#domcore

[dumanick]

[cat-fire]

♡⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ ♡

THE GREEN ROOM MIRROR

♡⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ ♡

🔥Summary:

She works the backstage. He’s the headliner. She flashed him. Now she’s in his green room — legs wrapped around his waist, his name scribbled on her skin, and the door still open. Nobody’s ever going to fuck her like this again. And she knows it.

⸻

🖤 Author’s Note:

This is my one-shot dive into shameless tension, backstage chaos, and the wild consequences of flashing a rockstar before showing up to finish what you started. I had so much fun writing this, and I wanted to share it here. hope you enjoy the madness.

I’m not a native English speaker — be kind to the phrasing and grammar, I’m just trying my best.

This piece contains mature themes, explicit sexual content, and intense emotional dynamics. 18+ only.

You’ve been warned, now go lose yourself in the mirror light. 😈

The bass rumbled like a threat beneath the concrete floor, rattling up through her boots and settling somewhere deep in her spine.

She hated this part. Empty arenas. Fluorescent lighting that hummed like a cheap office. The dead hours before the crowd showed up and the chaos began—before it all made sense.

She adjusted her headset, slick with sweat and the faint metallic tang of the walkie pressing against her cheek, and flipped her clipboard to the soundcheck schedule. Of course. Everything was running late.

And then he walked in.

Dragging a mic stand like it owed him money, black Balenciaga boots, dark hair matted against his temple. A cigarette dangled behind his ear. His shirt was buttoned wrong—intentionally, probably—just enough to flash collarbones and the black ink that bled up his chest like a secret. A gold cross chain swung at his neck, catching the sparse light. The air changed, thick with the scent of leather and a musk she couldn't place—expensive cologne and cigarette smoke.

Dominic. Dom.

He didn’t look like a rockstar. He looked like a sin someone got away with.

Stay professional.

She’d seen all kinds of artists come through this venue. She wasn’t here to swoon. And yet—as he stepped up to the mic, a hard knot of anticipation clenched just beneath her ribs.

“Check—one, two. One, two.”

His voice filled the space, british accent, carelessly intimate. She felt the low frequency vibrating in the bone behind her ear.

“You got me?”

It wasn’t the words; it was the way he said them. The drag of his vowels. The lazy stretch of sound, like he had nothing but time and too many thoughts about what your mouth might taste like.

She stared just a second too long.

He noticed. He looked straight down from center stage and locked eyes with her. No smile. Just… recognition. Like he’d been waiting to spot her.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound barely audible over the feedback hiss, and lifted her hand. Wrist flick. Point to her watch.

“Let’s go, Rockstar. Wrap it up.”

He grinned. “Already kicking me out? Thought you were supposed to be friendly to the talent.”

“I’m friendly to the ones who follow the schedule,” she called up, her voice steady, professional.

He stepped toward the edge of the stage, tilting his head as he looked her over. “Yer always this bossy?”

“Only with people who don’t know how clocks work.”

The bassist snorted a laugh behind him. Dom didn’t even blink. His sardonic smirk deepened, like he was storing her words to replay later.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked, crouching at the edge of the stage.

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve got four minutes now.”

“Shit,” he said, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You always talk to people like that?”

“Only to the ones who talk back.”

He paused at that. Not because he was offended—no. Because she’d matched his aggression. For the first time, his grin softened into something different. Less arrogant. More curious.

“Alright then,” he conceded, still crouched, one hand loosely gripping the mic stand like he needed something to hold him back. “You win, Miss Clipboard.” Then, turning toward the band, his voice loud again: “Let’s make this quick, boys. Apparently, time’s a precious fuckin’ resource in this venue.”

She turned before he could see the way her mouth twitched. Her boots echoed as she walked away—each step a battle not to look back. Not to let him see the faint tremor in her hands. Not to let him know that something about him—the mouth, the rings, the fucking voice—was still vibrating behind her ribs like a struck chord.

♡⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝♡

She never meant to stay. But she did.

She should’ve left when the doors opened. That was the rule: venue crew slips into shadows, lets the crowd take over. Her job had ended hours ago. Her clipboard was tucked under a forgotten desk, her headset turned off and buried deep in her bag.

But he looked at me. That was the thought, naked and ugly, that kept her rooted. Now, the lights dropped. The sudden, absolute dark stole the air from the arena.

The crowd roared behind her like a living, swaying monster, but she was deaf to them. Not when he came out. Not when he hit the stage like a detonation.

He grabbed a beer from the side and poured it right over his head, drops cascading down his throat, clinging to the cross chain. The sharp scent hit her even in the front row.

His shirt was half-gone, worshipping the defined heat of his chest. But the pants—low-rise, sinful, unforgivable. They rode the bone of his hips, exposing the sharp V where the muscle cut in, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the fabric. The thought was a sudden, sharp shock: I can see his goddamn pubes.

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest locked up, the air suddenly too thin, too hot.

But because he saw her. He fucking saw her.

Mid-song, mid-growl, his eyes scanned the pit—wild, gleaming, predatory—and then locked. Right on her.

She froze, a heavy paralysis seizing her. No smile, no wave—she was beyond gesture. She felt like an unwanted witness, a trespasser in a space consecrated only for the devout, watching a private, sacred unraveling.

And he stared. Right at her. His gaze was slow, focused, like he was trying to burn the image into his memory. Her hands tightened on the metal rail until her knuckles ached. A wave of heat rushed up her throat and bloomed across her cheeks.

He wasn’t supposed to see her. And he wasn’t supposed to smile like that either—like he’d just seen something sacred and filthy at the same time. His next note came late. Off tempo. He chuckled into the mic—a breathy, wrecked sound—and ran his hand through his hair, dragging sweat down his jawline.

He danced like he wanted the stage to collapse. Thrusting. Screaming. Devouring the crowd with his mouth. And still—he kept looking at her.

She didn’t remember deciding to do it. It happened between beats. Between one moment where her heart was hammering so hard it blurred her vision, and the next where she grabbed the hem of her top and lifted it, just enough.

Not long, not obscene. Just a glimpse. Skin. Nipples. A smirk. It was fast. One second. Maybe two.

Mid-verse—his voice cracked. He dropped a lyric. Stumbled on the next. He pressed his hand to his chest as if he’d been physically struck.

His eyes—they went black.

He turned from the mic. Walked to the edge of the stage. Grabbed a towel, bit it. He couldn’t look away from her. Like she’d just rearranged something in his soul.

And she? She didn’t flinch. She just stood there—arms crossed now, top back in place, mouth tilted in a knowing, subtle smile.

She’d won.

And he knew it.

