eighteen plus, minors do not interact!!

remmick loves the game of it all. he wants to see how much of those inky black dots he can get you to see before completely passing out, see how stupid he can get you. his arm is iron around your throat, a vice of muscle and possessive intent that locks you in place as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out. your nails dig uselessly at the forearm caging you, at the slick heat of his skin, but it only makes him grunt—low, filthy, approving. each thrust is brutal, dragging you back against him, forcing out strangled sounds you can’t hold in. his lips ghost your ear, a rasping, dangerous purr, “feel that?” the words rough against your ear as his arm cinches tighter, forcing a gasp from your lips. “that’s me holdin' ya here. makin' sure you remember who you belong to. 'cause when I let go—if I ever let go—you won’t be walkin' away. you’ll be beggin' for me to put you back where you fuckin' belong.”

lion kaminski gets more whiny when he gets you like this. it's addictive and almost rewarding that his strength is being used to please you and the thought alone has his brain fogging up. his free hand is fisted in your hair, dragging your head back just enough for his mouth to hover over your ear, breath hot, unsteady. he’s fucking into you like a man starved—deep, rough, punishing in the way only he can be, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere no one else will ever reach. “mine,” he rasps, voice breaking on the word, “you hear me? nobody else gets this. nobody else gets you.” his other hand brands your hip, holding you still as if the thought of you slipping from him—here, now—might kill him outright.

roy goode adores how you take it in this position, so much so that a part of him gets sentimental. he makes it a point to make you aware of it, even in your fucked out state. his forearm cinches around your throat, hauling you back into the solid wall of his chest as he drives into you, each thrust rougher than the last. his breath is hot and uneven against your ear, words spilling out like he can’t hold them in anymore. “look at that doll,” he rasps, voice frayed. “that’s me—holdin’ on for dear life. ‘cause if I lose you…” his jaw tightens against your temple, the sound he makes raw and near broken, “…if I lose you, there ain’t nothin’ left worth stayin’ alive for.” his hips slam forward hard enough to rattle the boards around you, and his arm tightens until you can’t do anything but take him, trapped in his need. “so don’t you dare leave me. don’t you dare.”

patrick sumner breaks with every thrust, not used to the closeness and trust of this position. he's talking through it all, desperate and devastatingly pathetic. his forearm braces tight under your jaw, hauling you back into the hard line of his chest, his hips driving up into you with a pace that feels like punishment—on you, on him, on everything he can’t control. his breath is ragged against your ear, almost a snarl as he forces the words out, “you think I’d survive without you?” his voice cracks, guttural, as if the thought itself is poison. “i wouldn’t. i’d rot. i’d beg for death before i’d watch you walk away.” his grip tightens fractionally, a shiver running through him as if the confession cost him blood. “stay right here, with me. i’ll never let you go.”