ᶠᶸᶜᵏᵧₒᵤ!

about me ! joaquina 彡 20 𖤓 argentinean 𖤓 matt girl . sam girl. slytherin 𖤓 enfp . pisces

navigation ! masterlists ♯ kinktober 2025 ♯ spotify ♯ abtme ♯ pinterest

content ! i write for the sturniolo triplets, austin butler, and timothee chalamet

content days ! honestly whenever

kinascum© All rights reserved. Do not reupload, modify or claim my work as your own! Reblogs are appreciated.

summary: A quiet morning between lovers transforms into a charged power exchange that redefines their relationship and the balance of control between them.

wc: 3.8k

content warnings: explicit sexual content, BDSM dynamics, dominance/submission themes, power exchange, strong language, and adult situations.

kink: POWER PLAY

(sorry for the late late update im drowning in work)

The coffee machine hissed, sputtering out the last bitter dregs into my chipped "World's Okayest Girlfriend" mug. Chris leaned against the counter, watching me with that lazy half-smile he gets when he’s plotting something. "You’re quiet today," he murmured, tracing a finger along the edge of my sleeve. "Thinking deep thoughts, or just hating Mondays?"

I swirled the dark liquid, avoiding his eyes. "Neither. Just... wondering if we’re stuck in a rut." The words hung between us, sharp and sudden. He straightened, the playful glint replaced by something more alert, more curious.

My pulse kicked up as I set the mug down. "Bed feels like reruns lately," I said, the admission scraping my throat raw. "Same moves, same rhythm. Predictable." Chris didn’t flinch, just tilted his head, waiting. So I pushed further, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "What if *you* weren’t in charge for once? What if I... told you exactly how to touch me? Where to kneel?"

His breath hitched. Not in protest-in anticipation. A slow flush crept up his neck, and he wet his lips. "Yeah?" The word came out rough, stripped bare. "Tell me."

I stepped closer, the linoleum cool under my bare feet. My finger hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging him toward the living room. "Sit," I ordered, nodding at the worn armchair. He obeyed instantly, sinking into the cushions, eyes locked on mine—wide, trusting, waiting. The shift was dizzying; the man who argued over thermostat settings now silent, pliant.

I stood before him, letting the silence stretch. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the chair arms. "Hands on your knees," I murmured. He complied, palms flat against denim. "Good." The praise made him shiver. "Now look at me. Only me." His gaze snapped up, pupils dark. I traced the shell of his ear, my voice dropping lower. "You don’t speak unless I ask you a question. You don’t move unless I tell you. Understood?" A sharp, eager nod. The power hummed between us, electric and thick.

Leaning down, I brushed my lips against his temple. "Such a pretty thing when you’re quiet," I whispered. His breath stuttered. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight tremor in his thighs. "Scared?" His head shook frantically, but his throat worked. I smiled. "Liar." My thumb pressed against his bottom lip, parting it. "But that’s okay. I like you like this. Dumb and desperate for me." A soft whine escaped him, high and needy. The sound went straight to my core. Control wasn’t just mine now—it was a living thing, wrapping tight around us both.

I stepped back, letting him feel the absence. His eyes tracked me, wide and unblinking. "You want to please me, don’t you?" I asked, voice cool. Another frantic nod. "Then stay." I walked to the window, drawing the curtains shut. The room dimmed, shadows pooling around his still form. When I turned, he hadn’t moved an inch. Perfect. I circled the chair, fingertips trailing along his shoulders. His muscles jumped under my touch. "So good already," I murmured. His lashes fluttered. I watched the flush deepen across his cheekbones, the way his chest rose and fell too fast. Raw, exposed—exactly where I wanted him.

Kneeling before him, I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants again. "Lift your hips," I ordered. He obeyed instantly, arching off the chair. I tugged the fabric down, past his knees, letting it pool at his ankles. His boxers followed. He was already hard, straining against nothing. I didn’t touch him. Not yet. Instead, I traced a slow path up his inner thigh with my nail. He jerked, a gasp tearing free. "Shh," I soothed. "Just feel it. Feel how much you need me to tell you what to do." His knuckles were bone-white again. The air tasted like salt and want.