♡⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝♡

The hallway was half-dark, lit only by a single lamp with a crooked shade that hummed faintly—a counterpoint to the distant ringing in her ears. The air was thick with the immediate aftermath of the show: stale cigarettes, fresh sweat, and the sharp, chemical smell of cleaning spray.

She hesitated in the doorway, her heart thudding a bruised rhythm against her ribs. She shouldn't be here. She knew that. Crew wasn’t supposed to linger, let alone step into private rooms without reason.

She stood frozen just outside, not saying a word.

Then she heard it. At first, it was soft—barely audible over the hum of the backstage lights. Just the drag of something rough. A low breath. Then a sharp curse. His voice.

She stilled.

A beat later—louder this time. A wet sound, rhythmic, raw. The thud of the couch frame shifting beneath him. A gravel-thick groan like it was torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Fucking hell… yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”

Her spine went rigid. Blood hot in her ears, air suddenly too thick to swallow.

She pushed the door open half an inch. The dim light painted Dom on the couch in gold and shadow. His jeans pushed down his thighs, one hand fisted around the base of his cock, the other dragging spit-slick fingers up the length in long, punishing strokes.

“Shit—feels fuckin’ unreal, just like that” he muttered, head tipped back against the cushion.

She couldn’t move. She was frozen, transfixed, watching him come undone in the kind of moment that was never meant to be seen.

He spat in his palm with a loud, crude noise, swiped it across his cock and hissed—loud, no shame. “Mmmgh - Need it—need it so bad, fuckin’ pathetic”

Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

His hips bucked up off the couch, chasing the friction, the tension, every brutal drag of his hand.

It wasn’t directed at anyone. Not really. Just a filthy spiral—pure instinct pouring from his mouth, low and desperate, the way someone might talk to themselves when no one’s around to hear.

But she heard it.

Each breathless grunt. Each wet, rhythmic pull of skin on skin. The slap of his palm against his thigh when he picked up pace. His broken laugh when his head fell forward and he muttered—

“You’re such a sick fuck… look at the fuckin’ state of you—moanin’ like that, wackin’ yourself like a fucking animal…”

He was loud. Too loud. And she was burning from the inside out.

Her panties were soaked, her pulse hammering at the base of her spine, but her gaze was locked. This wasn't a performance. This wasn't the arrogant musician who prowled the stage lights. This was him. Stripped bare. Unfiltered as hell.

When his breath caught—when his voice cracked on a strangled, “Oh, fuck, m’gonna cum, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—” she nearly made a sound herself.

Her breath hitched, held hostage in her throat. She was shaking—not from fear, but from the unbearable sense that she was witnessing something too much. Something private. Something holy and yet unforgivable.

Then—he opened his eyes, squinted toward the door. Confused.

“Hello?” His voice was hoarse. Wrecked.

She froze. Didn’t answer.

He sat up slightly, brows furrowed under messy, damp curls falling into his eyes. “Who’s—?”

A pause. Then a sharp inhale. “Wait.” His voice dropped an octave, the shift heavy and dangerous. “Step forward.”

Her body moved before her mind caught up. One step. Then another. Then the light caught her face.

“It’s you,” he breathed.

She looked down, throat tight. She couldn't hold his gaze—not right away. It was too much. The way his pupils blew wide. The way his voice dropped into something darker…

“You’re the girl from soundcheck.”

She nodded once. Barely.

He exhaled, hard. “And the one in the front row tonight.” A slow, dangerous grin crept across his face. “Didn’t think I’d fucking notice?”

She tried to speak—anything—but the words evaporated.

“Didn’t think I’d remember how you looked backstage,” he murmured, his ruined pants hanging off his hips like a sin. “But then—” He laughed, low and broken. “You had to fucking flash me, didn’t you?”

She flinched from how fast he saw through her.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, and looked at her like she was already halfway undressed. “You were just gonna watch me finish myself?” His voice dropped low, a vicious, coiled thing, forcing her to answer.

She looked at him—really looked—and something shifted in her. Not boldness. Just a quiet kind of daring that felt new and absolute.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, her voice soft, but steady. “You just… left the door open.”

He smirked. “Maybe I wanted someone to walk in.”

“Anyone?”

No response.

He stared at her, head tilted. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Then come here.” His voice dipped into a murmur—velvet and warning all at once. “You’ve already undone me. Might as well finish what you started.”

She stepped forward—slow, cautious, flushed. Not bold. But not afraid either. He tracked her every move. She stood between his spread legs, trembling.

He looked up—mouth slightly open.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She swallowed hard. “That I’m going to lose my job,” she whispered.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to be.”

He reached up—slowly—fingers over her wrist, gentle as a wisp of smoke. “I swear,” he said, voice raw, “if you sit on me right now, I won’t last thirty fucking seconds.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t last.”

And just like that—everything between them broke loose. He stared at her like she wasn’t supposed to exist. Like she was a hallucination conjured from heat and want. For a beat, neither of them moved — the silence sticky between them, clinging like sweat.

He dipped his head and kissed her like it meant something. Like he’d been starving for softness and didn’t know it until she let him taste her.

Her lips were warm, hesitant for half a second — and then they melted together like they’d been built to fit. Her hands slid to his chest, fingers curling into the line of his collarbone, clutching like he might disappear.

He groaned into her mouth, deep, and the sound undid something in her. She pressed closer. Let him take it further. Let her mouth open just enough to make him shudder. He licked into her like a secret. Like a sin.

When he finally broke the kiss—panting, gasping—he didn't pull away, just pressed his forehead to hers. His breath hitched once, sharp and necessary, as though he were trying to steady himself, as if that single kiss had tipped the entire night violently off its axis.

♡⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝♡

The mirror behind her was smeared with fingerprints and fogging at the edges. She could see herself in the glass—a vague, heat-blurred outline—but Dom was the only clear thing. He was still damp with stage sweat, still breathing like he hadn’t come down, and still staring at her like he wanted to crawl inside her skin and stay.

She was perched on the counter, thighs wrapped tight around his hips, skirt bunched, shirt undone. He wouldn’t let her close her eyes.

“Nah, love. Eyes open. Look at y’self. I want you to see what I do to you.”

Her head tipped back. He yanked it forward. “Uh-uh. None of that. Look.”

She saw her own face—cheeks flushed, the frantic edge in her eyes.

His voice was a low growl of a tease. “Blushin’ for me. Drippin’ and I haven’t even fucked you yet. So pretty like this.”

Her moan was quiet and breathy. He gave her a sharp grin. “Open up f’me.” She complied. “Wider!” Dom leaned in slow and spat into her mouth. It was hot, messy, and entirely deliberate. She swallowed it whole, her eyes locked on his.

“Fucking hell…”

She slid off the counter, slow, knees hitting the floor, her fingers trailing down his chest like fire. She looked up at him with that same filthy reverence he’d given her seconds ago.

