Its Cold Out (M) ~Bang Chan

It’s Cold Out (M) ~Bang Chan

Pairing: Werewolf!Chan x Human!F.Reader Themes: Supernatural/Fantasy AU | Smut | Fluff | Roomies to Lovers Warnings: curvy/chubby reader · swearing · pet names · possessiveness · possibly inaccurate descriptions of birth control (this is a work of fiction, after all) · good ol’ rut driven intercourse (smut warnings under the cut). Word Count: ~8k | AO3 Summary: Your roommate had been acting weird lately, weirder than usual. It was because of his condition, you thought, and in a way, you had been right, just not in the way you had expected. [This story is an instalment of my WereRoomies series].

Author’s note: Happy Halloween month to all of us! If there’s a God up there, only she can judge me for this. [31/03/23: this story has been re-edited as of this date. special thanks to @straylightdream​​ for reading this new edition before anyone else and sharing her thoughts with me].

Due to all the abovementioned warnings, this story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors please do not interact.

Continuar lendo

"how is the most amazing person in the world doing?"

chris looks up where he's stretched across your couch, scrolling through social media. you're leaning over the couch, gazing at him lovingly, and it takes everything within him to not sink down into his jacket to hide his reddening face. "you can just tell me how you're doing, you know," he says instead.

"hm?" you tilt your head, and then look around. "there's not a mirror in here... who are you talking to?"

he stares at you for a moment. "you're not gonna win this--"

"yes, i am," you giggle, leaning down to peck his lips. "so?"

he slowly begins to sink into his hoodie, pulling his cap down over his face. "... i'm pretty good."

you let out a satisfied hum. "good," you say, reaching down to flick the bill of his cap back up.

chris looks up again a moment later. "and how's my world doing?"

immediately, he sees you turn away out of embarrassment. "nooo..."

"yessss," he reaches out, catching you by the hand. he's evened the scores between the two of you, and that proud smile on his face always warms your heart. "well?"

"... i'm pretty good, too."

baby steps

pairing: husband!bang chan x fem!reader

genre: fluff. parent au!

word count: 2.8k~

warnings: reader is written to be afab (mentions of pregnancy) + reference to reader with gendered terms like mom. food mentions. idol au for silly purposes. kind-of a rewrite of a wonwoo fic. girl dad chris (yes this needs a warning!!!) no proofreading, intentional lowercase.

daisy’s notes: girl dad chris brainrot is severe……………. i am just thinking too much abt him……. <3

chris’s side of the bed had long since gone cold when you finally woke up that morning.

Continuar lendo

hard thought

pussydrunk jisung who finds every single excuse on this planet to convince you that he needs to eat you out or he'll go insane. it could be his stressful day, the fact that he cried watching coco, his head hurting or basically anything else.

"baby please i need it so bad, taste s' nice, i deserve it, pussy makes me feel so so good"

and you cannot denying it to your baby. eyes glassy and watery, lips already shiny with spit while he slides your panties to the side and begins to suck on you without even pulling them off.

sometimes he is so hungry that he leaves them on, wetting the fabric with his tongue until they are so ruined you will have to throw them away, all soaked with saliva and your arousal mixed together.

sometimes he takes his time and he slowly sucks your clit into his mouth, letting out the most obscene moans directly on you, the vibrations hitting deliciously your core. and then with the tip of his tongue he parts your folds and he keeps them open with his fingers to push himself deeper into you, alternating fat licks to open mouthed kisses to your entrance.

"mh - tastes so good, s' sweet ah-"

and he buries himself into your cunt, fingers sliding inside while he begs you to grab his hair and fuck yourself on his tongue.

🪐 masterlist

🪐 hard thoughts

©️ jilixthinker, 2023. please do not copy, translate, or republish my works anywhere.

