౨ৎ whats up buttercups! this is the lost paradise for a jumble of my works.
current requests can include: jjk, asoiaf, star wars, dc, spiderman, pjo/hoo/ttoa, the hunger games, yellowjackets, the boys, until dawn, avatar, sinners, + more to be added ! ౨ৎ
nsfw! Jason thinks he’s a way better match for you than his older brother.
Jason couldn't fathom how they had gotten here. How he came back to life after his deathly beating by the joker was one thing, but you getting with his brother? That was somehow harder to wrap his head around. Maybe it was his lingering childish dreams mixing with his fond memories of you, but he could swear up and down that you most certainly liked him more than his brother. More than liked, if he was really being honest...
Jason bit his tongue, not wanting to say the wrong thing and end up permanently exiled from your apartment. "I just... I don't get it. Why Dick?"
"What do you mean, 'why Dick?'" you shoot back, leaning forwards onto your hands that were propped up by your forearms that were resting on your knees. "Because he's nice. He's been there for me, always."
Jason's eyes slit at you, looking for more in your answer, more than what you gave. He had partially asked out of concern for your wellbeing, but partially out of concern for his own. "I mean," he sucked in a breath noisily as he slumped into the couch, trying to feign nonchalance while racking his brain to find the most appropriate way to propose what he wanted to ask. "I mean, in every timeline, do you think you would have picked Dick?"
"...What?" your voice full of blatant confusion. "In every- I mean, how am I supposed to know?" you huff, sniffing out what he was trying to get at and trying to shut it down.
"Don't play dumb," his tone becoming exasperated as he leans forwards towards you on the opposing couch. "It was never Dick, who used to be your favorite. It was never Dick, who you followed home after school. It was never Dick, ever. He was never your number one, I was," he pushed, his gaze locked on every part of you, looking for any tell that would give him the confirmation he needed. "Or am I wrong?"
That’s how you ended up like this.
Poor Dick was busy, too busy resulting in you being left alone with his younger brother he went off somewhere to play hooky. And that made Jason wonder how he would ever want to be anywhere but you.
“Yeah, does he make you feel like this? Huh?” His tone demanding an answer from you as his fingers curl up into you guts, pressing at just the right angles to make your limbs squirm. “Uh, uh,” you pant out like a bitch in heat, not able to think through an answer with the rate things were going.
Your dumbed out look makes him chuckle, despite how serious he meant his question to be. “No? Yeah? What’s the answer, girl?” His question paired by him pulling his fingers out, glistening in the shitty apartment lighting with your juices. Immediately, you whine hysterically as your hips wiggle and buck towards him, looking for more.
“Yes, no, fuck! I don’t- oh, Jay, please, more, please, please,” you babble with big glistening eyes as if the lack of his touch would make you burst into tears. In return, Jason scoffs, smacking your pussy, which lets a hollow wet sound ring in the air. “You want more? Hm?” He croons as he slowly dips back into you with the tips of his fingers. “Are you just aching when I’m gone? All your gonna think about in bed? It’s gonna be me, not Dick?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, fuck,” you spit out in the haze of your lust, moaning obscenely as he pushes all the way back into you. “So good, you got the right answer!” Jason mocks you as he speeds up as a reward. “How on earth did Grayson get such a good girl like you, huh?”
This time, you can’t be bothered to think as you feel your finish suffocate your thoughts. Jason slowly pumps his fingers in and out of you as you ride out your finish to completion, before pulling out and giving a light kiss to your inner thigh.
“I bet I could drag more of those outta you than Grayson ever could.”
summary After bonding over a shared love of horror films, you and Josh slip into something far stranger — a game of fear, control, and desire that blurs lines. Josh always believed horror and sex were two sides of the same coin — and with you, he finally gets to prove it.
wc 10k words
warnings explicit (MDNI!), PIV, masturbation (f. receiving + observed), oral (m. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), mask kink (wearing while bj!), dub-con elements, some non-con touching, psychological manipulation, soft coercion, fear-as-foreplay, voyeurism, praise kink, sub/dom dynamics (blurry), shame, slight obsession, situationship kinda vibe/hooking up - no aftercare
pairing josh washintgon x fem!reader (+ mentions of rest of until dawn gang)
You caught him staring before he ever said a word.
His eyes – dark, intent, half-lidded beneath the dim theatre glow – lingered on your face with a lazy, unashamed curiosity. When you finally glanced back at him, his mouth twitched into a smirk before he flicked his gaze to the screen, sinking lower in his seat like your gaze had scalded him.
But he kept looking. You felt his eyes drifting back during quiet scenes, heavy and hot on the back of your neck.
“Dude, just say hi, be cool,” Chris whispered urgently beside him.
“You’re one to talk. You still haven’t asked Ashley out,” Josh hissed back.
“Oh, that’s bull, dude. When was the last time you got laid?”
“I get laid plenty,” Josh lied smoothly. “Shut up – she’s about to gut him.”
Just as the final girl plunged the knife into the killer’s chest, you turned around sharply.
“Can you two please be quiet?” you snapped, your whisper edged with irritation.
They froze. In the flickering light, you could only half-make out their faces: the blond kid with glasses, slack-jawed in apology. Beside him, Josh slouched deeper into his seat, legs sprawled wide, staring up at you with a smirk curling lazily at his lips.
“Sorry about that,” the blond boy blurted, flushing scarlet.
Josh didn’t say anything at first. Just kept staring, eyes raking over your face, your parted lips, the quick rise and fall of your chest. Finally, he shrugged, voice casual.
“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your… immersive cinematic experience,” he said, his tone dripping with sardonic amusement.
You narrowed your eyes. A beat goes by before you find yourself asking, “Have you seen this before?”
His grin widened, showing teeth. “Yeah. Who hasn’t? Classic slasher structure. Hooper’s pacing is dogshit, though,” he said, scratching idly at his jaw. “But… y’know… final girl’s hot as fuck. I’d pay to see her gut him again.”
“Dude,” Chris muttered beside him, elbowing him hard.
“What?” Josh scoffed, still staring at you. “She knows what I mean. Women ‘n all… you get it, right? Like… lighting, framing… hot girls with knives. It’s, like, feminist or whatever.”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh despite yourself. “Sure. Real feminist masterpiece, with all the gratuitous tit shots.”
He didn’t flinch at your sarcasm. Just kept smiling, gaze roving over you like he was cataloguing each curve, each twitch, filing them away for later.
“I'm Josh,” he introduced.
You scoffed softly at that, hesitating before giving your name in return. He repeated it back to you, tasting it carefully, as if he was already imagining how it would sound gasped against his mouth.
“Real nice meeting you. See you around,” you said, gathering your bag.
“See you,” Chris muttered, clearly mortified by his friend.
Josh watched you leave, biting back a grin when you glanced over your shoulder at him one last time.
Chris exhaled as the credits rolled. “‘Women ‘n all’? Real smooth.”
Josh ignored him. His mind was already elsewhere.
Josh spent most of his childhood in the back row of private screening rooms – the kind lined with dark wood panelling and silent carpet that swallowed every footstep. He’d sit for hours watching rough cuts projected onto a screen three times his height, flickering under the low hum of the ancient projector.
His father always sat two rows down with directors and writers, notebooks balanced on their knees, murmuring to each other between mouthfuls of stale theatre coffee.
“Needs more blood here.”
“Bring out the eroticism. Right now it’s too sterile.”
“Her fear feels fake. We need the real thing.”
Josh would rest his chin on his knees and watch actresses scream, mascara smudged down porcelain cheeks. Watch latex wounds split open to reveal carefully layered gore, painted and sculpted by hands steadier than his own ever were.
He’d listen to the conversation drifting back to him – talk of framing, of lighting for skin, of the optimal colour grade for arterial spray.
Nobody ever called it beautiful. But to him, that’s exactly what it was.
He learned early that horror was an art of contradiction.
You show people what they fear most, but you frame it so perfectly they can’t look away. It was the only genre honest enough to admit that people wanted to see the worst parts of themselves. Wanted to watch a body torn apart under warm tungsten light, blood blooming across linoleum in shades so vivid it almost felt holy.
Sometimes he wondered if his father noticed him there at all.
The men would talk over him, discussing how to make a woman scream just right. How far you could push an audience before they flinched. How many seconds of nudity before the MPAA threatened a rating bump. How many seconds you could leave her dying on-screen before the audience lost sympathy.
“It’s always a balancing act,” his father once said absently to a director. “Fear and desire. You give them too much fear, they’ll look away. Too much desire, they’ll feel ashamed. Just enough of both, and you own them.”
Josh never forgot that. He thought about it every time he picked up his dad’s old camera.
Every time he watched his mother slip silently out of the theatre before the screaming started. Every time he saw a girl’s eyes go wide in a movie and felt something bloom tight in his chest. Every time he fucked, hoping to see that same cocktail of shock, fear, and trembling want.
He went to every horror screening that week, hoping you’d show. Maybe it was pathetic. But then again, he was used to feeling pathetic.
When he saw you at the popcorn machine before Dawn of the Dead, his chest clenched painfully with something like relief.
You were struggling with a jammed tray when he sidled up behind you, close enough for his chest to brush your back.
“I think it’s broken.”
You barely glanced at him until you recognised his voice. “Oh- Oh! It’s you.”
He chuckled softly under his breath, licking his lips as his eyes flicked down your back, lingering at the curve of your ass before darting back up.
“Josh, right?” you said.
“You can call me whatever you want, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice dropping lower, testing your reaction.
You rolled your eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “That’s cute. You just come out of a showing of 1981’s Dracula or something?”
“No, no… here for Romero,” he said, jerking his chin at the screen listing. “You?”