“Oh, so you’re the big rockstar. That’s what you are.”

Dom flinched. Stared down at her.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she whispered, kissing the sharp cut of his hipbone. “All that noise onstage just to get someone on their knees.”

He groaned—low and ragged—fisting her hair now. “You better be careful, love,” he murmured. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll forget how to be gentle.”

“Who said I wanted gentle?” She licked a stripe up the line of his abdomen. She wrapped her hand around him, slow and sure. He twitched.

“Say thank you,” she whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“For not makin’ you beg,” she said, already lowering her mouth.

He didn’t get the chance to reply.

Because then—she took him.

All of him.

Lips sealed tight. Tongue swirling under the head, teasing the underside as she hollowed her cheeks and sank deeper.

Dom choked on a curse. His knees nearly buckled. One hand flew to her hair, fisting it tight, the other still braced behind him.

“Holy fuckin’—you’re—fuck.”

Looked messier, wetter than he imagined. She let him hear it. Let him feel it. Her tongue worked him in slow circles, her hand twisting at the base, the other digging into his thigh to keep him still.

He tried to guide her pace, but she batted his hand away. She popped off with a wet sound, spit stringing between them.

“C’mon, Rockstar. Show me how loud you can get when your cock is in my mouth.”

He gasped. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”

“And you like it.”

She swallowed him again—deeper this time. Gagging, choking, refusing to stop. Tears springing in the corners of her eyes. Her moan vibrated through him.

“Fffffuckkkk—” he roared, slamming a fist against the mirror. His abs flexed under her palm.

“I’m gonna—baby, I’m—fuck, fuck—”

And she pulled off just in time. Let him throb against her tongue, twitching in her hand, cock dripping.

“You gonna come?” she teased.

“Don’t—don’t stop, baby, please—”

“You gonna beg?” she whispered, pumping him with both hands now, her mouth open, breath hot. And then she suddenly stopped.

He looked down at her, totally fucking undone. Hair a mess. Face flushed. Sweat dripping from his jaw.

He stumbled back like she’d hit him. “Jesus..” Then he dropped too—to her level—grabbed her by the waist and kissed her so deep she forgot how to breathe. Mouth desperate. Hands shaking.

“You don’t even fuckin’ know what that does to me,” he whispered, forehead to hers. “I wanna fuck you so bad.”

She smirked. “Good. Then we’re even.”

He shoved her back against the mirror-counter, spread her thighs open, panties to the side, and just stared — tongue wetting his lips, eyes blown wide with hunger. One hand gripping her thigh, the other pressed against her stomach like he needed to hold her down to keep from shaking apart.

“God fuckin’ damn,” he muttered, dragging his mouth so close she could feel the heat of every word. “Look at that, doll. Look at what you’ve done to me.”

Then he spit.

Right onto her pussy slow and messy, the saliva glistening on her folds.

“Ohhh, baby… gonna eat you till you cry.”

He buried his face between her thighs like he meant business. She couldn’t speak — couldn’t breathe — not with the way he was sucking her clit like a man possessed.

“Please, Dom…”

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

He dragged her hips to the edge of the counter and ate her like he hated her. Hands digging into her ass, dragging her closer, making her grind against his face.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he panted, teeth grazing. “Come on my fuckin’ tongue, and then I’m gonna spit it back into your mouth. You want that?”

She cried out — high, broken.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Louder. Let the whole fuckin’ arena hear.”

He grabbed her throat and made her look down.

“Eyes on me, baby. Watch what I do to you.”

Watched his mouth devour her. Watched his fingers dig into her flesh. Watched his eyes flutter shut as he moaned against her clit like he was grateful to be here.

Then he spit again — wetter this time, deliberate — and smeared it in with two fingers, slow circles that made her thighs tremble.

“Gonna keep you open for me,” he whispered.

And when she came — body seizing, hands tangled in his hair — he groaned like she’d just given him absolution. He kept licking through it, forcing her to ride his face through the aftershocks, tongue still working, mouth still open as he drank her down.

Her orgasm wasn’t even over when he lifted her, spread her legs again and lined himself up. “You want the rest, baby?”

“You tell me,” she said, brazen, eyes flicking to the mirror.

He snapped his hips forward entering her—hard enough to rattle the mirror. She gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

“That what y’want?” he hissed, accent thickening, teeth scraping her neck. “Want me to fuck you like this?”

“Do it,” she shot back, nails clawing down his back. “I can take it, fuck me just like that.”

His rhythm changed instantly—messier, more ragged. Her thighs clenched tighter, heels digging into his spine.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped. “Look at us. Look at what I’m doin’ to you,” he growled, mouth brushing her ear. “Cock so deep in you you can feel it in your fuckin’ throat. Hips hittin’ yours like I own you.” He bent down and sucked a bruising kiss right over her nipple, one hand kneading the other breast. She cried out, arching against him. “That’s it. You wanted my attention, baby? You got it.”

He fucked her harder—deep, brutal, every stroke a promise. “Mine. All of you. Gonna fill you up so good you’ll still be shaking when you try to walk outta here. You don’t even fuckin’ get it, do you?” he continued, dragging his teeth along her throat before thrusting hard — deep enough to make her gasp. “I’ve thought about this since soundcheck. Couldn’t stop. Not once.”

Another thrust — brutal, claiming.

“Kept picturing that mouth… wrapped around me. That fuckin’ clipboard you were holding? I wanted to bend you over it. Show you what happens when you talk back.”

She moaned, head falling back — but he caught her chin, forced her to look at him.

“Nuh-uh. No runnin’ now. You wanted it. Now fuckin’ take it.”

And then, softer. Meaner.

“You’ve ruined me.”

A thrust. Deep. Possessive.

She whimpered.

“You did, didn’t you?” He spat the words, desperate, voice cracking. “You wanted me to see you in the crowd. Wanted to fuckin’ haunt me.”

“Yes, fuck I did want it.”

Another thrust — savage and slow.

“And now look at you,” he breathed, licking a stripe up her neck. “Spread out. Soaked. Beggin’. No one’s ever done this to me like this. No one. You understand?”

She nodded, breath catching. Her nails dug into his back.

“I’ll never fuckin’ forget you,” he groaned. “Gonna be onstage tomorrow and still feel your cunt around me.”

Dom didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He was spiraling now. Confessing like a man on trial.

“I don’t even know who I am right now. Just know I need you. Need you to feel me for days.”

She moaned his name — ragged and raw — and that shattered him.

“Say it again,” he begged, fucking her deeper. “Say my fuckin’ name.”

“Dom—!”

He crushed their mouths together, hips snapping, his whole body trembling. “Mine,” he growled against her lips.

Then—he hooked her knees over his shoulders. Held her wide open.