"Look at you," I breathed, leaning close. My lips hovered over his ear. "All that fire, all that noise you love to make-gone. Just soft and waiting." My hand finally closed around him, a loose grip. He cried out, hips bucking. "Ah-ah." I tightened my hold, stilling him. "Did I say you could move?" His whimper was muffled against my shoulder. "No," I answered for him. "But you’ll learn." I stroked him once, slow and deliberate. His whole body shuddered. "Good boy," I whispered. "Now... beg."

He choked on a gasp. "P-please," he rasped, the word ragged. "Nina-"

"Not my name," I corrected sharply, twisting my wrist just so. He arched, a strangled moan ripping from his throat. "You call me what I am right now. Say it."

"Mistress," he gasped, eyes squeezed shut. "Please, Mistress... touch me. Let me-"

I released him abruptly. He whimpered, lost. "Let you what?" I tilted his chin up with two fingers. His gaze was dazed, pupils blown wide. "Use your pretty, empty head. What do you want?"

"To... to serve you," he stammered, voice thick with desperation. "To be good."

I smiled, tracing the frantic pulse in his throat. "Then listen." My other hand slid between my own legs, over the thin cotton of my shorts. I pressed hard, letting him see the dampness bloom. His breath hitched. "You don’t get to come until I’m dripping. Until I say. Understood?" He nodded, frantic. "Words, Chris."

"Yes, Mistress." The title fell from his lips like a prayer. "I understand."

I leaned in, my lips brushing his. "Prove it."

My hand slid from my shorts to his mouth. "Taste." He opened obediently, tongue sweeping over my fingers with a low groan. His eyes fluttered shut-pure instinct. I gripped his hair, yanking his head back. "Eyes open. Watch what you worship." He obeyed, gaze locked on mine as he sucked, hollowing his cheeks. The desperation in his stare was intoxicating.

I pulled my fingers free with a wet pop. "Now," I murmured, standing to strip off my own clothes. His breath quickened as I revealed bare skin inch by inch. When I straddled his lap, he trembled, hands twitching on his knees. "Touch me," I ordered. His palms flew to my hips, fingers digging in. "Higher." They slid up my ribs, thumbs brushing my nipples. "Good boy."

I ground down against his hardness, watching his control fray. His hips jerked, chasing friction. "Still," I commanded, pinning his wrists to the chair. He froze, sweat beading on his temple. "You move when *I* want." I rocked slowly, deliberately, my breath hot against his ear. "Feel how wet I am? That’s all for you... my pretty, dumb toy." A broken sob escaped him. I smiled. "Shh. Just take it."

My fingers tangled in his hair again, forcing his head back. "Beg properly this time. Tell me what you are." His voice was wrecked, raw. "Yours. Only yours, Mistress. Please-" I cut him off with a searing kiss, swallowing his whimpers. He melted into it, pliant and desperate. When I pulled away, his lips were swollen, his eyes glazed. Perfectly ruined.

I shifted, guiding him inside me with a slow, torturous slide. He cried out, back arching off the chair. "Look at me," I ordered, my voice low and dangerous. His gaze snapped to mine, wide and unfocused. I moved with agonizing slowness, savoring the way his breath hitched with every inch. "You feel that? How deep you are?" He nodded frantically, a tear tracking down his cheek. "Good boy. Now... don’t you dare come."

Leaning close, I nipped his earlobe. "You’re going to count for me. Every thrust. Out loud." His voice trembled. "One." I rolled my hips, drawing a gasp. "Two." I tightened around him, watching his knuckles whiten. "Three." He choked on the number, eyes squeezing shut. "Look at me, Chris." His lashes fluttered open, dazed. "Four." The count dissolved into a ragged moan as I rode him harder, my own breath coming in sharp gasps. Power thrummed between us, thick and sweet.

My fingers traced the sweat-slick column of his throat. "So desperate to please," I murmured, grinding down until he whimpered. "But you’re mine to ruin." His hips stuttered, seeking more. I stopped dead, drawing a shattered groan from him. "Did I say move?" He shook his head frantically, tears welling. "Good. Now tell me what you are." His whisper was raw. "Yours. Dumb. Only yours, Mistress."

I rewarded him with a slow, deep stroke that made him cry out. "Beg for it," I demanded, my nails digging into his shoulders. "Beg to make me come." His voice broke. "Please-let me serve you. Let me feel you fall apart on me." The raw need in his words sent heat coiling low in my belly. I rocked faster, my own control fraying at the edge.