“Same. I’ll take any chance to watch something in 35mm.”
He smirked. “I like 60mm better.”
You sipped your Slurpee, not missing how his eyes flicked to your lips around the straw. A moment goes by as you think about what to say next. “You know, I’ve got basically all of Romero on blu-ray.” You tell.
“No kidding,” he hummed. “I collect DVDs too. My friends call me weird for it. ‘Why bother when you have streaming?’ 'n all that.”
“Same here. I just like the idea of physically holding it and–”
“–actually owning it,” he finished for you, voice quiet and reverent. “Well, uh, I watch them with a projector in my room. If you ever wanted… I could probably show you any movie you like.”
You smiled at that, amused by his audacity. “Is that right? This your line, then? You wanna show me your little Criterion collection?”
He grinned. “Is it working?”
You shrugged. “Depends. If you help me get my popcorn, I’ll give the thought a chance longer than five seconds.”
He nodded. “Well, that thing’s broken. But, coincidentally, I have a large popcorn that two people could share. And I am here all alone, and you seem to be as well.”
“...Seriously?”
“What? You don’t like the m&ms I mixed up with it?”
You sighed, then nodded. “Fine. We share.”
You didn’t exactly know why you entertained Josh.
You didn’t know why you accepted his offer to go to the diner after the movie – him insisting on paying, waving off your wallet with an obnoxious little flourish. You didn’t know why you let him put his number in your phone, his thumb lingering just a little too long against yours as he handed it back.
You didn’t know why you texted him the next day.
Or why you kept texting him after that. Or why, weeks later, you still found yourself slipping out on quiet evenings to sit beside him in darkened theatres, half-listening to his muttered commentary as you watched girls scream on screen.
But you did know he was… odd.
And you didn’t mind that.
In truth, you’d always found yourself orbiting towards oddness – people and things with jagged edges, with a darkness tucked somewhere quiet behind their eyes. For a long time, you kept whatever interest you had in horror mostly to yourself. Your friends tolerated it politely, the way one might tolerate a friend’s sudden enthusiasm for botany or stamp collecting. They didn’t get it. Not really.
Your exes had tried, in their own half-hearted ways. One had watched The Descent with you, then spent a week unable to sleep without a lamp on. Another had lasted twenty minutes into the original Suspiria before leaving the room in disgust, telling you there was “something seriously fucked up” about liking films like that.
So Josh, in that sense, was… convenient. Comforting, almost. Because he out-weirded you.
He out-weirded everyone.
When he spoke about horror, his voice lost its performative cockiness. He became precise, almost reverent, flicking through references to Savini, Hooper, Carpenter, Argento, Fulci with an encyclopaedic devotion.
It wasn’t performative film-bro theory; it was something deeper, older, messier. The way priests must have once spoken about their saints. He knew each death scene the way religious scholars know lines of scripture.
He told you about his family, how his dad won awards, wanting to follow in his footsteps. You watched some of his dad’s movies. They were cool, proper gory, classic style horrors. They looked full of life despite being filled with death.
And when Josh spoke about fear, about violence, about women screaming on screen, there was a frankness to it. No apologetic deflection. No moral caveats. Just honesty. And you realised, perhaps with relief, that it was the first time you’d met someone who didn’t try to sanitise horror to make it palatable for conversation.
You liked dancing around how badly he wanted you — though some nights, you couldn’t quite tell how. Sometimes he looked at you like a muse, ready to cast you as his perfect final girl. Other times, like a director, hungry for direction, a fish hook in hand and bodies waiting to be slashed.
It was unsettling, and you knew he liked that. And you wouldn’t entertain this the way you did if you knew you didn’t either.
A low-budget slasher is playing on the big outdoor screen. Half the cars are steamed up already. Someone honks too long. Somewhere, popcorn spills. You're parked up near the back, windows down. The air smells like grass and gasoline. The film flickers over both your faces, cutting you into shadow and light.
You’re half-curled in the passenger seat, feet on the dash, licking at a red lollipop you didn’t even want, just something to do. Josh is behind the wheel, hand half-in a bag of sour gummy worms, not really eating them.
Onscreen, a girl screams. Not a good scream. The bad kind — too shrill, too fake.
You say, without looking at him, “Does this turn you on?”
He laughs — short and low. You smile a bit at his lack of response, also amused that you actually had the balls to ask him.
“No judgement. Just… we watch so many of these. You always have a look in your eye,” You elaborate, and then repeat. “Is this what gets you off?”
He doesn’t seem at all hurt or upset by the question, actually, he seems rather spurred on, now facing you. “What, the scream?”
You glance over. “The whole thing. Knife, tits, punishment,” You fake your own final girl scream, weak and flailing, mocking. “Ahhh.”
Josh makes a face like he’s pretending to think. “I mean. She’s hot.”
“...But?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, sure, the screaming's hot, tits are nice ‘n all, but… you know, i-it’s more about build-up. You know. Power, threat, tension. Fear pulling everything taut.” He reaches over, snaps the lollipop out of your mouth and bites it himself without asking. “It’s not about the blood and sit. It’s… It’s really about what might happen just before it does.”
You let him take it. He acted on impulse. With you, it felt easy, like you’d let him do anything to you. Maybe you would. So you something maybe a little dumb. “So like sex.”
Josh chews. Slowly. “Exactly like sex. Sex and horror are the same thing, don’t you think?”
You furrow your brows and shrug. “Explain.”
He sighs, thinking for a moment. “Well.. It... You know that moment right before you cum—when everything in your body tightens, like you’re on the edge of something huge and terrifying and perfect, and it’s like, for a total split second you don’t even know if it’s going to feel good or if it’s going to break you?”
You blink at him. Slowly. The flickering light from the screen dances across his jaw. He looks serious now, not like he’s trying to be gross or edgy. Just honest. He masterfully is all three.
“That,” he says, finally. “That’s the same feeling as when someone’s walking down a dark hallway in these movies, and the music’s all tense, and you know something’s about to jump out, but you don’t know from where. That second before the knife. Before the scream. Before release.”
He turns back to the screen, voice lower now. “That’s horror. It’s the whole game. It’s not the knife, it’s not the scream. It’s the breath riiiight before the scream. It’s possibility. The not-knowing. Something’s coming, and your body feels it before your mind can even begin to catch up.”
You blink. The screen lights his profile — cheekbone sharp, jaw clenched — and for a moment he doesn’t look like Josh. He looks like the thing in the dark.
“Horror and sex are the same because they strip you down to nerve endings,” he says. “Both of them are-are looking for the exact same response, right? Make you… you know, hyper-aware of your body. Make you wait. Anticipate. It's all control and surrender. Tension and release.”
You swallow. Loud in your own ears. He’s still talking, quiet but certain.
“One wants to fuck you. The other wants to kill you. But both want you on your back, wide-eyed, whimpering."
There’s a long beat. The girl onscreen starts crying now, barefoot and blood-slick, running through a fog-machine forest. You glance at Josh, just once. He’s watching you again.
You say, almost too quiet, “So… do you want to fuck me or kill me?”
He doesn’t blink. “Same thing, isn’t it?”
And when the scream hits, sharp and desperate, it almost sounds like laughter. Maybe that’s just you.
Something shifted that night. Subtle, but permanent—like a hairline crack in glass that you can’t unsee once it’s there. You couldn’t help it. It felt good being seen the way he saw you. Like you were the strongest and weakest thing in the world. A holy contradiction. A mirror he didn’t want to look into, but couldn’t stop staring at.
One night at a frat party neither of you really wanted to be at, Josh got drunk faster than expected.
Like, wasted — the kind of drunk where jokes slur into nonsense but everyone laughs anyway. You bumped into him near the kitchen, and he wouldn’t shut up, tossing out dumb puns and bad impressions that made you roll your eyes... but smile anyway.
His grin was too wide. A little wild. Like he was trying to convince himself that everything was fine.
“See this girl?” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder in a sloppy side hug. “My movie woman, isn’t that right?”
You felt your face burn. His friends cheered like they were at a football game.
“Can’t believe you found someone who matches your horror movie freakshow,” Jess — blonde, glossy, already half-drunk — teased as she wrapped herself around her boyfriend Mike. “No offense, girl.”
“None taken,” you muttered, trying not to seem bothered.
“And she’s hot, right, Chris?” Josh added, grinning. “Hottest fucking face when she gets scared, I swear. You gotta see it.”
Chris stammered, clearly uncomfortable, throwing a quick glance toward the girl next to him — Ashley, you remembered. Mousey, quiet. Definitely not enjoying the show either.
You elbowed Josh lightly. “You smell like stale beer and regret,” you muttered, trying to laugh it off.
He laughed too — way too loud.
Later, you ditched your own friends to keep him steady. He’d tipped past the fun drunk stage and into the swaying, mumbly one. You guided him into a random upstairs bedroom so he could crash. The place reeked of weed, sweat, and years of spilled beer. You told him to stay put while you grabbed water.
He didn’t.
When you got back, the room was empty.
Panic tightened in your chest as you searched the house. You finally found him barefoot and shirtless on the roof, crouched beside the window frame like some half-lost ghost. He was staring out into the dark — the in-between spaces where streetlights didn’t reach.
“Josh?” you called.
No answer.
You waited. After a moment, he blinked — like your voice had just broken through a fog. Slowly, he turned to look at you, expression slack. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Was somewhere else.”
You didn’t ask where. You didn’t want to know.
But then his face changed. Subtle — like a shadow passing behind his eyes. The softness hardened. His pupils narrowed. His voice turned low, almost flat.
“You don’t belong here,” he said.
The words didn’t sound like his. They felt… wrong.