“Look,” he panted, voice raspy as hell, dragging the head of his cock through her folds, teasing her entrance. “You see that? That’s me, love. That’s mine now.”

“Fucking yours”, she replied. Her spine arched against the glass behind her. She tried to close her eyes — the overload, the heat, the shame — but he grabbed her chin.

“No. Don’t you fucking look away. You watch. You watch me stretch you.”

And then he sank into her again.

Slow.

Deep.

Fucking filthy.

Her mouth fell open. She let out a cry. He filled her like he’d been made for it.

“That’s it,” he growled, hips pressing forward, burying himself to the base. “So fuckin’ tight.”

Her thighs trembled again as he pulled out halfway—then slammed back in. The sound of it echoed off the tiles.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re dripping. You’re so full you’re leaking around me.”

He shifted one hand to her lower belly, pressing down.

“You feel that? Right there? That’s me. Deep as I can fuckin’ go. Look at you. Fucked so dumb you can’t speak.”

She opened her mouth — no sound came.

Then he rolled his hips — long, deep, filthy strokes — fucking her almost mean, holding her down like he never wanted to leave.

“I told you,” he panted. “Told you I’d ruin you. You feel ruined yet, love?”

“Y-yes,” she gasped, eyes fluttering. “Please… don’t stop.”

He chuckled. The sound was fucking wicked.

Still buried inside her, still holding her legs hooked over his shoulders, Dom pulled back just enough to look.

To show her.

“Eyes down,” he rasped, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Don’t look at me. Look there.”

His cock disappeared inside her with every brutal thrust. Again. Again. Slower this time, so she could see it.

“Can’t even hold me in properly, can you?”

Her thighs twitched, overstimulated, trembling. “Dom—please—”

He shoved her knees higher, locking them tight against his chest, slamming back in with a moan like it was the first time all over again.

“You want me to fill you up, baby?” he hissed. “Want me to come so deep it leaks out for days?”

She nodded frantically, too far gone to speak.

“Say it,” he snapped. “Say it while you fuckin’ watch.”

“Want you to fill me,” she gasped. “Want it inside. Please—please, give it to me—”

That shattered him.

He snarled something incoherent, thrust turned savage, broken — and then—

He came.

Hard.

With a groan that was more animal than human, he buried himself to the hilt, shaking as he spilled inside her.

Hot. Endless. Ruining.

They both trembled, locked together.

And then—he pulled out slow and held her open.

Two fingers spreading her apart. His come spilling from her swollen, ruined pussy.

“Look. That’s mine now. All of it. All of you.”

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t stop watching. He dipped his fingers into the mess, dragged it up over her clit and worked her over and over, watched her twitch and jolt beneath him.

The orgasm crashed through her—a sharp inhale, a full-body tremor. Then she fell against him like he was the only solid thing left.

He held her tight, both of them panting.

“Still think I’m just a big rockstar?” he murmured, lips on her collarbone.

She laughed, breathless. “No. Now I know you’re fucking insane.”

He grinned. Pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. “Good. That makes two of us.”

The silence after was sticky. Dom leaned his forehead to hers.

“You alright?”

She nodded—dazed, lips swollen, thighs shaking. Then smiled. Just a little. “Never better.”

He chuckled low, ran his tongue across his bottom lip. “You’re fuckin’ reckless, you know that?”

“You left the door open,” she whispered.

He grinned. “Yeah. I hoped it’d be you.”

A sound in the hallway made them both freeze. The distant rattle of a cleaning cart.

She scrambled off him—legs nearly giving out, grabbing for her skirt. He stepped back, eyes wild, tucking himself back into ruined pants, his shirt nowhere in sight. Her lipstick was smeared down his neck.

“You’ll get me fired,” she breathed, cheeks burning.

“You’ll get me canceled,” he shot back, his eyes dragging down her body.

The doorknob twitched. Someone testing it.

She bolted to the far corner, half-dressed, hiding her face. He stayed where he was—unbothered, defiant, shirtless and glowing like sin in the mirror light.

The door didn’t open. They left.

She exhaled.

She looked at him—really looked. Hair a mess, lips bruised, still panting. God, he looked like he’d just been worshipped. And he had.

She adjusted her skirt, her eyes flicking back to the mirror.

“I shouldn’t have come in,” she whispered.

He tilted his head, a bead of sweat dripping from his temple down his throat. “But you did.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“But you fucking did.” His voice was darker now. Soft, but edged. A warning. A promise.

He took one step forward. “You flashed me like a little brat,” he murmured, his fingers twitching at his sides. “You showed me what you wanted. And then you came in here and took it.”

She said nothing.

He moved closer. Close enough to tilt her chin up with two fingers, slow and reverent. “So don’t play the good girl now.”

She shivered. “You’re dangerous,” she said—an understanding, not an accusation.

He leaned in, his lips brushing her jaw, his voice dragging rough across her skin. “Then don’t fuckin’ follow me next time.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes—something hot and stupidly tender underneath all that chaos. “Unless you want more.”

She laughed. Quiet, stunned, ruined. “I want everything.”

He grinned, wicked and wide.

Then—like it was nothing—he plucked a sharpie from the vanity, grabbed her wrist, and scrawled something along the inside of her arm. Not just a number. His name, too. Big, messy. A looping, brazen autograph. Black ink bleeding through sweat. Claiming space.

“That’s mine,” he muttered. “So you don’t forget what happened in here.”

She stared at it—the digits, the signature, the smudge of his thumbprint beside it. It looked like a secret. Like graffiti on soft skin.

“I won’t,” she said.

Dom didn't ask; he just took her mouth, pulling her close as if to memorize her shape. He looked at her one last time. That lopsided grin faltering—just slightly—as if he almost said more. Almost.

But she was already slipping out the door. And this time, she didn’t look back.

♡⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝♡

Outside, the hallway was colder. Louder. Realer.

She exhaled. Felt the ink dry against her arm.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Hundreds of missed calls. Reality kicked in.

Maybe she did not save his number. Or maybe she did.

But she never went back to the venue.

The ink faded after three showers, but some nights—when it’s too quiet, when she’s alone—her skin still burns where he wrote his name.

And she wonders, just for a second, if he ever left that green room mirror.

Or if he’s still there.

Smiling.

Waiting.

[shaeissleepy]

me and the devil.

idk if this rlly needs any context i just felt like projecting angst onto my goth polycule :,)

[mashpotatoe]

freak out, freak out, freak out, freak out (look at me) 😭😭😭

[cat-fire]

Just a Mirror You Needed for a Little While

Dom x Reader | Rated M

Dom arrives to a secluded Scandinavian retreat to work on his mental health. You’re the therapist hired to fix him, not fuck him. But one filthy confession at a time, he dismantles your composure, watching the cracks form behind your perfect posture.