His breath hitched, body tensing beneath me. "Don’t you dare," I warned, slamming my palm against his chest to still him. He froze, trembling, a whimper trapped in his throat. I leaned in, my lips brushing his. "You don’t get release until I’m dripping down your thighs. Not. One. Second. Before." His nod was frantic, eyes wide and obedient. Perfect.

I rose slowly, letting him slip out with a gasp, then pushed him back down with a sharp glare. "Hands behind your head. Show me how still you can be." He locked his fingers together, knuckles white, sweat glistening on his collarbone. I knelt between his legs, tracing the strained muscles of his inner thighs. "Such a good toy," I murmured, watching him shiver. "So quiet. So empty."

My fingers slid between my legs, circling my clit with slow, deliberate pressure. His gaze burned into me, desperate and hungry. I moaned softly, arching my back. "See how wet you make me?" I whispered, dragging my slick fingers across his parted lips. He sucked them clean, eyes fluttering shut. "Open those pretty eyes," I commanded. "Watch me ruin you."

Standing, I gripped his hair, forcing his head back. "Now beg again," I hissed. "Tell me what you need." His voice was raw, broken. "Please, Mistress... let me taste you. Let me drown in you." I smiled, guiding his mouth to my core. "Then serve." His tongue met me with a groan-eager, worshipful, utterly mine.

I ground against his face, fingers tightening in his curls. "Count my breaths," I commanded. "Out loud." He obeyed between desperate licks. "One... two..." His voice hitched as I rocked harder. "Three... four..." The numbers dissolved into muffled whimpers against my skin. Power sang in my veins, sharp and sweet.

His hands twitched toward my hips. I slammed his wrists against the chair arms. "Did I say touch?" A choked sob escaped him. "No, Mistress." I leaned down, breath hot on his ear. "Good. Just take it. Take everything I give you." His tongue worked faster, frantic. Tears tracked through the sweat on his temples.

I watched him unravel-the trembling thighs, the choked gasps, the utter surrender in his glazed eyes. "Almost there, pretty thing," I murmured, grinding down until his moans vibrated through me. "But not for you. Never for you." His whimper was a shattered thing. Perfect.

I pulled away, leaving him panting against the cushions. "Hands behind your head," I ordered, circling the chair like a predator. He obeyed instantly, fingers laced tight, knuckles white. Sweat soaked his temples. I knelt before him, tracing the outline of his straining cock with a single fingernail. He jerked, a ragged gasp tearing free. "Still," I hissed. "Only move when I let you."

I leaned close, my breath hot against his ear. "Such a pretty mess you are." My thumb pressed against his bottom lip, dragging it down to reveal clenched teeth. "But I need you quieter. Deeper." His whimper dissolved into a choked silence as I pushed two fingers into his mouth. "Suck." He obeyed instantly, hollowing his cheeks, eyes fixed on mine with desperate devotion. The wet heat of his mouth sent a shudder through me-control tasting like salt and surrender.

Circling back behind the chair, I dragged my nails down his spine. He arched into the touch, a strangled groan muffled around my fingers. "Still," I commanded, pressing my palm flat between his shoulder blades. He froze, trembling. I traced the curve of his hipbone, lower, until my hand hovered above his cock. "Count," I whispered. "Every second I don’t touch you." His voice cracked around my fingers. "One... two..." The numbers trembled, raw with want.

My free hand slid between my own legs, fingers slick and urgent. I moaned softly, watching his eyes darken. "Hear that?" I murmured, rocking against my hand. "That’s how wet I get watching you suffer." His breath hitched, hips twitching involuntarily. I withdrew my fingers from his mouth and gripped his throat, not hard—just enough to feel his pulse hammering against my palm. "Count faster, Chris."

"Thirteen... fourteen..." he choked out, sweat dripping from his jaw onto his bare chest. I circled the head of his cock with my thumb, a feather-light tease. He cried out, back arching off the chair. "Fifteen-fuck-"

Sixteen," he gasped, the word cracking like dry wood. My thumb pressed harder, a slow circle that drew a ragged sob from his throat. "Seventeen..." His voice was breaking, fraying at the edges. I watched the tremor race through him-shoulders shaking, thighs rigid. Perfect. "Eighteen..." He choked, tears mingling with sweat. I leaned close, my lips brushing his ear. "Stop counting." His breath exploded out in a shuddering rush. "Look at me." His glazed eyes snapped to mine, wide and drowning. "You’ve been so good," I murmured, tracing the desperate line of his jaw. "So perfectly dumb for me. Now..." My hand closed around him, tight and sudden. "Come."