Dick Boy

Characters: Felix X reader (featuring Ateez)

Genre: Crack/Fluff

Words: 3809

Synopsis: Your soulmate just wouldn’t stop drawing dicks on your arm

~

You were told growing up that soulmates were a special thing. It was the person who your soul was tied to, who could make you the happiest you could ever be, it was someone everyone in their lives wanted to meet at least once. Your parents were lucky enough to have found each other early on in life, some of your friends had found theirs while on the playground at recess and others were still idly searching for their second half. People said that when they realized who they’re soulmate was, an intense feeling of euphoria flowed through them; however, you were skeptical that you would have such feelings towards your soulmate. 

They just wouldn’t stop drawing dicks on your arm. 

Soulmates were attached by drawing on the skin. Whatever you wrote down on yourself would become plastered to your soulmates skin until you removed it. So when small doodles showed up on your skin as a child you were rather fond of the scribbles. There were small drawings of dogs, of singers, and occasionally a poorly written hello which you barely had time to respond to before it was washed away. Those sweet drawings from childhood had washed away entirely by the time you had reached middle school, high school, and now college. Instead of “hello” or “good morning”, it was “what’s 34 to the 3rd degree” or “What else is in a cell all I remember is mitochondria”. While your soulmate was endearing, he was also annoying. 

Especially now as a rather large dick began to mark the top of your arm, for everyone in your morning lecture to see. You were jolted from your adapt note taking as the shapes began to take form, making your face heat up in embarrassment as you tried your best to cover it. On most days, you even brought a jacket no matter the weather to hide the embarrassing images that appeared on the skin of your body.

Continuar lendo

bad habit. CHAN — 방찬

pair. bad boy! chris x f. reader. | warnings. mentions of violence, language, mentions of scars, mentions of abuse/neglect, smut, unprotected sex, filthy talk, slight breeding kink. | word count. 4.8k

synopsis. chris has never asked or needed anyone’s help—except yours.

tags. @ughbehavior, @cb97percent, @hyuneater 🤍

“Don’t call 911.”

You stare at the man on your front steps. The scar running across half of his face is paler than usual tonight, contrasting against the bright red painted on his lips.

Blood. Still, that doesn’t surprise you. What does—

The deep burgundy on his white shirt, the way his veiny hands are clutching his left side, his body leaning towards it, curling weakly around the wound, legs clad in black sprawled over the stairs.

This has been a reoccurring image; it’s practically stitched behind your eyelids, his hundreds of injuries, the way he remains bleeding out in front of your house. The familiarity of it doesn’t make it any less distressing to witness.

And yet, the why—it’s never answered. It lingers over the both of you; hangs like a cloud every time you find him there, that designated place of his in your life, with the stench of iron, and sweat.

He can’t stand the way you’re looking at him.

“Stab wound?” you asked, tilting your head at him. Despite your mild annoyance, you couldn’t help but worry.

He seemed to be in more pain than usual.

“Almost,” he replied, and it was a breathy thing. “He couldn’t get close enough,” he choked on that last word, groaning.

You sighed, and helped him to stand, propping his arm around your shoulder, carrying the weight of him up the steps and into your home. As soon as you opened the door, he dropped to the floor, panting.

He was scaring you. “Chris, I think you need to go to the hospital.”

“No,” he exhaled sharp, squeezing his eyes shut, “no hospital.”

That didn’t sound very convincing.

“Please.” At that, you turned to look at him. Chris never said please, never begged for anything. Barely asked for help, his pride too big, his need to appear independent, and self sufficient most important—except when it came to you.

Hell, you consider yourself an overnight private nurse at this point. You had only but a basic knowledge of first aid, but always kept a well supplied kit under your bed, exactly for this reason.

When Chris first showed up on your doorstep, busted face, bruised ribs, you almost turned him away. You’d briefly dated, months back, until you realized the fights would never stop. The thrill of a punch was more important than you. So you ended it, and genuinely thought you would have nothing to do with him, ever again.

Cut to two months later, past midnight. All black shirt drenched, hair sticking to his forehead, pale face—you took him in because it was late. Then because he had nowhere else to go. The excuses blurred together, after a while. Every time was the last time.

A year later, you’re here. You grab the red box, dropping your stuff on the mattress, and rush to him.

