look on his face coupled with faint tired shadows underneath his eyes.
Always from staring at documents and his laptop screen.
His hair was a slight mess, probably from running his hands through it far too much.
He pauses when he sees you. Just for a second.
“You carried everything okay?”
Placing the jar of strawberry jam down, you looked up at him and slightly rolled your eyes. Though there was a little smile on your face.
“Yes, I carried everything okay,” you reassure him, knowing how much he thinks of your comfort. “You worry too much.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
Sieun shakes his head.
“I just don't want you getting hurt.”
Your smile softens.
“I know.”
More groceries slowly spread across the marble countertop between you.
He leans over the island, forearms pressing into the cool surface. His sleeves were slightly pushed up, revealing how the muscles in his arms looked strained after spending the whole day hunched over his desk, typing away.
“I got a cupcake mix,” you continue, rummaging through another bag. “And frosting. Oh, and those little decorating things.”
He hums quietly.
“So we can make them together later.”
Another hum.
“And I got that strawberry jam you like.”
“Mm.”
“And hot chocolate since it’s so cold out—“
You pause.
“Baby.”
He isn't looking at the groceries.
His eyes are panning over you instead. The flushed look of your cheeks from the cold outside. The way your fingers carefully unpack each item. The smile on your face whenever you get lost in your own words.
Putting your arms around your chest, you cross them.
“Are you listening?” you raise an eyebrow.
“I am.”
“No, you're staring.”
A pause.
“Can I not do both?”
You smile despite trying to seem ticked off.
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
His voice is quiet, tired from work, but there's warmth in it.
“I like listening to you.”
You shake your head slightly and resume your unpacking.
His gaze drops briefly to your hands. At the pretty diamond sitting on your finger, catching the soft hue of the kitchen light, the promise ring he'd given you on your second anniversary.
His eyes linger there for a moment. Quietly in awe of everything. Such a minor detail, but the way it was resting so perfectly on your hand, it was a quiet reminder of a vow he'd made long ago. And he never regretted it.
Even now, watching you ramble about cupcake frosting, while unloading groceries in his hoodie with pink cheeks, the thought comes as easily as breathing.
Yeah. Her.
The same love he felt for you still deep within him. Within every inch of his body like you already owned him far beyond words could describe. Stronger now than ever.
He was sure about you. More sure than he's ever been about anything.
He rounds his way around the counter, watching you go on and on about a new Pocky flavor you were intrigued to try together, a smile playing at his lips. The corner of them lifting a little.
You look so cute. So perfect. Everything he needed in his life.
And craving you all day, was not making it any easier.
His need only doubled the moment you had walked out that door. Even while sitting at his desk, finishing up his last bit of work, his thoughts only kept drifting back to you. Always circling back to his beautiful girlfriend.
The way you’d laid so blissfully next to him in the morning. Lazily draped over the mattress, leg flung over him as you hugged him close. Face digging into his neck, close enough for him to smell your shampoo, like his chest was the only place you ever really wanted to be.
Which, naturally, made him sit restlessly waiting for you.
“—Right? It’s not crazy to say.”
His eyes flutter for a second as he snaps back from his thoughts, your voice cutting through the daydreams of how badly he wanted to sit you over that counter, wrap your legs around his waist and scatter your body with kisses and marks.
A dramatic sigh slips through you.
“You’re not even listening, I knew it,” you turn, already putting food away.
He pauses a moment trying to get his thoughts in line, string something coherent together that didn’t sound like he was caught lost of focus. Halfway between your words and his own reverie.
And yet, what he ends up saying is quite… unexpected?
“…You look beautiful.”
He catches you slightly off guard for a moment before you snap back in quite a stiff tone.
“Mhm.”
His eyes drift to the strawberry jam sitting on the counter. Without much thought, he twists it open and fishes a spoon out of the drawer, scooping up some and taking a bite straight from the jar.
The only person who could eat jam like that was Sieun. His hidden sweet tooth shamelessly came out around you.
And you had come to terms with that long ago.
He keeps picking at it inattentively, small bites here and there, his attention never leaving you. Eyes following you around the kitchen. The sway of your hair as you reach into the cabinets, the line of your back beneath his hoodie, the curve of your waist disappearing beneath soft fabric.
Putting the spoon aside, he swallows.
Something in him finally giving out. He couldn't keep his lips off of you any longer.
Sieun steps behind you as you reach into the fridge to slide a fresh carton of milk in, the cold air spilling out in between you. His hands find and settle at your waist, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of your hoodie before letting it fall back into place, like he’s toying with the idea for a second, teasing himself.
When he leans in, his breath brushes the back of your neck. Warm and soft, close enough that it changes the energy. Clashing with the cold waves coming from the fridge.
You feel it immediately, the way your skin reacts to his touch, small goosebumps rising along your arms as everything fades into something less important. Your thoughts tunneling in on the man behind you.
Pressed up against you.
“What’s gotten into you?” you ask, but you don’t move away.
He leans in and moves your hair to the side, pressing small kisses along the back of your neck, one after another, slow enough that it stops being accidental and starts being a choice he’s actively making.
His hands slide under your hoodie and stay there, fingers resting at your waist.
“Nothing,” he murmurs between kisses.
His crotch presses closer into you, making your breath catch as you felt his hard outline right against the curve of your ass.
“Doesn’t feel like nothing.”
He smiles against your neck, the corner of his mouth lifting from something only he knows, before his hands slide around you and turn you smoothly.