He shattered instantly. A raw, broken cry tore from him as his hips jerked off the chair, back arching violently. I held him through it, feeling every pulse, every desperate spasm against my palm. His eyes rolled back, mouth slack, utterly lost in the release I’d commanded. The power was absolute-watching him come apart like that, with just a word and a touch.

When the tremors finally subsided, he collapsed against the cushions, chest heaving, skin slick and trembling. I didn’t release him. Not yet. My thumb swept through the mess on his stomach, then pressed against his swollen lips. "Clean yourself," I ordered, voice low. He obeyed, tongue laving weakly, gaze dazed and distant. The submission was beautiful-total.

I stood, letting the silence stretch as I watched him. His eyes followed me, still wide, still waiting. "Good boy," I murmured, tracing the sweat-damp hair at his temple. He leaned into the touch like a starved thing. "Now rest." His lashes fluttered shut, breath evening out.

The coffee machine hissed again in the kitchen, forgotten. Outside, Monday traffic hummed. But here, in the dim quiet, everything had changed. Power tasted sweeter than I’d ever imagined. And Chris? He’d never looked more perfect-dumb, spent, and utterly mine.

summary: a late-night study session between Lourdes and Colby takes an unexpected, intimate turn, testing boundaries and mixing focus with temptation.

wc: 1.8k

kink: ORAL FIXATION.

warnings: explicit sexual content, strong language, adult themes, mentions of power imbalance, and depiction of sexual acts.

Sam's couch springs groaned under my shifting weight. I stared at my laptop screen until the words blurred into grey smudges. Deadline tomorrow. Blank document. Again. My fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the trackpad.

Colby wandered into the living room, rummaging in the fridge. The clink of glass bottles broke my useless concentration. He leaned against the counter, cracking open a soda. "Still stuck on that essay, Lourdes?" His voice was easy, familiar.

Heat crept up my neck. Asking him felt stupid, but desperation clawed. "Yeah. Can't... focus. At all." The admission tasted sour. "Everything distracts me. Even the stupid fridge humming."

He took a slow sip, studying me. A faint smile touched his lips. "Okay. Show me." He pushed off the counter and walked over, sinking onto the couch beside me. Close. His arm brushed mine. "Where'd you get stuck?" His voice dropped lower, quieter, like he was sharing a secret. My pulse jumped. Focus. Right.

My fingers tangled in the drawstring of my hoodie. I chewed the end absently, tasting fabric fibers. "Here," I mumbled around it, pointing at the blinking cursor. "The intro just... dies." Colby’s gaze didn’t follow my finger. It stayed fixed on my mouth, on the damp string resting against my lip. His eyes darkened, intent. "You always do that," he murmured, leaning in slightly. "Chew things. Pens, strings... your lip." The observation felt intimate, exposing. I froze, the string slipping from my mouth.

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. "Maybe that’s the key." He shifted closer, his thigh pressing warm against mine. "Your mouth needs something... distracting it." His hand lifted, knuckles brushing my jawline. "Let me help you focus." His thumb traced my lower lip, rough skin catching slightly. "Open." The command was soft, velvet-wrapped steel. My breath hitched. Obediently, my lips parted.

The pad of his thumb slid onto my tongue. Salty skin, faintly metallic. My eyes widened, locked on his. "Suck," he instructed, voice thick. A tremor ran through me. I closed my lips tentatively around his thumb, tasting him properly now – soap, salt, Colby. A low hum vibrated in his chest. "Good girl," he praised, the words curling hot in my belly. His thumb pressed down gently on my tongue. "Now... think about your thesis statement." His other hand tapped my laptop keyboard lightly. "While you keep that busy."

My mind scrambled. Thesis? The cursor blinked mockingly. All I could feel was the firm pressure against my tongue, the slight scrape of his calloused skin. I sucked instinctively, hollowing my cheeks. A soft groan escaped him. "Exactly like that," he murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm on my temple. "See? Your mouth's occupied... no chewing distractions." His thumb pressed deeper, exploring the wet heat. "Focus flows right to your brain." His logic felt twisted, undeniable. My thoughts fragmented – the essay, the feel of him, the praise warming me deeper than embarrassment. I sucked harder, a needy little pull.