You don’t focus too much on what you’re doing, only trying to be quick and precise, assessing the injury, picking out what you need to disinfect, tend, cover. Your fingers work the buttons on his shirt, exposing tan skin, and muscle.

Ignoring, you blinked at the side of his stomach. It didn’t look deep, which was good, but it was still nasty. He’d just barely recovered from a kick to the abdomen, or what he said was a kick.

It looked more like someone had smashed a chair on him. It wouldn’t be entirely impossible.

“I’m gonna need you to take your shirt off,” you mumble, cleaning around the big gash, wiping the blood away.

Chris was intently staring at your face, the pain turning into static; an uncomfortable buzzing that would eventually numb to nothing. The pain was always temporary, and then the itch would come back, hard to tune out. Chris succumbed to it every fucking time.

There was no reason to it, no clear explanation. His brain was just wired that way, and he’d decided to live with it. The life he led was going nowhere, and the most terrifying part of it all—he couldn’t care less.

He didn’t give a single fuck.

“You only have to ask, baby girl,” he flirted, wincing at the motions it took to remove the shirt. His shoulders were sore—of course, that was the least of the damage.

“Don’t be absurd,” you glared at him through your eyelashes. “Keep this on the cut, will you?” Your fingers guided his hand on top of the cut, applying pressure with the cloth you used to clean around it.

“I missed you,” he mused, doing as told.

“You saw me two weeks ago.”

He chuckled at that, and immediately regretted it, almost doubling over with cough. You scolded him, told him to keep quiet. He complied, silently, but didn’t stop smiling.

After that, you ran to your small bathroom, wetting a towel with warm water, and washing your hands. When you were sure the blood had stopped flowing, you cleaned the wound one more time, gently fingering some antibiotic cream on the angry looking thing.

“Lift your arms,” you instructed, wrapping sterile bandage around his torso. You secured it with a pin, and leaned back to admire your work.

“All done.” You paused as you said that, peaking at his face. “You know how to take care of that, don’t you?” You pointed at his lip.

Chris nodded, already ahead of you on that. You took a deep breath, and nodded back, starting to get up. His hand shot out, stopping you.

“Thank you.” His eyes, peering over at yours—they looked almost angelic. Perhaps it was an illusion of the moon, illuminating on his face from the window next to him.

Or perhaps your mind was playing tricks on you.

“Yeah. Of course.” You bunched up his bloody shirt in your hand, and went to throw it in the washing machine, along with the rest of your laundry.

It had become a habit of sorts, doing washes with his clothes. It sort of gave you a reason to complete that dreaded chore. Walking over to your closet, you grabbed one of his many spare shirts that stayed in your house after visits like this, and threw it at him.

Chris had already tended to his lip, and eyebrow. Grasping the corner of the wall, he slowly slid up, hissing at the strain and effort it took to stand.

“You’re staying here,” you said, on stand by to help him move to your bed. He nodded, his face scrunched up in pain. You let him use you as a crutch, sitting him down on the soft surface.

After a few seconds of deep breaths, he turned his head to look at you. His broad shoulders, and defined chest distracted you way more than you cared to admit. You prompted him to wear the shirt, taking off your own.

The two of you had never been shy to each other’s bodies. He’s seen you naked more times than he’s seen you clothed, he knows every crevice of you, every freckle. And you do, too. You remember everything. Sometimes you wish you didn’t.

“What started it this time?” You asked, conversationally, reaching for your oversized T-shirt by the edge of your headboard.

Chris whirled his frame, his back to you, as he struggled to fit the shirt over his head without irritating the wound too much.

And there they were. Dozens of scars, all faded with time, but bumpy, evident even in a dark room. They looked like slashes, knife or whip marks, you’d never got a clear answer for that. Or for anything, really.

He had all these scars, on every part of him, and he still longed for more—got himself in trouble just to feel them forming again, and again. Once, you accused him of living in the past, of thriving off of getting hurt. It was a mean thing to say, but you’d said it anyway.