When you snap, it’s not in shame. It’s in hunger.

And when he finally covers your mouth — to protect your job, not his ego — there’s no going back.

Daring, dangerous, and impossibly tender. Enjoy!🪽🤍

🖤⚡️🖤

The room was all light and silence—walls of glass framing a winter-wrapped forest, the trees dusted in white like they'd been dipped in sugar. A faint scent of pine lingered in the warmth, drifting from a crackling fire that hummed softly in the corner. Everything was calm. Clean. Still.

Then he walked in. Dom moved like static—like something barely contained. The expensive leather jacket hung loose on his shoulders, unmistakably designer. His jaw was dusted with fresh stubble, eyes too sharp to be tired, too jaded to be impressed. He paused just inside the door, boots tracking slush onto the pale wood floor, his gaze flicking over the room with the wariness of someone used to being watched.

And you were watching. You didn't move—didn't even blink. You sat across the wide table like you'd been carved from the same pale timber, your presence cool and grounded. Black ink spiraled down your arms in delicate, deliberate shapes, like stories you'd already told. You didn't rise to meet him. Didn't offer a greeting. Just met his eyes like he was another storm rolling in off the hills.

Dom cocked his head, something between a smirk and a snarl curling at his lip. Unfazed. Intrigued. Maybe annoyed.

Your voice was calm—a stark contrast to the restless energy he brought into the room.

"So, Dom, welcome to the retreat. I'll be working with you during your stay."

He slouched into the chair, all rockstar swagger.

"Dom. Yeah, I know the drill. You're gonna try to fix me, right?"

"I'm here to help you explore some things. Your music, your process. What drives you."

A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Right, right. So... you a fan?"

"Of music? Yes, definitely."

He tilted his head, testing.

"Of my music?"

Your fingers traced the rim of the coffee cup in front of you.

"We can discuss your work, if you'd like. Now about your goals for this retreat..." His eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion—intrigue. This wasn't the usual starstruck treatment. "Perhaps we could start with your creative process," you continued, unbothered. What inspires you?"

He leaned back, spreading out like he owned the space.

"You know. The usual. Life, love... all that crap".

"Clichés? Or genuine emotions?"

"What's the difference?"

"That's what we're here to explore."

He leaned forward then, eyes sharp like a predator circling something interesting.

"So, you gonna analyze my lyrics for hidden meanings?"

"If you want me to."

"And if I don't?"

A flicker—something unreadable passed across your face.

"Then we'll find another way to connect."

He leaned back like the chair was a throne, arms draped with casual arrogance.

"Look, I get it. You're trying to play it cool. Not get all fangirl on me". A slow grin tugged at his mouth—dangerous and deliberate. "But we both know you've heard my stuff."

You just held his gaze.

"Your music has a certain... intensity.”

He laughed—low, rough, a sound that crackled like the fire behind you.

"Intensity. That's one word for it". He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. "Try raw. Try real". Then he leaned in, slow and deliberate, the air between you suddenly tighter, heavier. "You think you can handle that?"

"Handle it?" you echoed, a slow smile curling at the corners of your mouth. "I think you'll find I'm more than capable, Dom".

Silence stretched, but it wasn't empty. The air between you shimmered with something volatile, unspoken, electric.

"Good," he murmured, voice low. His gaze didn't waver—locked on yours like he was trying to peel you apart just by looking. "Because I've got a feeling this is going to get very interesting".

A smirk played on your lips as his words settled between you. "Is that a challenge, Dom?" you asked, voice like velvet. Your eyes sparkled, but not with flirtation—with precision. "Because I do love a good challenge.”

You leaned in, slow and deliberate, your gaze locking onto his.

"But let's be clear—this isn't a game. It's about your well-being. And I won't tolerate disrespect". The amusement drained from your voice, replaced by something cooler, sharper. "Disrespect, Dom? Is that what you think this is?" You didn't wait for him to answer. "I'm not here to flirt or stroke your ego. I'm here to help you dig into that raw, real intensity you like to throw around". Your tone dropped to a low, husky murmur. "So... are you ready to be honest? Or are we just wasting each other's time?"

You asked questions like you were not afraid of the answers. Not in that wide-eyed, interview way—not like the press or the fans, who wanted soundbites and scandal. You wanted substance. You wanted him, beneath all the noise.

"What does that line mean to you?" you asked, tapping an unpublished lyric he barely remembered writing. "'Set fire to the parts I still feel.'"

He scoffed, leaning back in the chair, arms folded.

"It means what it sounds like."

You didn't blink.

"Which is?"

He glanced toward the fire, jaw tight.

"Sometimes you have to burn things off to survive. Feelings. Memories. People.”

"And who did you burn?"

That stopped him cold. The smirk he'd been wearing slipped—just enough for you to notice. You didn't pounce. Didn't press. Just waited, like you knew he'd circle back on his own. Like you knew the silence would echo louder than any follow-up. He hated how right it felt.

Most people didn't look past the noise. They liked him loud and messy, easy to cheer for, easy to dismiss. But you sat there with your inked arms and unreadable gaze and saw through him like you'd mapped the terrain already.

He hated it. He liked it. And that was the problem. He hated how quiet it got when the bullshit ran out.

🖤⚡️🖤

Your sessions had been circling for days now—your voice calm, your questions gentle but relentless. At first he'd dodged, deflected, thrown out sarcasm. You didn't flinch. Never did.

Today, you'd pulled out another lyric. One he didn't even remember bleeding onto paper. Something about disappearing in a room full of people. And for some reason, it cracked him. He stood up. Started pacing. Too much energy under his skin. His fingers twitched like they were reaching for something to break.

"I didn't come here for this," he snapped, voice too loud for the space. You didn't say anything. Just waited. That was worse. "I came here because they said I needed a fucking break". He dragged his hands through his hair, pacing harder. "Because apparently smashing shit backstage and screaming at your manager is bad PR".

Still nothing. He turned on you.

"You want the truth, yeah? Fine. It's too much. All of it. The touring, the interviews, the fucking pressure to be 'on' all the time". His voice cracked—not loud, just sharp. "I can't shut my brain up. Ever. It's like—". He made a noise, frustrated, gesturing uselessly toward his head. "I get overwhelmed and I snap. One minute I'm fine, the next I'm throwing a lamp at a wall and wondering what the hell is wrong with me".

Silence. Heavy. Dense.

"I think I'm broken," he muttered. That last part he hadn't meant to say out loud.

🖤⚡️🖤

The days blurred, one into the next—sessions, walks in the snow, late nights staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Dom was still guarded, still all sharp edges and restless energy, but cracks had begun to show. Tiny fractures in the mask. He talked more now. Not easily, but enough. About the noise in his head—the constant buzz that never let up, even when he was alone. About the way his thoughts tripped over each other, outpacing his own breath, dragging him into spirals he couldn't always pull out of.