Then, as quickly as the mask had slipped on, it slid back off. He blinked again. Shook his head, like he was waking up. “Shit. I didn’t— I didn’t mean that. 'M sorry, my head just gets... loud.”
You nodded slowly. “I’m gonna go get Chris, alright?”
He didn’t stop you. But his eyes stayed locked on you as you walked away, and the weight of that gaze lingered the rest of the night — through shots with Sam, through fake laughter in the Uber, through brushing your teeth alone in the bathroom at 2:40 AM.
You weren’t sure if he wanted to kiss you or kill you.
You weren’t sure which option scared you more.
He looked at you like you might ruin him. Like he wanted you to. Like maybe that was the point.
You knew he was medicated. Knew he struggled to keep the thing in his head caged. Knew that some nights he was all teeth and nerves and couldn’t remember what he said in the morning.
But around you, he wasn’t calmer. He wasn’t safer. He was just… more.
And then—there was another night.
Too late for calls. 2:07 AM. Your phone lit up with his name.
You hesitated. Something clenched in your stomach. Then you answered.
Silence.
Then: “I’m outside.”
You peered through the window.
He was standing just beyond the porch light’s reach — arms crossed, body still, face unreadable in the half-dark. Pale. Like he’d been waiting a long time.
Your gut twisted. You texted your best friend Josh is here — just in case, before unlocking the door.
You stepped out slowly, the night cool against your skin. “Hey.”
He looked up like he hadn’t expected you to answer. His eyes were too sharp. Not drunk. Not high. Something else. Something fraying.
“You’re really giving me some It Follows vibes,” you said, trying to sound casual. “You good?”
He scratched at his jaw. “Yeah. Fine.”
You studied him. “How long have you been here?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
A pause.
“Can I come in?” He tried.
You crossed your arms, suddenly very aware of your thin pyjamas. “Does anyone else know you’re here?”
“No. Why does that matter?”
“Because it’s two in the morning, Josh.”
His eyes flashed — defensive, almost insulted. “What — do you think I’m gonna hurt you or something?”
“I don’t know what I think,” you said carefully. “We watch movies together. I like you. But this is a little... intense.”
He stared at you. His shoulders twitched. Then a smile curled across his face. Not warm. Not reassuring. “You scared?”
You didn’t answer.
“I like that,” he murmured. “I like seeing that in your face. That little edge. Makes me wanna see how far I could push it.”
You took a step back. He mirrored you. Close enough now to touch.
“This is like Nightcrawler,” he said suddenly. “You seen it?”
You shook your head.
“Good movie. You’d like it. We could watch it now.”
You blinked. “Josh… Why are you here?”
He looked down. Voice cracked, quieter. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
That cracked something in you.
“My parents are ghosts. My apartment’s freezing. My sisters aren’t picking up. I don’t know what else to do, okay? Can’t I just—fuckin’—hang out with a hot girl and watch a movie?”
Silence.
You swallowed. “One movie. I have work in the morning.”
You should’ve said no.
You should’ve told him to go.
But instead, you opened the door, made him tea, and sat on the opposite side of the couch while Jake Gyllenhaal played a sociopath on screen. You kept your feet tucked under you and your phone nearby.
Part of you was scared of what he’d do if you sent him away.
The other part was scared of how much you didn’t want to.
Josh was broken in ways that felt familiar. And he never made you feel strange for the rot you carried. The stuff that made your skin itch. The cruelty you sometimes imagined without guilt.
You could say things to him that would make someone else call a therapist. He’d just grin and go, “I totally get it.”
And maybe that’s what every girl wants.
You were curled up on his carpet, knees hugged to your chest, watching as he fiddled with the projector wires by the window. His apartment was dark, lit only by the pulsing blue of the paused DVD menu on the wall. Dust floated lazily through the light beams, and his silhouette shifted back and forth, muttering under his breath.
Here you were. Accepting that ridiculous line as he showed off his little Criterion Collection. It worked on you, that’s for sure.
“You sure it’s working?” you asked, sipping your drink. It was too strong, and you winced a little.
Josh glanced over his shoulder at you, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Probably. Unless it fries and explodes, in which case… y’know. Free fireworks.”
You snorted softly, shaking your head. “Great. Love risking death for a midnight horror marathon.”
He turned back to the wires but shrugged, his tone casual. “It’d be a pretty cinematic way to go.”
“Mm. Very Final Destination,” you murmured, swirling the liquid in your cup.
There was a short silence as he plugged in the final cord. The projector whirred to life with a sudden mechanical clunk — a sound that felt too loud in the dark. You watched dust swirl in the blue static light, lazy and slow, like ash.
Josh crouched low by the cables, muttering. The shadows cut him up weird — all jaw and shoulder, all sharp edges where there shouldn't be. You sipped your drink. It was too strong. Bitter. Something sweet layered under rot.
“You sure it’s working?” you asked.
He glanced back at you, hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah. Probably. Unless it fries and explodes.”
You raised a brow. “Great. Love risking death for a midnight horror marathon.”
He didn’t laugh this time. Just smiled to himself. “It’d be a pretty cinematic way to go.”
The screen flickered, throwing up the DVD menu. The trailer loop started again, screaming in stutters. You stared at the blue glow until the title font burned behind your eyes.
He stood, slow. Drifted to the DVD shelf, one hand stuffed into his hoodie, the other trailing along the spines like they were bones. Humming under his breath. Calm. Too calm.
You got up and joined him.
“Martyrs, Inside, Audition…” you listed. “Jesus, are you trying to get me on a watchlist just for being in the same room as you?”
Josh didn’t look at you. He was focused on a case, thumb worrying a cracked corner. “What, you scared of subtitles?”
“I’m scared of you getting hard at Takashi Miike movies.”
He made a low sound — not quite a laugh. Then: “You think I don’t?”
Your mouth opened. Closed. You grabbed the nearest DVD just to do something with your hands.
“You know normal people have Pixar collections.”
He shrugged. “Normal people are liars.”
You held up Inside. The cover was scratched. Watched too many times. “You’ve got, like… a fetish for this shit.”
His eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “I like what’s honest.”
“Honest?” you echoed.
He took the case from your hand, fingers brushing yours, voice quiet. “Yeah. It’s not polished. It doesn’t clean up the mess. It says, ‘this is what people are.’”
You were going to make a joke. You were halfway to rolling your eyes. But something in his face stopped you. Not hunger — not exactly. Something quieter. More patient. Like he was waiting for a switch to flip.
“That's bleak,” you muttered.
He smiled at the floor. “People are bleak.”
Then he slid the DVD into the player, and everything felt colder.
The movie started. You sat on the bed. His bed. You pulled your knees up, sipped the drink again. It still tasted wrong.
Josh didn’t sit yet. He stood in front of the projector light, casting a huge, stuttering silhouette on the wall — head tilted, arms crossed. You watched the shadow of him twitch and blur. It looked like something crawling.
You said nothing.
He finally settled beside you, close enough that the heat from his body pressed softly against your arm, but not quite touching. The silence between you stretched, heavy and loud—more than the flicker of the brutal movie throwing jagged shadows around the room. No rhythm, no story, just relentless, raw impact.
“What’s your first movie gonna be like?” you asked, breaking the quiet, voice low.
He hummed, eyes on the screen for a moment before a slow smile pulled at his lips. “Maybe a comedy.”
You blinked, surprised. A short laugh escaped you. “Seriously? Mr. Hundreds-of-horror-movies, walls covered in blood and gore, dad a horror legend… and now comedy?”
Both of you had seen this film a few times. It wasn’t like you were particularly eager to rewatch it, so, may as well have a conversation.
He shrugged, a hint of something dangerous in his smirk. “Horror comedy. It’s easy to scare people. Hard to make ‘em laugh.”
“True,” you nodded, curious despite yourself.
“Like… teenagers at a summer camp. You know, the usual suspects—the jock, the clown, the whore. But the kicker—the whore’s the killer. Always been sharp, just hiding it.”
You hum and shake your head at that. It rang cliché for someone like Josh.
“You don’t like it?” He raises his brows. “Fine. Drop the comedy. What makes you scared?”
You shrug, thinking for a moment, shuffling through your own mental list of horror films that truly scared you. “I don’t know. Being trapped, unable to escape.”
“Right. Then… alright, horror movie, four people stuck underground with a mysterious being. Light barely on… voices make them go crazy, turn on each other,” He goes on. “And… as time goes on, one of them just… fuckin’ snaps. Loses it and kills one. Then… They eat each other to survive. Or they all fuck. Maybe both.”
You blink, surprised at how casually he drops that last bit. “Gross.”
“Oh come on. You’d watch it. I know you would, and—and you’d probably drag me to AMC at 11 at night for a surprise 50mm session,” He counters.
Beat. “35mm, I don’t care about 50m,” You correct.
“You’d watch it. And you’d love it. Probably be turned on by it too.”
You scoff. “Says you. Why do they have to eat each other?”
“Threesome underground horror fucking? I’d get that on blu ray.”
You roll your eyes but it doesn’t hold much weight as your lip twitches with a smile. “At least it’s not that cliché.” You pause, eyes flicking to the screen as a shriek rips through the speakers — another kill, raw and ragged. “You’re probably the guy who snaps.” You add, casually.
You’ve done this version of pitching movies a few times. Drive-ins, diners, car rides on the way back, all of that. Josh always had to have some sort of bad twist, no ending that was ever tied up nicely or resolved, there had to be a twist, and that usually came from a character snapping. It was just a pattern you’d noticed with him. He loved characters on the precipice.
He blinks, like the thought’s new. “What d’you mean?”