It was true. You’d seen it in his eyes, back then. He knew nothing else—no other way. Getting physical was second nature to him. But it wasn’t to you, and you had grown sick with obsessing over your phone, waiting to get that one dreadful call.

The call that would break you, ruin everything. You broke up with him hoping that would bring him to his senses. If anything, it only made it worse.

Your fingers reached to trace them, the ghosts of his childhood. His body stilled, froze under your touch. You think he’d stopped breathing, until he exhaled shakily.

“The motherfucker had it coming,” he said through his teeth. “He messed with Felix.” As if that would explain everything.

It did, to no one’s surprise. Chris would die for that Lee Felix—he’d been his longest friend, dating from their childhood back in Australia.

He had a tattoo, located at the top of his spine, right under the nape of his neck. It was a traditional looking cross, but there was a snake wrapping around it, engulfing it in its leathery embrace. He’s had that since you met him. He got that for his friend, he’d said. Snakes symbolize rebirth.

His friend had died in a car accident, the winter before you saw him at the bar you worked at. Still work at. His name was Changbin, and ‘he loved dark shit like that.’

Chris got that in his memory. That’s the only ink he has.

But the scars. The scars had no answer. The scars ran deeper than anything else. He’d always been self conscious of the one extending from the bottom of his brow, over his nose, to the apple of his cheek. It had made such a strong impression on you, when you saw it. You thought it looked badass. You said so.

He’d smirked at you, twirling his drink with one hand, a thick chain adorning his wrist.

“Isn’t that a red flag, sweetheart? Liking men with scars?”

You’d smiled softly, pouring a cocktail you’d just made to a glass with a lime wedge on it.

“Not if the scar isn’t their fault.”

His eyes darkened at that, face somber. “And how would you know?”

It was clear you’d pushed a button, somewhere, but it was way too late to backtrack then. So you replied, “You don’t look the type to slice their own face open.”

He’d asked for your name then. That same night, you found him waiting outside, leaning against his motorcycle. It was something like three in the morning. He looked wide awake.

He took you home, and fucked you against the doorframe. You couldn’t even make it past the hall. Ever since then, you clung to each other.

And then you didn’t. He never stopped.

“Can I ask about them, now?” You kept your voice small, barely above a whisper.

Chris shuddered, but said nothing for a long time. Then he wore the shirt at once, still facing away from you. You wore yours too, almost giving up on his replying.

Then he spoke.

“My step dad was a drunk,” he started, his tone rough. “He beat my mom, and constantly fucking threatened me. Many times—he’d kick me out, throw all my shit to the streets. My mom tried to reason with him,” he chuckled, dryly, “there was no reasoning with him. He had a pocketknife. It was always out whenever I was around.”

He stopped, letting the words register in your ears. Tears brimmed at the edges of your eyes, and you let the spill freely. You knew it’d be fucked up, but never this. This was child abuse—it was horror.

He buried his face in his hand, rubbing his face raw. Then he turned to look at you. His brows rose at your tears, surprised to see you cry like this, for him. He reached out and wiped them away, one by one.

“One night, my mom was asleep. I’d come home late. He made sure I knew—that was his house. I lived under his roof.”

You got a hold of yourself, taking in his words as he caressed your face. He was so close you could feel his breath on your lips. He seemed to know that—he made no move. Lines. You’d established lines, and despite his rebellious personality, he would never cross them.

Because he cared about you way too fucking much. Because if this was the only way he could have you, he sure as hell would not jeopardize it—for nothing.

Even if his body missed yours like crazy. Even if he dreams of you naked underneath him, giving in to him, letting him take care of you the way he knows. The way he’s learned, the way you’ve taught him.

“Thank you telling me this,” you laid a hand on his thigh, a sad smile stretching your mouth. “I wish I’d known sooner.”

He stared at your hand on him. “It changes nothing.”

You had to put some space between you. Getting up, you walked to the bathroom to wash your face. He watched you walk away from him—you seem to do that so well.

Him, on the other hand. Anchored down, setting camp outside you, waiting. Until you change your mind—until you accept this, this thing between you, until you invite him in again.