"I can't turn it off," he admitted one morning, eyes fixed on the steam curling off his tea. "It's like a hundred voices arguing in here," he tapped his temple, "and I can't fucking hear myself think".

You listened the way you always did—present, patient, no judgment lurking behind your gaze. Just stillness. Space.

You talked about the fans, too. "

They put me on this pedestal," he muttered, fingers picking at the sleeve of his hoodie. "Like I'm some kind of savior because I scream about feelings into a mic. But I'm just a guy. I fuck up. I have bad days. I get it wrong. I bloody love me fans".

You tilted your head slightly.

"How does that affect you?"

He hesitated. Then:

"I get angry. Frustrated. I throw shit. It's not healthy, I know that—but I don't know how else to let it out".

There was no silence after that. Just quiet. You leaned forward, your voice softer than usual, but steady.

"Dom, it's okay to not be okay. You don't have to carry that weight alone."

His eyes lifted to yours—uncertain, vulnerable in a way that surprised even him.

"But they see me as this... this icon. What happens when they realize I'm just a mess?"

You reached across the table without hesitation, your hand resting over his.

"They already see you," you said. "Through your music. The rawness, the honesty. That's what connects with them, Dom. And that doesn't disappear just because you're struggling".

The silence stretched, but it wasn't awkward—it was loaded. Your hand still rested over his, warm and steady, and for a second, he didn't pull away. Then he did. Slowly. Like the contact burned a little too good. You didn't call him out on it. Just leaned back, giving him space.

"So," you said gently, "you've talked about fame, the pressure, your process... Can I ask something more personal?"

His brow lifted.

"That wasn't personal?"

Your lips curved, just slightly.

"What about your relationships? Intimacy? Connection. How does all of that fit into your life right now?"

He huffed a laugh—low, tired.

"You mean sex?"

"I mean connection," you corrected, but there was no judgment in your voice. Just curiosity. Interest. "But sure. We can start there.”

He didn't speak for a moment. Just stared at the window, at the slow drift of snow piling against the glass. Then:

"It's... complicated," he muttered. "Most of the time, it's just noise. Hookups. Tour flings. People wanting the idea of me, not me. They want the chaos. The hair, the voice, the stage version.”

"And what do you want?"

That stopped him. He glanced at you, then away again—but this time, when he spoke, his voice was quieter. Honest.

"I want it to mean something. I want to feel seen. Like... not just fucked because I'm 'Dom'. I want someone to look at me while it's happening and actually see the part that hurts. The part that's still trying to figure shit out.”

Your breath hitched—subtle, but he noticed. He turned, eyes narrowing. "What, too much?"

"No," you said, voice low. "Not too much.”

He tilted his head, studying you. Something shifted behind your eyes—the therapist mask slipping just enough to reveal the woman underneath.

"You like that?" he asked, voice darker now. "The idea of me being a mess, but still needing to be touched like I matter?”

Your silence was answer enough. A slow grin tugged at his lips—not arrogant, not cocky. Just aware.

"Didn't expect that to turn you on". He watched you, something unreadable in his eyes. The way you didn't look away, didn't flinch—it lit something under his skin. So he kept talking, not sure if it was confession or provocation anymore.

"I love love," he said, almost too quietly for the words to carry. Your brows lifted slightly, caught off guard. "I mean it," he continued. "I love being in love. That stupid, dizzy, desperate kind of love. The kind that makes you write terrible songs and send voice notes at 3 a.m. and lose your fucking mind over someone's laugh".

You didn't speak. Just listened. But your posture shifted—a barely perceptible lean forward. He smirked.

"Didn't expect that from me, did you?".

Your throat worked as you swallowed.

"No. But... go on".

"Sex's not good without it," he said, simply. "Without wanting them. Like really fucking wanting them. Not just their body. Their mess. Their moods. The way they smell when they've just woken up. The way their back arches when they stretch. The little fucking grooves under their eyes when they're tired. That's what makes it worth it".

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your face gave almost nothing away—but the heat that rose in your neck? The way your breath caught just slightly? He saw it. So he pushed—just a little more.

"I've done it the other way," he admitted, his voice dropping. "Fucked people just to feel something. Or to forget. Or to punish myself. But it's always left me hollow. And sometimes... yeah. Sometimes I like it rough. Filthy. Sometimes I like to bite. Like to hear them beg. Like to ruin them a bit".

He leaned in slowly, elbows on the table, voice a low rasp now—not performative, not loud. Just real. Dangerous in its honesty.

"But I only ever want to ruin someone I respect. Someone I'd write a song about after.”

That was the moment you broke—not visibly, not fully. But the flush was unmistakable. The way your eyes darted away for the first time since he started talking. Your jaw tightened—not from anger, but from effort. From restraint.

Dom saw it. Felt it. The crack in you. And fuck, it lit something feral in him. You shouldn't be this close to the edge. He was a patient. A project. A person in pain. But when he spoke like that—voice low and guttural, confessing things like he needed you to see him, not fix him—something in you shifted. Your skin prickled. Your breath caught in your throat and refused to come smooth. The moment hung between them, charged.

And then you asked—too softly, too curiously—"When you say 'ruin,' what do you mean?"

Dom's eyes flicked up, sharp and slow, like a match catching flame.

"You sure you wanna know?"

You didn't answer. Just held his gaze. That was enough.

He leaned in, elbows on his knees now, voice dark with something unsaid.

"Sometimes I picture someone kneeling in front of me. Not because I asked. Because they wanted to. Needed to. That kind of surrender". Your heart kicked in your chest. He went on. "I like eye contact," he murmured. "I like watching them try not to look away while their mouth is full of me. I like slow. I like messy. I like hearing them struggle to keep control. Because I don't want to take it—I want them to give it up. Willingly. Shaking".

You didn't breathe. Couldn't. Dom's gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second—no longer performing, just reacting. His thigh bounced once, restless, and you saw it: the way his fingers flexed against his jeans. The flush high in his cheeks. He was hard. And not hiding it. And the worst—or maybe the best—part? You were wet. Just from words. From the truth of it.

You shifted slightly in your seat, thighs pressing together beneath the table, heart hammering.

Your voice came out tight, unsteady.

"And when you write about that... does it help? The release?”

Dom's eyes gleamed.

"No. Writing doesn't help". He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, like even speaking had left him buzzing. "Only doing it helps."

He could feel it now—the shift in you. It wasn't just professionalism cracking; it was something deeper. Something you weren't ready for. But he was.

Dom exhaled through his nose, slow, like he was trying to keep himself from saying too much—and failing.