His thumb withdrew slowly, slick and glistening. Before I could gasp, his index finger replaced it, pressing firmly onto my tongue. "Keep working," he commanded softly, nodding towards the screen. My fingers trembled as they hovered over the keys. *Focus*. I typed a clumsy sentence fragment, my jaw working around his finger, saliva pooling. He watched my lips stretch around his knuckle, his gaze dark, possessive. "Beautiful," he breathed. "So good at taking direction." The praise ignited something low and desperate. I typed another word, my tongue swirling helplessly against the intrusion. The essay felt distant, unimportant compared to the heat flooding my cheeks, the ache building between my legs.

Colby shifted his hips, pressing his thigh harder against mine. I felt the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans. "Almost there," he murmured, his voice rough velvet. His finger slid deeper, brushing the back of my throat. My eyes watered, but I didn't pull away. I typed blindly, driven by his praise, by the filthy intimacy of his finger filling my mouth while his girlfriend sat oblivious elsewhere in the house. He crooked his finger slightly, rubbing the sensitive roof of my mouth. A choked whimper escaped me. "Shh," he soothed, his free hand stroking my hair. "Just focus, Lourdes. Show me how well you can concentrate... with my help." The screen blurred again, but this time, it wasn't frustration. It was pure, dizzying submission.

His finger withdrew with a slick pop. Before I could catch my breath, his hand moved to his belt buckle. The metallic *clink* echoed in the quiet room. My heart hammered against my ribs. He guided my head down gently, firmly. "Same principle," he whispered, his thumb tracing my swollen lower lip. "Your mouth needs... more." The tip pressed against my lips, hot and insistent. "Open wide." The command was soft, absolute. Innocence warred with the desperate need to please him, to be his "good girl." I obeyed, parting my trembling lips. He pushed forward slowly, stretching my mouth, filling it completely. Salt, musk, *him*. My eyes flew wide, meeting his intense gaze. "Suck," he breathed, fingers tangling in my hair. "Just like before. Focus on the essay... and suck"

The rhythm was clumsy at first, awkward. I gagged slightly, tears pricking my eyes. "Easy," Colby murmured, his hips rocking gently. "Relax your throat. That's it." His praise washed over me, hotter than shame. I concentrated on the slide of him against my tongue, the heavy weight, the way his breath hitched when I hollowed my cheeks. My fingers found the keyboard again. *Click-clack*. A sentence formed, disjointed but real. My mind fragmented – thesis arguments tangled with the salty taste flooding my mouth, the ache between my legs sharpening with every pull. He groaned, low and deep, his grip tightening in my hair. "Perfect," he rasped, watching me intently. "See? No distractions now... just you... working so hard." The laptop screen flickered at the edge of my vision, unimportant. All that mattered was the rhythm, the fullness, the dizzying corruption wrapped in his praise.

The rhythm settled into something primal, instinctive. My jaw ached, but Colby’s low murmurs—"Good... just like that"—coaxed me deeper, guiding the pace. My fingers trembled over the keyboard, typing fragmented sentences about societal pressures while my world narrowed to the thick heat filling my mouth, the salt-tang of skin, the way his hips rolled in tiny, controlled thrusts. Distraction? Impossible. Every nerve screamed *him*. Tears blurred the screen, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His praise was a drug, sharper than any deadline panic. "Focusing so well now," he breathed, fingers tightening in my hair. "Almost... done." The lie was velvet. I wasn’t finishing the essay; I was drowning in him.

His groan deepened, rougher, urgent. His free hand slid under my hoodie, calloused palm skating up my spine. I arched instinctively, a muffled whimper escaping around him. The essay vanished. Only sensation remained—the scrape of denim against my thigh, the desperate throb between my legs, the overwhelming fullness as he pushed deeper, hitting the back of my throat. "Swallow," he commanded, voice thick. Obedient, I did, throat working around him. His hips stuttered. "Fuck, Lourdes..." The curse was reverence. His control frayed, thrusts turning sharper, less measured. My eyes watered, vision spotting, but his grip held me firm. "Keep typing," he gasped. "Show me... show me how good you are." Blindly, I mashed keys. Nonsense words appeared. Meaningless. Perfect.