You must still know—how he loves you. The fire had been lit long ago, perhaps when he first laid eyes on you, perhaps longer still, even before. It’s still burning, but it’s a desperate attempt—there’s little wood left, and no kindling.

Still, he waits. Still, he loves you. Chris has never known how to give up.

“Who was with you?” You ask, trying to break the impenetrable wall that’s started to build between you again.

“Felix, Hyunjin, and Jisung,” he replied, feeling your intent. “We were just drinking. You can ask them—they’ll vouch for me. I didn’t start it.”

You snorted at that, dabbing your face with a towel, and turning off the light. “Of course they’ll take your side. You’re leading a cult, Bang Chan. Have you not noticed how blindly people follow you?”

His eyes followed you as you comfortably went around your safe space, putting on your skincare, brushing your hair. He felt like an invader, interrupting your life like this, a beggar scrapping for crumbs—and yet you acted like he didn’t, like he was part of your daily routine.

Like he belonged in your room at one in the morning, wrapped in gauze, half drunk. Like before.

“How long will you make me wait?” It fell out of his mouth, before he could even second guess it.

Your hands stopped mid air, the question too honest, too raw. A dare, almost.

“Chris…” You wouldn’t look at him, instead resuming what you were doing, shaken.

He sat where you left him, arms crossed over his naked chest, all muscle, eyes piercing you through the mirror in front of you. You let your gaze graze over his frame in the dark. The remnants of his touch, the way his breath would fall over your breasts, dropping kisses on your skin—and then, finally, the entering, the gasp, the intoxicating spreading and stinging of his cock buried deep in you—

You missed him more than words could describe. But the fear—it had its vines wrapped tight around you. He’s still fighting, disregarding his life, thinking so very little of himself…

You couldn’t mean so much to someone. You couldn’t be the only thing that made them happy—the only thing that filled their empty spaces.

Chris was a strong man. A mountain, something you couldn’t easily shake, something that seemed to withstand the passage of time, and nature, and the wrath of other men. But a mountain chips away, too. Little by little, the change so small, not visible to the naked eye.

One day, it would grumble and crumble. Fall apart entirely. Something that once stood so big and unbeatable, suddenly reduced to rock and debris.

“You’ve any idea how much I love you?” His voice filled with emotion, growing deep with yearning. “How much it takes for me to not reach out and touch you how I know you love being touched?”

“We were doing so well,” you mutter, tears welling up. “Why’d you have to ruin it?”

“‘Cause it’s bullshit, isn’t it?” There’s resentment in his tone, now. He’s shaking with purpose. “You feel it as much as I do, (Y/N). I know you fucking do. Stop trying to hide from me. From me—any other motherfucker you can fool, but not me.”

“I know you like the back of my hand.”

Your body shot up from the chair, before your mind could begin to process what you were doing—you opened the front door, your face collapsing with grief.

“Leave.” A weak attempt.

He made no move to do so. Instead, he rose to his feet, hand clutching the headboard, evidently in pain. You felt like a hypocrite, helping him with his wound, but throwing him out of your house the moment he speaks the truth.

You try not to waver.

“Close the door, angel,” he spoke softly, like how one would talk to a child.

You blink, tears blurring his broad figure. You think you should, like maybe you’re overreacting, but it’s him, it’s Chris, and you’re sure he’d never tell you to do anything he wasn’t sure you wouldn’t regret.

He walks towards you, slowly, grunting along the way. He leans against the hall’s wall, head falling on the cool of it, and he looks at you. He looks at you with the weight of him, the history of you, his love that still remains.

He looks at you because he sees it back. It’s staring him straight in the face. Why would you be crying, otherwise?

“You have to stop, Chris,” you say and it chokes you. The wave of it. It drowns you both.

“He’s not here anymore. He’s gone.”

And you mean his stepfather. You mean Changbin. You mean the little kid that had to fight just to survive—just to have a roof over his head, just to protect his mom when his mom wouldn’t protect him. You cry for all of them, because they shaped who is standing in front of you.