"I don't take control," he said, voice quiet but hoarse. "Not unless it's given". His eyes flicked up, dark and locked on yours. "I don't like forcing. I like begging. Offering. When someone looks at me and says, here, I'm yours, and I know they mean it. Every word, every tremble, every fucking moan a gift. And I take it like it's sacred."

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He kept going. "I like when they give... and give... and give until they don't know where they end and I begin. When they're so undone, they forget their own name but still remember mine.”

He licked his lips, slow, distracted—like even saying it turned him on. It did. His jeans were getting tight, but he didn't shift. Didn't hide it. He was too far gone now.

"And I like to be touched," he added, lower now. "Not even in a sexual way. Just... touched. Held. Gripped. Clung to. I like when hands are in my hair. On my back. When someone digs their nails into me like they need me". A breath. "I get on stage, and it's the only time I feel it. That rush. That sea of hands. Strangers clawing at me like I'm worth something. Like they see me. And I can't lie—I fucking love it. The pressure. The hunger. That moment where I don't know who I am anymore, but at least I exist.”

He looked up at you then—really looked. And there was no act left.

"I'm starved for it. All the time. Not the sex. Not just that. The closeness. The after. The grip around my ribs that says you're mine for now and I'm not letting go. I think I'd die for that feeling.”

Silence. You were staring at him like you'd been gutted. He smiled—small, broken, warm. "You asked," he said. "Now you know". Your silence didn't feel cold. It felt charged. Like the moment before thunder. Dom watched you. You weren't blinking. Were barely breathing. And fuck, that made him want to give you more. Because you were not looking away.

"I think I touch myself more than I should," he said, voice even, as if he was discussing the weather. Your eyes flicked. Not away. To his mouth. He smirked faintly. Kept going. "Not for release. Not always. Sometimes it's just to feel something. A palm on my chest. Fingers in my hair. Just... contact". He let that sit. "Sometimes I lie about the hookups. Pretend there are more than there really are. Pretend I'm a fucking animal backstage."

A pause. Then: "But the truth is, most nights, it's just me. Me in my tour bus, and a mirror, and a couple old memories I wear out like a favorite pair of jeans.”

Your breath hitched. Dom leaned forward again eyes locked on yours now.

"You want nasty? Fine. You ever look in the mirror while you're doing it?" His voice dropped, nearly a whisper. "Not to check your body, not to pose. I mean really look. Like you're chasing something you'll never catch". His jaw clenched. Not from shame. From remembering. "I do that," he said. "I watch. I talk to myself. Sometimes I beg like someone's there, even when no one is". He let the words crawl between them like smoke. "And I never finish unless I believe it. Unless I've tricked myself into feeling held".

So he gave you the killing blow. "I'd let someone ruin me if they did it gently," he said. "If they took their time. If they wanted all of me. Even the parts I try to throw away".

You should have cut the session short. Every instinct said stop—but something in his voice, that lazy Northern drawl softening his confessions, held you still. He saw it.

"You like listening," he said quietly. "You keep pretending you don't, but you do".

You folded your hands together, trying to sound clinical.

"This is about you, Dom".

He smiled—slow, deliberate.

"Yeah, but you're here. And you're shaking". His tone wasn't cruel, just observant. "You're wondering what else I do when the lights are off, when it's just me and the noise in my head".

Your throat worked once before you could answer.

"You might be projecting. I am here to assist you wi-"

"Maybe". His accent thickened, soft and rough at the same time. "Or maybe I'm just tellin' you the truth, and you can't stand it".

You forced yourself to breathe evenly.

"Then tell me the truth. Why do you need people to see you like that?"

The grin faded. For a moment he looked young—frighteningly so.

"Because if they're lookin', I'm not disappearing," he said. "If they want me, I exist." Something twisted in your chest. The bravado in his voice cracked, and underneath it was only exhaustion and hunger. "Don't worry, doc. I'm not gonna drag you into my head," he murmured. "But it's messy in there. Lonely. You'd hate it.”

"I'm not sure I would," you said before you could stop yourself. That earned a laugh—quiet, real.

"Careful, love," he said, the word rough in his throat. "You keep talkin' like that, and I might start believin' you".

You tried to regain your footing. "We're not here to talk about me, Dom.”

He tilted his head.

"Aren't we? You spend all this time pickin' me apart, askin' what I feel, what I want. Seems fair I get to ask a few things back.”

"Dom—".

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady.

"What do you want? When you go home after a day of draggin' people through their demons... what's left for you?"

Your mouth opened. He wasn't smirking anymore. Just watching, eyes dark and curious, that faint Doncaster lilt making every word sound too close, too intimate.

"Do you ever get tired of bein' the calm one?" he asked softly. "Of listenin to everyone else's noise while pretendin' you don't have any of your own?

You forced a breath.

"You might be deflecting right now…”

"Maybe. Or maybe I just know what it looks like when someone's runnin' from themselves". He sat back, but his eyes stayed locked on yours. "You think you hide it better than I do?"

Your nails dug into your palms under the table.

"This isn't about me.”

He smiled—slow, quiet, dangerous.

"Everything's about you right now, love. You just don't want to admit it.”

You said nothing, but Dom could feel the static in the room rise. He wasn't smiling anymore. Not the rockstar smirk. Not even the haunted kind. Just watching you with the unnerving stillness of someone who knows.

"You keep lookin' at me like I'm sayin' too much," he said, voice soft now, like velvet dragged slow across skin. "But I think you're just afraid I'm sayin' something you recognise".

He tilted his head, gaze dropping for half a second—a flicker, barely noticeable, but surgical. Then it happened. His voice didn't change. But something in his eyes did.

"You cold, love?".

Your breath hitched before you could stop it. He'd seen it. The way the fabric of your blouse shifted, your nipples hard as fuck. The way your posture changed, tight and still. Something had betrayed you—the air, the tension, or maybe just him. Your body had answered before your mouth had a chance.

"Didn't mean to make you nervous," he murmured. "Or maybe I did". You tried to speak. Failed. He watched the way you fought it—not just the reaction, but the meaning behind it. He let the silence stretch.

"You ever think maybe we're not that different?" he asked. "Maybe you like sittin' there, hearin' me spill all this shit, because it lets you feel things you're not allowed to feel on your own time.”

Your eyes snapped to his—too fast. Dom smiled, slow and quiet. Not cruel. Just certain. "I'm a mirror. You know that, don't you?" And this time, you didn't look away.

You straightened in your chair, jaw tight, eyes locked anywhere but him. Your fingers curled subtly into your lap, searching for grounding. For the script. For control.

"I'd prefer if you didn't call me 'love,'" you said, voice soft but clipped. "It's inappropriate in this setting.”

"You sure about that?" he said. Not mocking. Just curious. "Sounded good comin' out of my mouth".