Tension coiled in him, electric. His breath came in ragged bursts. "Gonna—" The warning was a growl. He thrust hard, once, twice, holding me down. Heat flooded my mouth, bitter-salty, thick. I choked, swallowing reflexively, again and again, tears streaking my cheeks. His hand gentled in my hair, petting now, soothing. "Shh... good girl. So good." His thumb brushed my wet cheekbone. My jaw felt unhinged, lips swollen and slick. The laptop screen swam—a jumble of letters where my essay should be.

A floorboard creaked sharply in the hallway. Colby froze, his softening length slipping from my lips. The door swung open. Sam stood there, holding a bag of chips, eyes wide as saucers. He blinked, taking in the scene: me kneeling on the floor, lips glistening, cheeks tear-streaked, Colby hastily zipping his jeans, and my laptop displaying "Societal pressures manifest through... fjskl;d a;slkdj". Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Sam slowly raised a chip to his mouth. Crunch. "So," he said, voice unnervingly calm. "Group study session?" He pointed the half-eaten chip at Colby. "Dude. My sister?" Another crunch. Louder. He stared at the screen, then back at my flushed face. "And Lourdes... please tell me that's not your Intro paragraph." A strangled laugh escaped me, half-sob, half-hysteria. Colby just rubbed the back of his neck, a faint, sheepish grin tugging at his lips. Sam sighed, shaking his head. "Right. Well. Boundaries exist, guys. Also..." He squinted at my laptop. "Seriously, 'fjskl;d a;slkdj'? That's what you were focusing on?" He tossed another chip into his mouth. "Mom's gonna love that."

summary: a playful night with an antique mirror turns into a nightmare when the glass reveals a decaying specter that fixates on Matt and slowly claims him.

wc: 1.9k

today: MIRROR PLAY!

warnings: horror-erotic themes, body horror, supernatural possession, degrading dirty talk, dubious consent tones. read at your own discretion.

"Matt, what the hell is that?" I pointed at the antique mirror leaning against our bedroom wall. Its ornate silver frame was tarnished, and the glass held a faint, greasy haze.

He grinned, raking a hand through his messy brown hair. "Oh—this? Picked it up at that estate sale down on Elm. The guy swore it was Victorian, kept going on about how much ‘character’ it had." His grin widened into something a little cocky. "Figured it’d make the room less boring. You don’t think it’s sick?"

I stepped closer, tracing the cold metal scrollwork. My reflection wavered like I was underwater. "It’s creepy, Matt. Like it’s watching me." The air around it felt heavy, charged with something old and sour. Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light filtering through our blinds.

Matt slid up behind me, looping his arms around my waist, chin brushing my shoulder. His breath was warm at my neck, teasing. "Babe, relax. It’s literally a mirror, not a portal to hell." His fingers dipped under my shirt, calloused and sure. "Besides," his voice dropped, half serious, half playful, "imagine the view. Us. Right there. Watching it happen." His eyes in the glass flicked toward me, sharp and challenging. "Tell me that’s not hot."

A shiver ran through me, half from desire, half from the unnatural chill radiating off the glass. My reflection blurred at the edges, like smoke curling into the silver depths. When Matt’s hand cupped my breast, the image in the mirror didn’t mimic him—it just stared back, hollow-eyed, not quite me. A whisper slid against my ear, too faint to be Matt’s voice: See how he wants you? See how he ruins you?

He spun me around fast, his mouth crashing into mine, teeth catching my bottom lip. His kiss was greedy, grounding, but rougher than usual. "Look at us," he muttered against my mouth, shoving me back until my shoulders pressed to the mirror. "You’re unreal like this. Fucking perfect." The praise had an edge to it, darker, almost possessive. His hand slid lower as the reflection behind him rippled, showing a pale, grinning face over his shoulder. My scream lodged in my throat.

Matt thought it was a moan. His fingers worked me open, voice low and intent. "That’s it, baby. That’s what I like. Show me." His eyes stayed on the mirror, hungry. But I wasn’t looking at him—I was staring past him, at the thing copying his movements in the glass. Its rotting fingers hovered inches from his neck, a grotesque parody. The air thickened with the smell of damp earth and copper. My reflection mouthed two words, silent but searing: He’s next.

His words turned sharper, filthier. "Dirty little thing, letting me use you like this." He pressed me harder into the icy surface, glass cold enough to sting through my shirt. Behind him, the specter leered, its grin stretching wider as his grip dug into my hips. I tried to force words out, to warn him, but his mouth swallowed my whimpers, his tongue rough, urgent. In the mirror, the rotted fingers trailed toward his pulse point. He’s next, the hiss scraped louder in my skull, dry and merciless.