Chris had to glue every single piece of what made him. But you cannot glue a person back together. It’s going to be all wrong—you saw that, too. You tried to understand it.

His dark eyes were glistening. He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple moving. He tried to pretend; tried to ignore how his throat closed up, how his chest hurt.

“Stop what?” But he knew. He knew.

“Fighting back. You won. You’re okay,” you exhale sharply, smiling at him, but it’s a sad thing.

And then, at last, you sob. Everything you’ve been boxing up, everything you’ve wanted to say—it surges out of you. A tsunami high enough to bury the entire city of him underwater.

Bang Chan withstands, as he always does.

His arm reaches out, and crushes you into him, slamming the door shut with his foot. You go, because you’re tired of fighting as well. You’d like to rest now. Tell yourself it’s going to be alright at the end.

You belong with this man, after all. The tide keeps bringing him back to you.

“Let me in,” he repeats feverishly on your neck. His hot breath is scorching. “Let me in, let me in…it’s me, angel.”

It was. You nod against him, your tears still sweeping, flowing, bursting. If you’re hurting him, he doesn’t show it, instead tightening his arm around you, allowing you to accept him. And you do—you open up like a flower after heavy rain. You show him everything.

Chris leaves a kiss on the top of your head. “For you, anything. For you, the world,” he whispers in your hair, and you believe it.

He’d rather die before he loses you again. You know this, too.

And so it starts—the pushing, and pulling. Your shirt over your head, his arms grabbing, throwing, your naked skin under his warm hands, the way it comforts his rushing thoughts. You’re being careful with his cuts, the sharpness of him, but the softness—the shades, and curves, the roughness of his past sketched on him, the pencil dug, the lines going inwards, hard and clearly outlined to last.

He pushes you back against the door, and it feels like that first time, so long ago now, when you couldn’t wait to get your hands on him—when he was driven to the brink of insanity with the thought of you, how you would feel, so much so that he’d risk everything, he’d take you right there, outside your workplace if possible, but you showed him something better, something personal and intimate—your home. And he became a part of it, like a piece of furniture, and even after, he’s still there, on all you owned, his scent never quite gone because he comes again.

And again. Again, again, again. He’s never gone longer than the time it takes for his cologne to dissolve from your sheets.

Your fingers are shaking, and his are too, but they’re also fervent, they’re trying to reach everywhere, all at once, and the impatience of him is so truly like him that it brings new tears, and those tears smear on his shoulder when your head drops, when his fingers push your underwear to the side and sink into you—oh, the feeling of him. The longness of his digits, the way they curl inside your cunt, all the ways he knows where to go, like a map he wrote himself, with red pins all over it, marking the salient spots, the foremost parts of you. Your mouth hangs open, as he takes you like that, and he reaches for it—smashes your lips together, his tongue exploring familiar territories, but also whatever has changed in the time you kept yourself from him. He’d learn it again, he’d spend his whole life reintroducing himself to you.

“Let go for me, baby. Whenever you’re ready… I’m right here.”

You’re screaming, you think, it feels too good, and his middle finger is hitting that spongy spot inside of you, the wetness of your cunt sounding impossibly sinful to your ears, but he keeps going, he loves it, it’s making him rock hard against your thigh, and oh my God, you can feel the length of him, you remember how fucking delirious it used to make you to cup him over his jeans, feel him fill your entire palm and more, his mouth over your ear whispering dirty things, awful awful words, that stole your breath, that had you fully alert of all the ways a man could use you, could pleasure you—my beautiful girl, I can’t wait to have my dick buried deep inside of your sweet cunt, I bet you feel like pure fucking morphine—Chris’ mouth could run for days. But he absolutely fucking lived for the way you’d collapse on him, for the effect his filthy words had on you, and especially on your pussy, the way you’d drench him the more he whispered to you.

Your orgasm rippled through you in one tidal wave. You grind down on his hand, riding through it, and he encourages you, he’s everywhere, there’s no line where you start and he ends, he’s all over you, you’re all over him. Your moans turn him into a goddamn animal, send him straight to Hell, and he gladly goes, he gladly falls, anything, anything for you, absolutely, and always, you must know, surely you must fucking know.