You shrug, heart thudding a little too fast. “I dunno. You always talk about breaking points. Like, when someone loses it, flips out. I wonder if you’re waiting for that too.”
He looks at you then, his face folding into something unreadable. The blue light flickers over his jawline, shadows stretching like claws. He doesn’t find a response, quiet settling between you both as the movie actually starts to get not horrifically bad.
You’re worried for a moment that you’ve offended him, but the thought leaves quickly when you remember who you’re thinking about.
The movie’s scream tore through the darkened room again—raw, jagged, desperate. It echoed in your chest, reverberating beneath the brittle silence that stretched between you. The flickering screen painted his face in shifting shadows, half-hidden, half-revealed, like some restless predator waiting in the dark.
He settled beside you at last, close enough that the heat of his body pressed faintly against your arm—soft, invasive. Not quite touching, but heavy with a charged promise that made your skin crawl and burn all at once. The silence around you wasn’t empty; it was thick with something unspoken, something waiting to snap.
Do you want to kill me, or fuck me?
The question still hung there, raw and unfinished, a razor sliding against your nerves. Neither answer fits. Neither felt enough.
His hand moved before you could react. Warm fingers slid onto your thigh with an effortless certainty—as if your body was already his territory, like the touch was inevitable. The slow, deliberate pressure beneath your skirt teased something feral beneath your skin.
You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. The fire was already there, lacing through your veins, mixing with the cold edge of fear.
The brutal scene on screen faded to a distant blur. Your breath caught when his thumb grazed just below your skirt’s hem, slow and deliberate. Your heart thundered, erratic and wild, a sound louder than the movie’s screams.
By the time the fifth kill flashed across the screen—a wet, violent garrotting in a rusted tub—you turned your head, a shaky laugh slipping free, disbelief mixed with a thrill you couldn’t place. And then he was there, fast and sudden. His mouth crashed onto yours like a storm breaking through a fragile calm.
You froze. Shock flooded your senses. Eyes wide, breath caught.
The space between you shattered.
The film’s brutal soundtrack shrank into silence beneath the roar of your blood.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even hungry. It was sick. Like a need that had turned into something moldy and wet. Teeth dragged your lip raw, tongue insistent. His hand slid up to your throat — not hard. But enough.
You pull away from him, just caught off guard. He mutters a curse at that.
You glare at him, words weak on your tongue as you open your mouth and shut it. You reach for him again, shutting your eyes as you press your lips onto his again.
You arch into him, pulse hammering. You deepened the kiss, a light moan escaping you as his fingers curled their way around the nape of your neck, tugging you closer to him.
His other hand, still on your thigh, immediately rose up, pushing up the fabric. Something about this classic scenario felt so cliche. Watching a scary movie with the scary guy late at night. Maybe there was a killer after both of you now.
Shit, you’d probably both die if this was a horror movie.
Your brain is swirling with the possible kills that would happen to you. You’d obviously get to run first. Josh, maybe knife in the chest or something. You’d have to do a pretty scream, right before you’re hacked up and they cut to the title card, and then-
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against your jaw, interrupting your thoughts.
You don’t.
Your lips are rough, skin pushing against each other, quick, hasty, impulsive as the movie is near forgotten.
“You like this,” he says. “You like thinking I might snap. Right?”
His fingers dig in a little harder. You gasp — not entirely in protest. The truth is, Josh very much could. You don’t know what it would look like. Him… snapping. Whatever that meant. Maybe he’d make news for trying to recreate a gory prank on his friends, or something stupid like that. Maybe he’d hide you away. Or chase you.
Maybe he already has snapped.
You didn’t mind as much as you probably should.
“Say it,” he demands.
You swallow hard. Whisper, trembling, “I like it. I like—fuck—how close you get.”
He shifts over you now, pushing you into his pillows, his weight heavy, the projector whirring and the movie on. You’re barely keeping up. Every touch walks a razor's edge between pleasure and panic, and you swear it’s all the same thing.
Josh moves like he owns you, like he earned this, like he’s waited long enough to take. And he talks — always talking — voice low in your ear, dark little promises.
“I could make you cry.”
“I could make you scream.”
“I bet no one’s ever really ruined you.”
You clench around nothing.
“You’re fucked,” you breathe.
“I know,” he says with a faint chuckle, grinning, eager. “So are you.”
And when he finally pushes inside you, it’s like a breaking point. Everything shatters — control, composure, maybe even reality. Your nails scratch his back hard enough to bleed. He groans like that’s what he wanted. Like he needs pain to feel good.
You lock eyes. And in the flicker of the movie screen — shadow, light, shadow — he looks feral. And beautiful.
You whisper, voice shuddering with admittance, “You scare me.”
He smiles, then kisses you again—like your fear only fuels him, making him even more alive, more turned on.
You kept hooking up after that.
It wasn’t sweet or tender. It was something else – messier, sharper. Like each of you were using the other to scratch an itch just out of reach. It was all about control and release with both of you. Giving, relinquishing, taking, experiencing.
You came back to his place after a late showing of Suspiria, still pulsing with the strange, electric violence of it. The remake, not the original—though he’d spent the entire car ride home dissecting the differences like it was a sacred text. You let him talk.
He was good when he got like that. Animated. Weirdly precise. His fingers twitching like he wanted to grab a camera himself.
“Jesus, the way she screamed,” he was saying as he unlocked the door, voice pitched low like he couldn’t let go of the high. “Not the usual horror shriek. Y'know? Real panic. Wet. And the lighting? That high-contrast hell-red bleeding down the stairwell? Argento’s legacy crawling up her spine like rot. That’s... that's cinema.”
The second you were inside, he kicked the door shut and turned to her. His mouth crashed into hers without warning—open, urgent, his teeth catching her lip. You gasped but didn’t pull away. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and he crowded into your space like a man possessed.
He tasted like soda and heat and something darker, and the way he kissed was hungry, like he was trying to eat the fear right out of your mouth. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripped your hip through the denim, fingers bruising, locking you still.
“That scene,” he murmured between kisses, breath ragged, lips hot against your jaw. “When she’s tangled in the wire, and the camera just lingers, doesn’t cut away. Like your own goddamn skin’s tearing. She fucking howls. Shit’s primal. Fucking transcendent.”
His knee shoved between your thighs, prying your legs apart, and your breath caught hard in your throat. Your body answered before your brain did—hips rocking forward against the pressure, heart thudding a little too loud. You laughed, breathless.
“You good?” You find yourself asking with how animated he’s being.
“Yeah,” he said, almost too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just—fuck—I need you.”
He spun you around and pushed you toward the kitchen counter, pressing against her from behind. His hands slid under your shirt, dragging it up roughly to expose the soft skin of your waist. You shivered.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck, his hands slipping beneath your bra cups, fingers eagerly circling one nipple. “C’mon…”
But you didn’t. You pressed back into him instead, her body pulsing with the residual thrill of the movie, with him, with the danger humming just beneath the surface. You felt the hardness of him through his jeans, grinding against your ass, his breath hitching as he pushed her harder into the counter.
“God, you’re so—” he started, but didn’t finish.
His mouth was too busy. Hot lips at your ear, then your neck, then biting down gently on your shoulder as his hand slipped past the waistband, down into the heat between your thighs, fingers finding you already warm and wanting. He groaned low in your ear, rocking his hips forward so you could feel the stiff line of him through his jeans, grinding slow and deliberate.
“God,” he muttered, breath hitching against your neck. “You’re so—fuck.”
His hand moved slow and deliberate between your legs, two fingers slick and relentless, while the other arm wrapped firm around your waist, locking you to him like you might disappear. His chest was flush against your back, the heat of him overwhelming, grounding. Each kiss he pressed to your shoulder or jaw came edged with teeth, more bite than comfort, more tension than sweetness.
You let yourself sink into him—into the weight, the want, the friction and static of everything coiled between you. His breath dragged rough through his nose. You could feel the restraint in his hold. Barely.
Then he whispered, voice low and scratchy, half-laughing, half-serious, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear: “Scream like her, yeah?”
Your stomach dropped in a twist of lust and unease—confusion and thrill braided together. You didn’t have time to question it before he shoved two fingers into you, fast and full, and his thumb was already there, circling your clit like he knew exactly how to unravel you.
“Shit—Josh,” you gasped, hips jerking.
“Come on, babe,” he said, voice strained, coaxing but desperate. “You can be real good for me, can’t you?”
Your hand scrambled behind you, grabbing at the back of his neck for balance, fingers curling in his hair as he groaned at the contact. You moaned again as he hit the right spot, that fluttering sweet ache blooming deep, hips instinctively grinding down against his hand.
“Good,” he rasped, his voice deeper now, guttural. “See? You’re so good for me. Fuck.”
You clenched around him at his words, his praise like gasoline on fire. He didn’t slow down. If anything, he shifted—thumb speeding up in tight, rhythmic circles, while his fingers pumped slower, thicker, pushing deep and curling up just enough to make your vision spark.
You were moving now, grinding against his palm like you needed it—chasing it, matching his rhythm. His mouth grazed your shoulder, teeth dragging over your skin as if marking you.
Your breath came fast, broken. You were already close.
“Right… right there. Fuck—Josh,” you moaned, his name the only thing you could hold onto.
He grunted into your skin, hips pressing hard into your ass like he couldn’t help himself. “You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I could keep you like this.”
Just as you were about to come, your moans high-pitched and frantic, he pulled his fingers out, making you swear in frustration. Wet fingers trailed briefly back to your breasts before landing at your mouth, pressing the taste onto your tongue. You grunted, caught off guard, but licked it off anyway, hearing him groan at that.
He pulled the rest of your jeans down, helping you shimmy them off along with your panties, tossing them aside.