Matt’s hand pushed down, rough and relentless. "Look at yourself," he ordered, catching my chin in his palm and forcing me to face the glass. My reflection stared back, pupils blown wide with terror, not lust. But beside it, the decaying thing shadowed Matt’s every move, hand drifting lower in sync with him. His voice dropped to a ragged whisper, lips grazing my ear: "See how perfect you are?" The specter’s ruined mouth moved at the same time: Perfect. Ruined.

The air crackled. His praise bent darker. "My little whore," he growled, raw and hoarse, "taking it so good." Behind him, the thing’s hollow eyes widened, its grin splitting until the skin tore. Its hand brushed Matt’s shoulder—he didn’t notice. He just shuddered hard, rhythm faltering. "Jesus, Emma…you feel…different." His forehead pressed to mine, breath catching. The mirror fogged where we touched, but the thing’s reflection stayed crisp, claws curling tight around his throat.

I screamed then, raw, throat tearing. Matt jerked back, startled. "What? Did I—" He froze mid-sentence. In the mirror, he saw only us: flushed, tangled, breathless. But I saw more. My reflection streaked with tears, and where his hand gripped my waist, the specter’s blackened fingers overlapped his, sinking into me like smoke. Almost time, the rasp slithered in my ear, guttural and final.

Matt’s head snapped toward the mirror, following my stare. Only our faces looked back at him. "Emma, stop," he snapped, trying for control but cracking. His hands pulled at me, trying to drag me off the glass, but I couldn’t move. The cold rooted me, seeping bone-deep. The specter’s lipless mouth stretched in a silent laugh, its gaze fixed on him. He tastes like fear now, it hissed inside my mind. Not just yours.

His grip tightened, fingers white against my skin. "What the fuck are you seeing?" he demanded, shaking me. His eyes darted back to the mirror, frantic. But now the thing’s rotted hands weren’t hovering—they were inside him, seeping through his shoulder, curling into him like smoke in water. He convulsed, a strangled gasp clawing out of him. "Cold," he rasped, face twisting in confusion. "Why’s it so cold?" The thing’s grin ripped wider, shattered teeth bared, and the whisper cut sharper than a blade: Mine.

Matt's hands were gripping the headboard, his knuckles white. The sweat on his back caught the monlight through the open blinds, and his breath coming in ragged little puffs against your ear as his hips met yours in even thrusts. You could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, a kind of raw power he was trying to keep in check... his desires slowly taking over.

He looked down at you, his eyes lingering on your face. A little smile crept onto his lips, and he slowed down just for a second. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and he let out a low, breathless laugh. "Fuck," he whispered, his voice kind of shaky. "Look at you. You're so... you're so perfect."

Then, it was like a wave hit him—that overwhelming feeling. His jaw clenched, and a little growl rumbled in his chest as he buried his face in your neck. His hips pushed forward, a little harder now, a little rougher, like he was trying to get even closer. "Jesus," he choked out, the word muffled against your skin. "I can't stand how fucking cute you are."

Every push became more urgent, more possessive. His hands slid down to your hips, his fingers digging in just a little. He lifted his head, his eyes blazing. "Mine," he rasped, the sound rough and raw. "All mine." His rhythm got a little messy, lost to the sheer intensity of the moment. You could feel the tremor in his arms as he fought to not completely lose it.

He kissed you then—not soft, not gentle. It was messy, desperate, their teeth clashing. A groan tore from him as he pulled back, panting. "You're too much," he whispered, his voice wrecked. "Too fucking perfect." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven. He was shaking, every muscle taut. That initial sweetness had sharpened into something more raw and overwhelming.

His pace picked up, his hips slamming into yours. Each thrust took the air from your lungs. He watched you, his eyes dark and hungry, tracking every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. "That's it," he gritted out. "Look at me. Only me." His thumb swept across your bottom lip, both possessive and gentle at once. It was a dizzying contradiction—the force of his movements, the reverence in his touch.

A soft whimper escaped you, and his gaze snapped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. His breath hitched. "Fuck, that sound," he groaned. "You're killing me." He buried his face in your hair again, inhaling sharply. His movements became erratic, wild. He was close, trembling with the effort to hold back. "Need you," he choked out. "Need you so bad it hurts." The words were a ragged confession against your skin.