One arm slips around your waist as he crowds you against the wall, your back meeting the cool surface while his warmth closes in around you. His finger taps teasingly against the bottom of your chin, gently urging you to look up.
“Head up, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make something flutter in your chest.
You take a second too long to process it.
A tiny smile tugs at his lips.
“C'mere.”
His fingers slip beneath your chin, tipping your face up for you before he closes the distance, kissing you slowly, sluggishly. It felt like the kiss itself was mirroring how he wanted to relish the way your mouth danced against his.
He'd spent the entire day thinking about this and was finally getting what he needed.
His head tilts slightly, deepening the kiss, his free hand settling at your hip, keeping you close against the wall.
And without missing a beat, you kiss him back instantly, just as desperate to have him close. With the same intensity. His lips felt soft against yours, wet, inviting.
“Sieun…” you echo his name softly.
“Mm,” he breathes, smiling against your mouth. “Baby…”
His mouth doesn't last long before it finds your neck. Peppering it with gentle kisses as he pulls your head back by your hair. Not aggressively, but more like he's softly reminding you he needed to claim every inch of you.
“You smell good,” he rasps against your skin, sucking mixes of blue, red and purple on your neck. Tongue licking right into the thumping, restless rhythm of your pulse.
Eventually biting just hard enough to make you gasp before sucking the spot gentle. He blows cool air over the wet, stinging skin, and a full body shiver ripples down your spine before he kisses it warm again.
There was clear tooth indents in your neck. A sheepish smile immediately finds his face, though it doesn't stop him from going right back to it. Kissing, nipping, and fussing over every patch of skin he could find, as though he couldn't decide where to give his attention first.
Lacing with his hair, your fingers twirl it, your other hand on his shoulder. Keeping yourself sturdy in the moment.
“You’re being a little… needy…” you murmur between soft breaths, the words brushing his ear.
Which, weirdly, only seems to make things... more demanding.
As though the second he loosened his hold, you'd somehow disappear back into that evil grocery store that had stolen you from him for two whole hours.
“I just missed you,” he confirms.
You let out a little breathy laugh, “I wasn’t even gone that long.”
“Long enough.”
His breath comes in warm, shallow puffs against your mouth, pupils blown wide as he holds your gaze, the soft curve of his lower lip still pink from kissing. The need in his stare is sharp, that familiar puppy look in his eyes. Edged with a quiet claim that makes your heart stutter.
“A little break?”
He manages a sound of protest, his mouth slots back over yours before the sound can fully leave you, one hand fisted tight in the back of your hoodie to keep you close. His chest heaves against yours, every ragged breath warm between your lips, and he doesn’t pull back even when his lungs burn for air.
“Baby, mmh—” you giggle, his thumb brushing slow over the curve of your jaw before pulling back.
An idea clear in his eyes.
He grabs the same spoon once again, scooping a tiny amount and holding it in front of your lips.
"What are you doing?"
"Open."
"Sieun."
"Baby."
"You were just kissing me till you could barely breathe and now you want me to do a taste test? I already know it tastes go—"
Before you could finish, he slips the spoon gently past your lips and you have no choice but to take it.
"Don't swa—"
Immediately, the jam is down your throat.
"Baby, let me finish," he lets out a little breathy sound, almost a laugh, and shakes his head. Giving you yet another spoonful.
"Keep it in your mouth," he puts the spoon back.
Attention turning to you again, that is if it had ever left, his lips finds yours once more.
Only then do you realize what he's doing. And you'd be lying if it didn't make some certain parts of you pulse in need.
His tongue slips past your parted lips. The taste of the strawberry jam against his mouth as it mixes with his saliva, and his hand slides down to curl tight around your waist underneath your clothes, pulling you flush against him.
"Mm," he whines a little into the kiss, urging every bit of jam out of your mouth and into his.
His hands sneak up your torso, one settling tightly against your bra, cupping your tit into his desperate grip. The pressure of his thumb circling your sensitive peak makes your back arch off the wall into his chest. The moan you gasp out is swallowed immediately by him, his grip tightening just a little when you press closer.
Chasing the shudder you sent down his spine.
With one last content little hum, he kisses every bit of jam out of your mouth, sucking gently on your tongue before he lets go. His own tongue darting out to lick a bit that smeared the corner of your mouth.
Your fingers still curl in the fabric of his sweater, heart hammering against your ribs.
"Messy," he simply says and leans back in for another kiss, hand kneading your boob beneath the hoodie. Again.
Incredibly greedy.
“You taste good,” he whispers into your mouth.
You smile into the kiss, lewd, needy sounds spilling from your lips directly into his mouth. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his clothes, your body leaning heavy into his, every nerve buzzing even as your knees go weak and you struggle to match the hungry rhythm he set.
“Better with the jam?” you tease.
He can’t help but smile, pulling back to study the expression settled on your face. The rosey tint spread across your cheeks, now definitely not from the cold but something entirely different, your messy hair, your pink bruised lips, and the glassy look in your eyes.
Especially the marks that adored your neck.
He stares a little too long. Thumb brushing against your cheek then your bottom lip. As if he was testing if you were real. Real and his.
“Mm.”
Another second passes.
“Don't make me compare you to food, weirdo.”
His mouth twitches.
You giggle.
“Seriously.”
The corners of his lips lift, something soft hidden beneath the teasing.
"Just you is enough."
A stupid smile washes over your face. Head over heels just as much as he was for you.
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