He wasn’t any softer as he undid his belt quickly, sliding his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself before shoving into you from behind. You clenched tightly around him, rough and raw.
After that first thrust, both of you moaned in unison—wild, desperate, and utterly consuming.
His hands grabbed your hips like iron, yanking you hard as he drove into you with brutal, unforgiving force. Every thrust was jagged, raw, as if he was fucking to mark you—claim you—without mercy. The heavy smack of skin against skin filled the room, pounding out a savage rhythm that matched the wild beat of your heart.
You moaned loudly, feeling his length through you, hard, hitting just the right angle. Your face angled towards his, and you felt his hand grab your jaw, forcing your lips to his for only a moment. You separated and arched your body onto the counter, cool against your skin, goosebumps along your waist, breath stuttering in gasps, your body burning, stretched wide with every deep, relentless thrust.
Heat pooled low and tight, snapping and coiling in your core, sharp and overwhelming. Overstimulation pricked at the edges, and it only made it more intense, more addictive.
You arched your back hard against him, hands scrabbling at the counter beneath you to keep steady. Your breath came ragged and raggeder, eyes squeezed shut as fire blazed through you.
Then with a guttural curse, he slammed into you harder, deeper—jerking you over the edge. Your climax ripped through you like a damn breaking, wild and loud, your voice shattering the silence with a desperate, ragged scream.
He held you tight through every tremor, chest pressed hard against your back, murmuring filthy praise that made your skin crawl and burn. "There she is. There she is, right? You're my... my favourite final girl." The weight of him was crushing and grounding all at once—terrifying, possessive—and you never wanted it to stop.
And the thought settled strangely between your ribs—something possessive, something worshipful, something a little too intense.
You didn’t really know what you were. Neither of you cared to label it. Labels were for people who wanted order, control, clarity—and whatever this was, it thrived in the messy, the undefined. You existed in a rhythm entirely your own, mostly existing after 8PM.
You didn’t bother explaining it to your friends. Eventually, they stopped asking. They got the memo when you’d casually say you were headed to Josh’s or that he was picking you up for a movie. There was an unspoken understanding. A glance. A smirk.
“Yeah, that’s code for getting dicked down by the movie freak,” one of them remarked once.
You’d just laughed, because really, what else could you say?
That was probably the most accurate way to put it. It wasn’t romantic, but it wasn’t nothing. It was sweat-slicked skin and late-night films and bruises blooming in secret places. It was feeling seen in the darkness of a theatre seat or under flickering TV light while some fucked-up horror scene played on. It was the safety of being ruined by someone who understood how badly you wanted to be.
You weren’t dating, but you knew how he liked his coffee. He wasn’t your boyfriend, but he knew what your silence meant when you lay beside him and didn’t speak. There were no pictures of you together, no texts that said “I miss you,” but there was gravity. A pull. Something that felt inevitable and too complicated to name.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe naming it would’ve broken it.
When he showed you his movie memorabilia collection, your eyes were drawn immediately to a mask he was working on. You took one look and couldn’t help but grin. “Put it on,” you challenged.
It was a grotesque thing—pale and cracked, with soulless, gummy eyes and teeth that looked like they’d been chewed on and spat out. It reminded you of a clown, or maybe a scarecrow gone wrong. It fucking freaked you out.
“You like it?” he murmured, voice low.
“It’s scary,” you said, folding your arms but still unable to tear your eyes away.
Without a word, he lifted the mask and slid it over his face. As he did, something in him shifted. His shoulders straightened, his posture changed—he seemed taller, broader, more imposing. You caught a glimpse of one iris through the cracked eyehole, but mostly it was the hollow gaze of the mask staring back at you.
He looked down at you, but you weren’t sure if it was really him looking or just the mask.
You bit back a small, nervous smile. Your heartbeat sped up, partly from the thrill of the mask’s unsettling presence, but partly from something else—the way he stood there, still and quiet, radiating a new kind of intensity.
“This is like… something out of The Strangers,” you offered, voice a little breathy. “Except in that movie, the killers actually talk. And in this one...” you trailed off, unable to finish.
He said nothing, but his silence stretched and thickened the space between you.
“Josh?” you tried again, stepping a little closer.
He was still wearing his usual clothes—dark blue flannel rolled up to his elbows, grey shirt beneath, dark denim jeans and worn Converse—but with that mask, he felt like someone else. Something darker. Something more dangerous.
Your fingers itched to reach out, to touch the cracked surface covering his face, to pull it off—or maybe, to let him keep it on. Your breath caught as the air between you shifted, charged and heavy.
You swallowed, meeting the hollow stare of the mask, and the way his body leaned subtly toward you, like a predator circling his prey.
“Josh, take it off,” You tried.
“Why? You said it scares you. C’mon, it’s fun now,” He said, voice a little muffled beneath the mask, but just as lilted and excited.
You just nodded, meek and breathless, as he moved closer, the air thickening between you. Your back bumped against the table of props, a cold, hard surface anchoring you in place. His forearms pressed down on either side, trapping you against it. His hands gripped the edge tightly, veins standing out as if holding himself back from snapping.
Your eyes traveled over him—over the rough flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the faint scar on his wrist, down to the hard length pressing insistently beneath his jeans. Your breath caught, heat pooling low and sharp, a raw ache blooming behind your ribs.
He tilted his head slowly, like a wild animal appraising its prey—curious, possessive, predatory. The cracked mask hid most of his expression, but the glint of his dark iris through the shattered eyehole held you captive. It was a challenge and a promise all at once.
Without thinking, your fingers found his belt buckle, trembling as you undid it. The sound of the leather loosening filled the quiet room. The tension coiled tighter, wrapping around you both like a living thing.
His breath came ragged, shallow, almost strangled as your hand slid beneath the waistband of his jeans. Your skin tingled where it brushed his—the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric. You wrapped your fingers around him, slick and warm, every twitch sending jolts of fire through you—sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Your gaze locked onto his through the broken mask. The hollow stare was mesmerising, unsettling. That cracked face, still and unreadable, gave his dark eyes an unnatural intensity—like a beast trapped behind broken glass. The mask wasn’t just a prop anymore. It was part of him, and it made everything feel dangerous and thrilling.
You sank to your knees, slow and deliberate. Your fingers eased the waistband lower, peeling the jeans down to expose the tense, trembling flesh beneath. The sudden coolness of the air hit him and made him shiver against your mouth.
Your tongue flicked out, tasting the salt and heat clinging there. The taste was sharp, almost metallic, and you savoured it—the scent of sweat, the rough edge of him. His breath hitched sharply, body stiffening under your touch.
His hands tangled in your hair in an instant, pulling gently but with ownership. His grip was firm, possessive, as his breath grew hot and ragged against your skin. The mask remained in place—an eerie, cracked barrier between you—but his eyes burned with something darker, sharper, more demanding than before.
You took him deeper, slow and deliberate, lips and tongue tracing every inch with care. You savoured each sharp intake of breath, the low growls vibrating through his throat. Your fingers curled around the base, steady and sure, matching the rhythm of your mouth to the rising pulse beneath your touch.
His hips jerked involuntarily, subtle but urgent. His voice cracked out in rough curses and desperate murmurs, raw with need. “Fuck… yeah, just like that.”
You didn’t rush. You held the moment like a taut wire about to snap, letting the tension coil tighter—an electric thread humming between you. The room was heavy with the scent of sweat and something raw, feral, almost primal.
His grip in your hair tightened, nails pressing lightly, dragging you closer as his body trembled, trembling with mounting need. The heat rose between you—wild, desperate, crackling in the silence between ragged breaths and muffled groans.
Your free hand slid down your own skin beneath your skirt, raising the material subtly, fingers brushing your bare hip before moving lower, teasing yourself through the thin material of your panties. The slick warmth beneath your touch mirrored the growing fire between you and him, a secret shared in the shadows.
With a guttural curse, his body tensed sharply, shuddering through a slow, deep release. The pulse of him spilling hot and thick in your mouth sent a thrill tearing through you, raw and jagged.
You kept your movements steady, swallowing everything, lips and hands steady as you rode out the tremors of his climax.
When his body finally stilled, breath uneven, eyes heavy with fierce, chaotic relief, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. The wild hunger was still there, lurking behind the mask, but beneath it flickered something raw, unguarded—something almost fragile.
He watched you carefully through the cracked eyeholes, the mask giving him a power he didn’t have before. The way you looked at him—half scared, half wanting—ignited a dark fire inside him. The mask wasn’t just a piece of cloth or plastic; it was control, it was fear, it was raw, unfiltered power. And you, trembling there before him, were his perfect final girl.
When he caught sight of your hand slipping beneath your skirt, moving quietly, he let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the mask.
“You’re touching yourself, fuckin' hell,” he said, voice thick and rough, each word a command. His hand shot out, firm but not cruel, catching your wrist to steady it. “Don’t stop. Finish. For me.”
You stayed on the floor, in your skirt, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a storm. The dim light caught the sharp angles of the mask, making him look monstrous, godlike—untouchable. You obeyed, knees hard on the wooden floors, eyes wide, a mix of fear and thrill beneath your gaze as you watched him watch you, unfamiliar with the figure in front of you as you touched yourself.
“Good, see?” he breathed, voice dark with satisfaction, almost hungry. “You’re just so good for me. Nobody else like you, you know?”
His gaze burned into you through the hollow eye sockets, unblinking and intense. You felt like you were being stripped bare beneath that stare—every secret craving, every fear, every wild, desperate want exposed and owned by him. He stared as your fingers moved over your core, panties moved to the side, giving him full exposure.
You moved slowly, trembling, fingers pressing deeper, chasing the coil tightening inside you, every slick motion punctuated by the weight of his eyes on you.