“Get inside me. Now, Chris, now, fuck…” you pant, you fall apart—he catches you. Every time.

He obliges. Your touch on his cock is heavenly, all he’s been waiting for, for you to want him like this again, to be this close, to be as close as it humanly gets, and if he could become second skin on you he would, but he fucking can’t, so he settles for this—you position him against your entrance, and despite his battered body he pushes in, he would never miss this, would never refuse, goddamn the wounds, and the scars, and the fucked up part that still exists in him, will always exist.

He pushes, and he slips in, slips past, his arm is wrapped around you, his hand is squeezing your neck, he’s folded around you like the snake on his neck—a rebirth, and it is, it fucking is—you cannot breathe then, the stretch incredible, the feeling of him, of his cock—you’d missed him so fucking much, you can’t believe you deprived yourself for this long.

But he’s here now. He fucks into you slow, sensual—you think he can’t possibly move any faster, the pain too much, but one, two, three, four thrusts later and he picks up his pace, cradles you into his chest and drills up in your cunt, almost lifting you off the ground. You gasp, his name whispered like a prayer, yes, yes, please don’t fucking stop, yes, harder, please Chris, please—he shushes you, his fingers getting lost in your hair, pushing strands away from your face so he could look into your eyes, so he could watch as you come apart, as your eyes fall shut, as you go into overdrive.

You’re so wet for me, baby girl, I can’t fucking believe I’m inside you—will you let me come in my pussy, mine, it’s mine, you’re mine, angel, fuck—he’s aggressive now, almost there, crazy with need, and your smell, your sweet smell mixed with the musky scent of your sex, he can’t get enough, he’s going to have to be buried in you for the rest of his life, he thinks, its impossible to part with you now, he’s scared, fucking terrified, there’s nothing better than this, than you, he loves you so fucking much, he’d trade his entire existence for one taste of you, of your lips, of your cursed cunt—he’s in flames, you’ve become a forest fire, torching everything in your wake, and he’ll burn with you, he’ll gladly burn to the ground if that’s what you want.

Your lips suck on the sensitive part of his neck, and it sends him spiraling—he’s bruising your thigh that’s against his hip, his fingers dig into your jaw, you’re blind with the entirety of him—you come, and you’re begging.

“Come with me—come inside me. Please, please—”

He needn’t be told twice; he chases after you, his own high overwhelming, but he stays moving inside you, painting your walls with his cum, breeding you, marking you. He faintly thinks if you get pregnant with his child, he’d marry you on the spot, would take care of the both of you, you’d never have to worry. He stills inside of you, both hands on your ass now, as he realizes the wavelength of his feelings, his own obsession—a family with you.

Chris doesn’t ponder over it for too long, knowing you’d freak out on him and he’d have to lose you all over again, but he thinks he can see it; a little girl in his arms, your warm voice filling his mind. He shakes his head, as his cock slips out of you, his hand reaching to tuck it back into his jeans.

Later—there’ll be time for that. But not now. He doesn’t think he can handle that right now, not when the monsters of his past are still threatening to knock down the very foundation of him.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, looking down, examining his wound. There’s blood peaking through the white of the bandage, and you sigh. “I have to change this.”

Chris smiles at you, without meaning to. His girl. His. He’d never take it—this—for granted. You worrying about him, your eyes staring at him softly. Never.

He’d never fuck this up. Never again.

“Tell me you love me,” he demands, but he’s still smiling, his face feels like the sun.

“I love you,” you say shyly, quietly.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

His forehead falls against yours, his hands on your arms, holding you in place.

“Again,” he whispers, eyes closed.

You brush your thumb on his cheek. “I love you, Chris,” you say earnestly. Proudly.

When he cups your face, you think you will never love anyone as much as you love him. There’s no one like him—no one you’d rather have. And when he drops a kiss on your forehead—home.

Nothing like it.