#pankospams

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I always imagine that Evan will be enthusiastic about having sex with their partner for the first time, not expecting them to be a nasty ass freak. By no means do I think he’s innocent, but he probably wouldn’t expect his partner to stick their fingers in his mouth, pull his hair, or choke him. Or better yet, ask him to do it to them.

Well he wouldn’t expect to enjoy it so much—until his thrusts become sloppier and he’s cumming faster than usual. His words are incoherent, and he’s pleading for you to slow down.

He’s so used to being romantic and the one in charge in a way that was nurturing and gentle—until you came along.

You’d convince him to fuck you raw once, and since then, he can’t get enough. Before, he didn’t like the idea of outdoor sex because it was too risky, but now he’s fucking you against a tree in the woods without a care in the world because he couldn’t wait anymore.

He’d be so skeptical of his knives in the bedroom when you bring them up to him—because he doesn’t want to hurt you. He’d constantly ask if what he’s doing is ok, what you want him to do, and whether or not you’re uncomfortable. He still wouldn’t be secure putting a blade on your skin, but he goes crazy when you demonstrate just how you want him to drag the tip of the blade over your panties and rip through your stockings.

//I might actually write something longer w this ^^^

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Habit had tackled you down onto your back, crawling his way up to sit on your chest. His tight hold around your wrists now restrained the balled fists you attempted to throw at him—you were sure you were going to get bruises from that alone.

You two kind of got into a scuffle in the woods—it led to you punching him in the face and giving him a nosebleed that you know all too well would heal quicker than you’d like. You would be lying if you said it wasn’t satisfying to see his puzzled expression; you even managed to knock the cap off his head with that hit. Now that you’re underneath the drop of his weight, you’re starting to second-guess whether or not the sight was even worth it.

He lifted your back from the ground slightly, using the same grips on your wrists; in what seemed like a second, he let go of one and threw his leg over your shoulder, tucking it underneath your head to secure his submission. His movements were cobra-like—you couldn’t have imagined the position he would have you in. Habit had put you in a mounted triangle choke; his foot is tightly locked under his other knee, so there’s no way for you to escape. You try to fight, but the weight of his body feels compressing, and the lock of his legs around your head and trapped arm makes it almost impossible to breathe.

You curse and flail the limb that’s locked in between your head and his legs. Habit is looking down at you with that sinister, tight-lipped smirk on his face at your pitiful effort to hurt him now. You feel heavy droplets of warm blood oozing from his nose land onto your face, which was starting to become beet red from the pressure. The one thing you managed to do from here was shove his face with the thrashing arm you had in between you two while your other arm desperately tried to pull his thigh from squeezing tighter around your neck.

As much of a hassle you were, you were no match for his strength—not the way you were now, at least. His face was now far from your reach, so you could only grab hold of his flannel jacket, tugging hard to try to lower the level of his head. You wouldn’t be able to do much, but there was a chance you’d be able to give him a good double eye poke.

He breaks your grip on his flannel with ease, taking control of your wrist and pulling it up forcefully. He exposed the perfect extension of your arm, pressing your clenched fist tightly against his chest. His heart was racing with excitement, and he bit down on his bottom lip; he was now in full control.

“Open your hand.” He commanded in a low voice that couldn’t sound any less threatening.

He’s not trying to choke you out just yet, but at this point, your blood vessels are beginning to rupture around your eyes. Fortunately for you, these little red spots will go away eventually, but your loved ones will question whether you’ve had an allergic reaction lately.

You deny his request, proceeding to kick and squirm—your attempts are futile.

He begins to move his hips forward against your arm, making sure your elbow is hyperextended and your forearm pressed firmly against his sternum.

“Open it, or I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.”

It hurts like hell. If you weren’t going to pass out from the choke, then you’d be conscious enough to feel Habit break your joint or rupture your tendon. You were unsure if he would actually kill you this time, but you were certain he would give you long-term injury if prompted.

Habit leaned back to ease the pressure on your chest—of course, there wasn’t much of a difference in discomfort, but at least the spots in your vision eased up. You couldn’t be stubborn today. You chose to listen and relax your fist —at least you tried to—exposing your palm with trembling fingers.

“That’s a good rabbit,” he cooed.

You’re sure Habit can feel the pounding of your heart from grabbing hold of your now blood-stained hand. His thumbs pressed on the firm pads to get a feel of your racing pulse— it’s like music to his ears; he then proceeded to crouch down to press your twitching fingers onto his blood-stained lips. There’s a wet warmth that coats the tip of your ring and middle finger— a gasp slips in between your rigid breathing when you realize it’s Habit’s slick tongue licking your digits clean.

A low growl erupts from Habit’s throat—his groin is conveniently pressed against your tricep, and the bucking of his hips is gradually increasing.

His lids flutter shut as his wet muscle drags down to the center of your palm, flattening it and lapping the last smears of dried blood. His now-bruised nose is peeking between your fingers, and his heavy breath across your cupped skin sounds louder, less controlled.

Habit finally pulls away and opens his eyes to meet with yours; your eyes looked glossy, your skin was damp, your brows were furrowed, and you were taking shallow breaths with an open mouth. You were so helpless like this. If he could, he would stick his fingers down your throat to toy with your breathing some more, making you gag and sob as he’d dig for spit. But knowing you—you’d bite them off; then he’d really have to end you. If you were nicer, he’d reach back to unbutton your pants and tease your aching cunt. However, today you were a pain in his ass; you didn’t deserve that. You deserved to have your back against the dirt with the crushing weight of his body on top and the squeeze of his legs around your strained neck.

In his eyes, you were a constricted, defenseless rabbit in the tight grip of a cold-blooded python, kicking and thumping with no chance of survival.

You could no longer ignore the bulge that was practically digging into your arm at this point. A sharp hiss slips past your lips as Habit pulls on your arm again, forming that painful extension once more. This time, Habit isn’t licking your hand, but instead, leaning back, grinding up against your straightened arm and peering down at you.

Every buck of his hips served as a physical reminder of how dangerously close he was to breaking you.

Habit spoke to you with that fake pity voice you hated, making fun of you and the position you were in, how stupid you were to think you’d get away with it. You’d never say it out loud, but you didn’t have to. You know Habit can sense your arousal caused by the humiliation, the humping, and the restriction of your breath.

A whine escaped from you when you felt a soft pop from the stress put on your UCL. You could feel a twitch from Habit’s cock underneath the thick denim the moment he heard those exhilarating sounds.

“Fuck..” he sighed. He could feel himself getting close.

Your vision was getting spotty again. Shit. You might actually end up passing out.

He threw his head back, parting his blood-smeared lips, and let out a shaky moan of pure bliss. He sloppily rode out his orgasm against your arm with hips that twitched uncontrollably—he was too disoriented to realize that your arm had gone limp in his grasp.