“Hey- Look at me, okay?” he growled, voice low but sharp as a knife. “Let me see everything.”
His praise wrapped around you like chains, binding you tighter with every word. The fear tangled with your need, sharpening every nerve until your whole body was a live wire, electric and raw. You cried out—loud, unrestrained—as you pumped your fingers into yourself, messy and desperate.
“Fuck, fuck—” The pace was frantic, thumb circling your clit hard and fast, but your fingers inside moved slow, dragging, trying to mimic the way he filled you up, thick and mean, like he owned your body.
“You watch all the movies I want, y’scream just like I want, follow every rule—my perfect final girl,” he murmured, voice thick with possessive pride. “You do everything I say. So fucking good.”
Your breath hitched as the wave broke over you—raw, fierce, and shattering. Your fingers trembled, gripping at yourself desperately, the tension unspooling in helpless, beautiful release.
He stayed above you, watching, drinking it in—his mask hiding any softness, but the hunger and power pulsing from him undeniable. He loved the control, the fear, the way you gave yourself over to him completely—mask and all, body and soul.
And in that moment, you were his—perfect, terrified, utterly his.
“We should do that more often,” Is all he could say.
You hung out less after that, actually.
You had a nightmare where him—or someone wearing the mask—came in and killed you.
You didn’t even remember all of it. Just the feeling: a hand over your mouth, your body pinned, the weight unbearable. You woke up soaked in sweat, skin crawling, and didn’t speak to him for a week. Every time your knees brushed the floor, the phantom ache came back. Like your body remembered where you’d been before your brain could sort out if it was something you wanted.
But you found yourself back at his place anyway, when he texted saying he couldn’t sleep and wanted to watch The Beyond again.
YOU: idk… not super horny 2night tbh
JOSH: ur the one jumping to conclusions, i just said movie
JOSH: but if u do wanna suck my dick i’ll take both
JOSH: that actually sounds good. def come over then
YOU: fuck off
YOU: be there in 20
You don’t even remember finishing the movie. You’d fallen asleep half an hour in, the flickering glow of corpses and slime and screaming pulling you under. His bed was warm and already familiar.
When you woke up, hours later, your mouth was dry and the projector was still humming in the background. You didn’t remember getting undressed, but your shirt was gone and one of his was bunched around your ribs. You were sore in ways that weren’t unfamiliar.
Josh was lying next to you, still awake, fingers drawing aimless circles on your bare back like it was just muscle memory.
You wake again sometime later to the soft fuzz of static, flickering light sketching fractured shapes across the ceiling. The sheets are tangled around your calves. Josh is finally asleep—his body splayed out like he collapsed mid-thought, mouth slack, one hand curled loosely at his stomach. He still smells faintly of sweat and something else you can’t name but know down to your marrow.
The projector is still on. But the film’s changed.
It’s your pick now. You’d queued it earlier that week without saying anything—just in case. Something quieter. Possession (1981). No chainsaws. No punchy one-liners. No torture. Just blue-tinted grief and rotting fruit and a woman’s body undoing itself in ways no man onscreen understands.
You sit on the hardwood floor, legs bare, skin prickled from the cold. The film plays on. You don’t reach for a blanket.
Josh stirs around the subway-tunnel scene, half-woken by the inhuman wails of a woman giving birth to something unspeakable.
“...fuck,” he murmurs, rubbing at his face. “This thing again?”
“She fucks the creature in act three,” you say, flatly. Like you’re telling him a spoiler. Or a warning.
He props himself on one elbow, blinking through sleep. “Isn’t that supposed to be a metaphor for divorce?”
You shrug. “Or femininity.”
Josh watches the screen. Then you. “You like this because it’s upsetting.”
“She fucks the creature in act three,” you say, like you’re offering him a spoiler, or a gift.
He drags himself up onto one elbow, bleary. “Isn’t that a metaphor for divorce?”
You shrug. “Or womanhood.”
“You like this because it’s upsetting.”
“I like this because it refuses to explain itself.”
Josh snorts. Then — watching you instead of the screen — “Is that what I’m doing?”
You don’t answer. The monster is onscreen now. Wet and writhing and ridiculous. Something like a miscarriage, something like a god.
You sit still, breathing slow. Letting it wash over you. Letting him sit with that. The flicker of horror in his eyes for once isn’t about the gore.
You wonder if he knows it yet — that this is still sex and horror.
Just a different kind of fucking and fear.
Josh watches the screen for a bit, then shifts onto his side to look at you. The room is half-dark, lit only by the unravelling blue of the projector. You don’t move to cover yourself. You’re still on the floor. Still not looking at him.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. You’re not sure if it’s true. But it’s the kind of thing you both say when you don’t want to say anything else.
“You were into it,” he says after a beat. “Last time.”
You don’t respond. He’s not asking. He’s reminding you.
“Didn’t have to tell you to get on your knees.”
He laughs—softly, like it’s just a fact. “Didn’t even have to ask.”
You close your eyes. The floor is cold, and your thighs ache, and your wrists still feel the shape of his fingers like they’ve been marked. Like your body is keeping score.
“You liked the mask,” he says, lower now. “Not just the idea of it. The real thing. Being scared. Not knowing if I’d—”
“Stop.”
It’s quiet, but final.
A breath. Then another. He doesn’t press.
You finally look at him. His face is open, waiting. No smirk. No cruelty. Just a boy with something hungry in him he doesn’t quite understand.
“I liked that it was you,” you say.
That shuts him up.
Not I liked you. Not I wanted it. That it was you.
Because if it hadn’t been—if it had been anyone else, in any other mask—you’re not sure you would’ve come out the same.
You get up, legs stiff, and grab your jeans from the edge of the bed. The movie’s still playing behind you. Anna’s already falling apart on screen, her mouth red with dirt and spit and madness.
Josh sits up, watching you dress. “So… we still watching something next week?”
You pull on your jacket, finally turn to him. He looks a little sheepish. A little hopeful. Like none of it means anything if you don’t say it out loud.
You toss him a look over your shoulder. “Pick something good this time.”
You leave him there, in the flicker and static and leftover scent of you, the sound of a woman screaming still echoing across the walls.
He’ll think about it all night. You’ll let him.
note: this fic was a BITCH yall know how hard it is to write for a character ur not even thinking bout that much anymore... ok anyway!! ahhhsgrh im still not fully fully happy with this, i know it can be better, so honestly i mgiht come back and do some minor revisions, but i also overthink everything so i figure may as well get it out there lol.
also i only edited this once, pleaseee let me know if i missed out on a tag!!
content! p in v, extremely dubious consent, fucking til passing out, blood loss, biting, stalking, fucking in a church.
“naw, don’t try none of that,” his drawling voice attempted to coax you into relaxing for the unknownth time as your smaller body lets out another violent thrash, a body that was littered in pale yellow-violet lovebites.
“oh- oh god, please mister, let me go,” you cry thick tears as he nips and bites again and again at your skin, spit and blood sliding and sticking on your neck. “i am your god,” words final, refusing to give you room to think on the subject as he pushes his front into your back, trapping you between him and the cobbled wall of the church.
“now, usually i don’t feel… drawn, to pretty little things such as yourself,” you feel his larger, calloused hand come up to grope your jaw so that your hazy head was no longer bowed, “but so help me, i just know that you’re going to be the most perfect companion. wouldn’t you like that sweetheart? to hang with me for the rest of forever?”
it was never a question as he made you cry more as he started to bunch up your skirts. “please…” soft babbling comes past your parted lips, big eyes glossy as you feel his nails scratch at your thighs. “please what?” his voice sweet and mocking as his whole hand went to push up against your clothed cunt, making you forget whatever plea you had in mind.
“oh, here you were, just waiting alone in this big ol’ church,” punctuated with the ripping sound of your panties, “its like you were waiting on me. don’t worry, baby, i’ve got you.” your head goes woozy and slumps against the wall, the loss of blood making your knees buckle.
“now, don’t go passing out on me darlin’, not before the fun begins,” remmick’s chuckle swimming in the emptiness of the church at night, somehow drowning out the sound of his belt unbuckling, making it such a surprise when you felt his cock rub up and down on your slit.
“what…” a breathy moan drags from you mouth and an even longer one as he bottoms out, shushing you like your a newborn babe making too much fuss. “all this mess, just f’me sweetheart?” he coos as he admires the way your slick drips down his cock. “yeah, y’know,” he starts to ramble as his hips slowly push himself in and out of you, “i always saw you down on your knees, prayin’ on sundays. such a sweet little church mouse, i thought, that maybe when i had you, i’d have your mouth first, but what’s the point of ruining that pretty singing voice of yours, huh? and whats the point of denying myself from what i want most.”
even in your delirious, blood-deprived state, your body manages to react to him as his hips slap against yours. “aww, gon’ cum already, huh? well, that’s alright baby, don’t you worry, i’ll get my fix whether your awake or not.” his dick mean as he pushes you over the edge, your eyes rolling and everything fading to a delicious black.
Your thighs tremble around his head, trembling not just from the relentless pressure of his tongue but from the sick, slow way he moans against you. Not just eating you, no, devouring, like he’s starving. Like he’d die a second time if he wasn’t buried between your legs.
"Shit, baby, look at you!" Remmick coos, pleased with himself. You groan, pushing him back down with a buck of your hips.
"Don't talk with your mouth full." You hiss. He offers a scoff with a smirk, cutting you off with a light slap to your thigh. He dives back in, slick and spit coating his chin and nose, his breath hot as he looks up through heavy-lidded, feral eyes. You see them glow in the dim lighting, and you can't help but tilt your head back with a groan.
"Pretty little baby," he murmurs, voice thick, "Know you like it messy." He clicks his tongue, fangs peaking out while he smiles against your thigh. "Mmm. You're all twitchy." That grin of his turns animal when you tug on his hair in retaliation.
He spits, slow and deliberate, on your clit, watching your hips twitch, then leans in and laps it up again, groaning against you. The heat of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest as he needily humps the mattress beneath you two.
The more you struggle from the overstimulation, the more those sharp claws of his dig into your thighs. He's holding you down, letting you listen to the wet, sloppy obscene sounds of him making out with your cunt.
When a particularly harsh buck of your hips and whimper sounds, you break the eye contact.
"Remmi-"
"Nuh-uh. Stay the fuck down," he growls into your core. "You’re not goin’ anywhere." His words are quick and clipped, like he's briefly scolding you.
And you do- violently. Sobbing, convulsing, fists pounding the sheets. But he doesn’t stop. Just licks harder. Rougher. Ruts his face like he’s trying to tongue-fuck your soul out of your body.
When you think he's finally done, he crawls up over you, jaw wet, lips swollen. "Keep your mouth open for a second, baby." He directs. His breath hits your lips, sticky with his drool and your juice. His hand slides up your throat, not choking, but holding you still. It could almost be considered polite, if not for the mess he's making.
You barely have time to gasp before he spits into your mouth, watching you with narrowed, adoring eyes. The slow drawl of liquid passing between his lips, unable to be held in anymore. It dribbles into your open mouth, down your chin, until you can taste yourself and him.
"There you go, swallow." He nods, eager. Claws coming up to poke at your cheek and smush the drool all around your face and lips. His cock is straining hard against your thigh.
When you think he's done putting on his little show, he lets out a soft relieved sigh, pleased, before nuzzling his face into yours. His own drool sticking your faces together, little flicks of his tongue pressing all over your face just to get a few more tastes and kisses in.
He lifts two fingers up to his mouth. Licks. Moans. Savors the delicacy, before going down to swipe them between your legs. "One more round, okay? We ain't done yet." He whispers, before sinking his face back down your body to where your sweet heat awaits him.
summary: your mama gave remmick permission to come in whenever he wanted, not knowing what he was, and he wanted you first. but remmick has a problem of playin' with his food.
warnings: fighting, light choking, hair pulling, spitting, biting, and a lil freaky.
a/n: y'all loved my other remmick post so i made another. bad at endings, sorry.
your mama had always been sweet, perhaps a little too sweet. especially when a white man stood on your porch one afternoon and offered to cut the grass for free. nobody did anything for free around here, at least that you were aware of. and what white man would do any kind of work for some black people? something wasn't adding up, and only you noticed.
that afternoon he saw you... it had been like a punch to the gut. something that made him want, something that made him.. ache. now here you were, trapped in his arms, just what he wanted. just his type.
“quit fightin’ so hard.” remmick’s voice was a near order as he stepped closer, forcing you back until you bumped against the edge of the kitchen counter. he lifted you higher, strong enough to maneuver your body without much effort at all.
“you sound.. sweet like this.” his hand around your throat loosened slightly, a few gasps of air escaping your lips. he leaned closer, nose brushing your ear, voice low and gravelly.
“what’s that pretty mouth taste like?”
you were pretty when you squirmed, really, it was almost sexy how hard you were still trying.
remmick’s hand squeezed your neck again, tilting your head to the side and back, forcing you to expose the long column of your pretty throat. “i'm gonna find out,” he murmured.
his tongue slid from his mouth, slick with spit and unnaturally long, and you instinctively screamed in disgust as loudly as you could, tilting your head back away from him as you struggled in his firm hold. remmick tsked. now that just wouldn’t do. he didn’t like that sound, or that struggle.
his thumb pressed on your windpipe enough to cut off more airflow while his other hand tangled roughly in your hair, yanking that pretty head back. he leaned closer, mouth just above that exposed neck, breath hot enough to send a shiver down your spine. "you know, you oughta be nicer.” his tongue flicked out, a quick tease of the skin. "you’re real vulnerable like this.”
his tongue traced an invisible line down the curve of your throat, lips pressing softly against you. he held you like a vice, body flush against yours, hand wrapped so tight in your hair it bordered on painful. "maybe I’ll make that pretty mouth scream again,” he murmured, teeth nipping at your collarbone. “just not in disgust this time.”
you reached up and grabbed a chunk of his hair and yanked his head away from your neck. he didn’t like that at all. in a quick, fluid motion, his hand gripped your wrists and slammed both against the edge of the counter, effectively trapping both your hands in one strong grip.
he leaned forward, breath hot against your ear. "do that again, and i’ll do worse than just bite you.” his fingers pressed into your skin, enough to leave little red spots. “i like my hair right where it is, thank you.”
then you spat. right on his lower lip. you weren't any stronger than him, but god forbid you let him bite you with those teeth. that was a bit more than the usual struggle, enough to break his attention. he raised a brow, eyes narrowing as he licked the saliva from his lip. it would’ve been funny if it hadn’t just taken him off guard.
"careful now.” his tone was still low, still thick with a sinful edge, but that sharp hint of warning was clear. he shifted his grip, pulling your head back a bit more as he leaned forward. if you wanted to spit.. he’d have a good way to shut you up. “spit on me again, and I’ll make sure that voice is hoarse for a week.”
“what makes you think you can just spit on me, huh?” he murmured. that ain’t how you should treat a guest, is it?”
"i ain't let you in—" you protested, breathing heavily as he craned your neck back in an uncomfortable position.
“no,” he chuckled, breath hot on your ear as he pulled back far enough to watch your face. “your sweet lil’ mama did.”
he leaned closer, lips just above your pulse. “your sweet ma let me in and told me i could stay as long as i needed to. said i could have a seat at the table and everything.”
his teeth scraped your skin. “so i think that does make me a kind of guest.” that was the last thing you heard him say before he sank his sharp teeth into your neck, piercing every vein along the way.
nsfw! remmick + f!preachers daughter!reader, rem is a total soft, needy dom, totally awkward, totally loser-y, extremely dubious consent in the beginning, never ever proofread, oral on fem.
I don't think that remmy ever got any pretty little maidens back in his day, subsequently because of his nervous, eager nature that he has carried through his vampire years.
that being said, it doesn't seem to stop him from tripping over himself when you sees you go by, making you feel awfully sorry for guy. just some new guy in town and he's already making a fool of himself for you - which makes you pretend not to notice the way he's everywhere you are, like a persistent shadow dogging at the heels of your feet.
you've been taught to be sympathetic to those in need, which only feeds into remmick's hopes when you return his stumbling words with your own soft n sweet ones. even just a hello from the preachers daughter and the Irish man felt like you had saved his soul.
and maybe remmick liked you (too much), not that he would ever say it. and you had to go and invite him to church and bring him home-baked pastries - things you did for everyone, though he would think otherwise - hell, you even had him even believing that you were wearing your skirts just a tad shorter for him.
so why are you surprised when he offers to walk around the forest trails with you that he's trying to kiss you?
"you're- you're just being too touchy, I think, is all," your voice like a bible hymn as you try to tell him off as politely as your daddy raised you too, head lilting far to evade his lips. "why, sweetheart," he's cooing to you in that southern drawl, "it ain't sex," he lets out with a chuckle as if you needed teachings in the way of god.
as he gets closer and closer, you put your hands to his chest, not pushing him away, but not bringing him any closer, either. "I know-" you stop, lowering your voice despite having nothing around you two for a few miles except the whispering of the wind, "I know that, but I'm just not ready-"
"oh, please baby, shh," he's shushing you, "you don't know what you want," and he believes what he says. why, he's a few hundred year old vampire, and you're just a little dolly thing. "I-i know you need this as much as I do," his statement upheld as his lips find yours, shutting you up even more effectively than before, ignoring the way your hands try to push him off.
"you don't know what you need," his voice promising you this as his lips slam against yours as his hands go and fumble to bunch up your skirt.
"no, no, none of that," he condescends you as you gasp and muscles make your arms move to go and push your skirt back down. "you'll see, sweet thing," his voice rasping a bit more as his nails take a dig at your panties, pulling them down, "you'll feel it, too. see n feel how you need me, how good I can be to you."
before you know it, his lips are suckling on your clit and fingers in your cunt as he looks up at you with those puppy dog eyes, everything about him feeling disgustingly good. "oh, you're just perfect. taste like peaches n cream," his speech muffled as he makes out with your pussy, voice barely making it up to your ears over your little moans you try so desperately to cage in your throat.
still, you can't help that when he gives your cunt a particularly perfect thrust of his fingers that you get louder and your hands go to his hair, tousling it to an even messier state than it had been in before. "o-ohhh, rem," you cry softly, tears that had been clinging to your bottom lashes drop.
"I know baby, I know," his other hand patting your thigh as his tongue works over your clit, "you gonna come for me baby? gonna be a good girl n finish?" his coaxing words making your pussy flutter, which made him smile against your soaking slit.
"yeah, you are," said before finishing you off with a particularly harsh suck to your clit, making your knees buckle, threatening your balance.
never a neglectful lover, remmick licks up the rest of your slick, cleaning you with his tongue before placing a lasting kiss on your slit before retracting himself from you. sitting back on his knees, his hands work up and down your thighs as he looks up at you with that adoring expression. "did you feel good, doll?"
sfw but slight nsfw at the end....... slight misogny, asshole coryo, mention of class divide
young president!coriolanus & f!reader
“the president needs a wife,” words that coriolanus never ceased to hear from his advisors around him, running their mouths about the importance of an heir. that’s why he decided to scoop you up.
a sweet and sheltered dolly thing, daughter of some high-classed capitol citizens with not enough money to say no when coriolanus snow invites their precious daughter to one of his capitol parties.
So and so happens, a couple sweet words and the warmest smiles he could muster for you and your melting in his palms. Putty, really, for a month - until he gets cold.
Its all fun and games in public for you and him. He’s sweet, polite, a could touches that nearly wander too far that make your head spin til that split second where he pulls away, going off to greet some nameless politician with a practiced politeness.
And its even worse in private. As soon as its over and you climb into the limo with him behind, covering your cute little ass in that purposefully almost-too-short dress that you had hoped that he’d make a comment on, but coryo is quiet, choosing to practically sit on the opposite side of the car - away from you.
Anytmie you do try to say something, he’s quick to interrupt you. “Oh, sweetheart,” he coos at you like you’re dumb. “I know you’ve never been with someone like me before,” clearly insinuating and insulting you about how you’ve never been elevated to a status like his, “but i need to work, yeah? I’m too busy, and that’s just how it is. Your president is a very important person, you know,” you force yourself to hold back another whine or sigh or huff as he moves in to adjust your hair placement, ensuring it to be to his liking. “so how about I drop you back off at your house, give you my credit card, and you can order whatever you like on it, yeah? That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?” he pulls away with a patronizing smile after he fishes out his black credit card and pushes the cooling solid into the palm of your hand. “Now c’mon, let's see that smile, smile for the cameras baby.”
Its always been like this - he’s got this cautious coldness that he directs towards you when away from prying eyes. He’s not mean, but he’s not the lover he’s supposed to be either. And worst of all, its always leaving you hot and bothered, leaving you with that pillow covered in an expensive satin case to take care of the ache between your thighs.
obsessed with your coryo fic and i absolutely need some fem receiving overstimulation from dom coryo this instant!!
overstim.
young president!coryo & f!wife!reader
notes: btw do u guys want my thoughts on reader & coryo and their relationship b/c I have soooo many!!!!!!
It had been a long day, feeling even longer by the constant nagging and whining suck-ups that were the Capitol citizens who flocked to him left and right, hoping to attain his favor. And Coriolanus Snow had always been one to bide his time, practicing his patience — but not now.
Not when he's hot and frustrated, trying to rein himself in from racing to your shared room in his own opulent house, looking like a complete desperate fool. Coriolanus flings the door open impatiently with a jarring sound of his palm on the wood, making you jump from where you were, lying in bed catching up on a magazine full of trashy Capitol gossip.
"Coryo?" his name leaves your lips as he walks over to you, eyes hooded and not thinking straight. Wordlessly, Coriolanus is pushing your back to the bed, climbing over you and caging you in as his hands move down.
"Oh, Coryo!" you yelp all softly like a surprised puppy, eyes widening into saucers as his big hands pry apart your thighs easily. With a quick maneuvering of your hips, your panties have been successfully ripped from your bottom as your husband mutters a quick, "Shh, baby, not right now."
He's barely mustered the energy to give you a cordial enough response before diving into your pussy, flushed and hot from your embarrassment and arousal at his demands. Your husband gives you no time to protest as his mouth is already flush on your cunt, kissing and licking at your clit and prodding at your folds, slurping so obscenely quickly that you think with a split second of clarity that he might choke.
"H-honey," you attempt to sit up, hand going to his hair to push him away as you gurgle little sounds of pleasure, "can't you ju—?" and you're cut off by him gripping your wrist far too tightly and pushing it down into the mattress to stop your protests as he tongue-fucks moans out of you.
For a brief second, he pulls himself up, chin already shiny and slipping with so much slick you wonder if any had gotten on his clothes that he hadn't bothered to take off from work. "Just stay quiet, little thing. I don't want to hear another word out of you except my name," he half-heartedly, half-passive-aggressively gets out to you.
He's not doing this for your pleasure, he's doing it for his. As quickly as he came up he dives back down, his forearm pushing over your hips to keep your squirming to a minimum as he tenses and flattens and flicks his tongue over your weeping folds.
By the time you've reached your first, it's an obscene scene on its own. But you realize that Coryo isn't slowing down, making it hard to breathe through the overstimulation as his tongue continues to fuck you right along after your climax. Thighs shaking to try and clamp shut and push him away, you squeal out a sharp, "Coryo!" — his name, not disobeying any rules he set but sharp and needy enough to get his attention as you cry.
"Oh, poor baby," he mumbles as he rubs at your thigh, eyes never leaving your red, positively abused cunny. "I know, it feels good, doesn't it?" he questions you, smiling at you with that patronizing essence he had about him whenever he spoke to you.
So hesitantly, just barely, you nod, and his face is already back to your morbidly sensitive core, devouring you like he hadn't lost any energy from making you cum once. And then it's twice. And then it's thrice. Coriolanus has always been selfish, in every aspect, and making you cum was no exception.
"'s too much," you say with a throat all ripped up from your previous moans and cries, shaking your head from side to side with hair sticking to the back of your sweaty neck. "No, no," he chides you, like you had said something wrong. "You can take it, bun. You're a big girl, my big girl, aren't you? You're the president's wife, you gotta be strong. C'mon, one more for me," he acts like he's begging, though you and him both know that you'll always cave for your husband.
breeding for babies
young president!coriolanus snow & f.reader
content. dubcon towards the end, p in v.
corio under pressure for an heir + his pretty little wife...
coriolanus is deadly with his thrusts, making you positively throb around his length as he takes you over and over again. “m-mmph!” you squeal when he pushes the pads of his fingers on your clit just right, teasing you closer to the edge.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” your president coos into your ear, as sly and seductive as ever. he’s only got one thing on his mind - getting you so fucked out that you won’t notice when he pumps his load into you.
he’s got you in a mating press and everything, trying to melt you under him, so he presses at the back of your legs a little harder so he can get deeper into your guts. “shh,” he hushes you, stuffing his big fingers into your hot, wet little mouth. using all the strength you have left, you lazily suck on them between your messy moans.
“don’t worry, just give me one more n’ i’ll be done, kay?” his whispers nearly go unheard until he says, “just gotta fill you up. yeah, i got you - fuck…” your eyes change into saucers filled with tears of pleasure, making a half-hearted muffled protest that goes unheard.
“my pretty little wife, about to be a pretty little mother,” he groans as he doubles over your body, spilling into your insides, your own body already shaking with an orgasm. both his cock and his fingers slip out of you simultaneously, gooey strings of bodily fluids attatched to both appendages as he retracts from you, leaving your holes feeling completely empty.
you let out a gurgling whine as corio wipes some of your spit on his fingers on your cheek as he cups it lightly. “god, you’re going to be the prettiest mother in all of panem.”
he can't even remember if he had ever fucked before.
I mean, Jason knows how babies are made - he isn't that stupid. but every time he sees you, he just can't help but remember how he doesn't know how to use the dick that's now chubbing up in his plaid-blue boxers.
and he thinks you might know too, from how you're all on top of him as you make out so every time you pull back to toss your hair away from your face, your pretty tits are blessing him with their presence just in front of his face, leaving him to fight off moaning at the sight.
so while you make out, he's practically slobbering all over like a dog in the summer, and when you brush the tips of your fingers over the crotch of his shorts, oh gods above...
Jason can't help the piteous whine that flies from his mouth, one of his hands swinging up and slapping across his lips to shut himself up.
"o-oh gods, I'm so so sorry, I'll-" he stammers and flushes down to his cock, as if the fact that you know that he's hard only encourages his libido.
but he's stopped as your hand pushes down on his raging hard-on, shutting him up and forcing him back down. slowly, you cup and palm him through those cargo shorts he had on, feeling how he twitches and hardens under the pressure of your hand. "feel good?" said while flashing a sweetish, coy smile for his widening eyes to see.
and you know its big, you can guesstimate the size as you try to measure with your hand, making you salivate in return, tongue pooling in your own saliva. "aw, poor baby," you coo and tut him, moving to eagerly unzip his pants and tug down his bottoms, letting his angry-red dick whip up, drooling precum down its massive body, "why didn't you just say something, jas?"
you had practically been able to see him wetting his pants in real time as you locked lips, but seeing it out of its confines was something else. "shit, m', I-" your sweet boy looks so frustrated as he grasps for the right words to fit in his brewing apology, with cherry-red cheeks and swole lips. "well, I didn't know if you wanted to do that, um, with me," his voice quieting as he mentions himself.
you're wordless as you pop your lips open as an answer, just taking the tip past your lips, making Jason let out a gurgled sort of moan. his clipped nails scratch at the cushions of the couch as you swallowed his bits of precum past you tongue and down your throat.
"you're silly. I want to do this with you all the time. like right now. you'll let me take you now, right?" you say as he nods his head feverishly.
you had under-estimating just how much you could take down your throat. as you had made your way to swallow on half his cock, poorly impatient Jason gripped your hair with nails embedded in your locks and scalp, pushing you down to his balls.
he just doesn't know how big he is, making you choke as he frantically fucks into your throat, unsatisfied by how slow you had been taking him on the tongue before. its obscene, really, with his full balls on your chin and an unholy mixture of drool and spit and cum falling in lines down your chin and throat, nearly reaching your chest. he's unmeaningly mean as he thrusts in uneven juts, trying to reach his peak before his grip in your hair going and allowing you to slide off his cock.
you slump back, coughing and sputtering before looking up at him through thick, water-lined lashes from how hard he had gone.
"baby, oh, I'm so sorry," he nearly whimpers as he tucks his big hands under your jaw so he can thumb your cheeks before you smile up at him radiantly, sticking out your pink, cum-less tongue to him like a winner.