Your spine stiffened. You inhaled, slow, controlled. You were so close to reining it back in. But then—your body gave you away again. Another involuntary shiver. The tightening of your thighs. The slightest flush blooming beneath your cheekbones, betraying the calm cadence of your words. And Dom's eyes followed all of it. He saw. And worse—you knew he saw.

"You alright?" he asked, voice lower now, like he already knew the answer. "You're gettin' a bit warm".

"I'm fine," you replied too quickly. Too brittle. You tried to unlace your fingers. They didn't move.

"You ever wonder what it's like, bein' on the other side of your voice?" he asked. "All calm, all smart, all soft. Like you could talk someone outta jumpin' or into confessin' their dirtiest fuckin' secret. Makes a man wanna unravel a bit. Just to see if you'd catch him.”

You swallowed hard. Looked at your notebook like it could save you. It stayed blank.

"But you're unravelin' too now, aren't you?" he added, softer. "I can see it. You're not hidin' it anymore.”

And when you finally looked back at him—eyes wide, breath shallow—he didn't move. He just held your gaze, like he'd been waiting for you to fall apart in front of him the whole time.

You shoved the chair back so hard it nearly toppled.

"Fuck you!" you spat, voice shaking—not from fear, but from fury. "You sit there saying all this—this filthy, intimate shit like it's nothing. Like you're not tearing me apart with every goddamn word".

Dom froze, eyes locked on you, jaw clenched. "I've spent weeks trying to keep this professional. Trying to do my job, while you sit there talking about begging and mouth-fucking and how starved you are for someone to touch you like you matter—and you know what?" you snapped, your hands trembling at your sides. "I feel it. I fucking feel it, Dom. Every word. Every fucking syllable goes straight through me like I'm the one on my knees.”

The air shattered between you and him. He didn't say a word. Just watched. You stepped toward the door, chest heaving. "Do you know what it's like to sit here day after day and pretend I'm not soaking through my fucking underwear every time you start confessing something new?"

Still, he didn't move. Your voice cracked. "I hate you for this. I hate how much I fucking want you. You think you're the only one who's empty? Who begs for softness in silence? You think you've cornered the market on pain?"

Dom inhaled sharply, chest rising. And then, voice ragged, quieter now but no less raw: "I wanted to fuck you the second you started talking about how lonely you were."

Silence. Then he stood. One slow step. But this time you turned to leave. You had to. You were unraveling. If he touched you now, you'd break. You reached for the door— And his hand wrapped around your wrist. Not rough. Real. Final.

🖤⚡️🖤

Your pulse throbbed under his thumb. He didn't speak at first. Just held you like he was anchoring himself to you, too. His hands weren’t careful—they were needy, sliding up your back like he was trying to feel everything at once. Like he didn’t trust the moment to last. The kiss was almost painful.

And still, even with his mouth on yours, he kept talking—voice hoarse between kisses, lips brushing yours with every broken syllable.

“You feel that?” he whispered, pressing you harder against him. “That’s not just want. That’s weeks. Fuckin’ months of me imaginin’ this. Wantin’ you so bad it made me mean”.

You moaned into his mouth, too far gone to hide it. He didn’t stop. “I pictured this,” he groaned. “You breakin’. Givin’ in. Letting me ruin you right. Not fast. Not hard. Just honest. Slow, messy, beggin’ me not to stop—not ‘cause you’re scared, but ‘cause you can’t take how good it feels”.

Your nails tore through his shirt. Your mouth was on his jaw now, then his throat, chasing every sound he gave you.

“You know what I do when I’m alone? I close my fuckin’ eyes and pretend it’s your voice I’m hearin’. Your mouth I’m fuckin’. I touch myself slow, thinkin’ about how you’d beg for it”.

“Stop,” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“Want me to stop?”

“No,” you sobbed. “I want you to shut up and touch me”.

That was it. The breaking.

You shoved him back against the wall, and for the first time, you kissed him like it would kill you not to. No plan. No structure. Just surrender. You didn’t care about the room. About the job. About the fallout. You needed him. Now. And he knew it. He felt it in the way your hands tore at his shirt, the way your legs trembled as you pressed yourself to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes wild, lips swollen, “you’re gonna let me?”.

You nodded, “I already did.”

And that was the end of the professional. Not the therapist. Just the woman. The one who said yes to the fire.

Your sweater hit the floor with a muffled sound you didn’t hear. Dom’s breath caught at the sight of you—flushed, breathless, eyes feral. You looked nothing like the woman who first sat across from him with a folder and a calm voice. And everything like the storm he’d been begging to unleash.

But he wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“You want surrender?” you growled, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “You want me to break?”

He barely had time to nod before you shoved him back. Hard. He stumbled into the therapy couch, landing with a grunt, eyes wide, chest heaving. You followed—climbing into his lap, straddling him like a confession, your thighs caging him in. Your hands tore his jacket off his shoulders, fingernails dragging down his arms, your mouth inches from his but not giving him the kiss he craved.

“I want to ruin you too,” you hissed, your voice shaking with obsession. “I want to make you forget every girl that ever touched you and remember me when you’re alone with your hand at night”.

Dom let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh—it was a groan, low and wrecked. You didn’t stop. “I want to mark you. Scratch your back open. I want your bandmates to ask who did it and for you to lie—because the truth is mine”.

He reached for your hips, but you slapped his hands away. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped. “Not until I say.”

His pupils blew wide. “You like begging?” you sneered, grinding against him just enough to make him whimper. “Then beg, Dominic. Beg for me.”

You grabbed his jaw, fingers rough, holding his face. “You asked for the part I hate giving. Here it is. All of it. I’m obsessed with you, you stupid, beautiful, fucked-up man. You wanted ruin? You’re getting it”.

And then you kissed him like you wanted to eat him alive—no softness, just fire, nails in your shoulders, teeth dragging across his bottom lip like punishment. He moaned into your mouth, broken already, hands trembling on the couch, whispering your name like it was holy.

🖤⚡️🖤

You didn’t remember when your shirt came off. Only the cold air against your skin, the sudden silence between you, the soft gasp Dom made when he saw you.

Your arms were trembling as you reached for his hands and brought them to your chest—deliberate, exposed, trusting. “Touch me,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Really touch me.”

He didn’t grab or grope. He didn’t rush. Dom looked up at you like you’d just handed him something holy. His hands rose slowly, shaking—and cupped you with a reverence that made you ache. He held you like he was afraid you’d vanish. His thumbs swept over the curve of your breasts, not to tease—but to learn.

You expected hunger. What you got was worship. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice shredded. “You’re unreal. You’re… so fuckin’ beautiful.”

His hands were so gentle it made your eyes sting. Fingertips grazing the soft curve of your breasts, thumbs ghosting over your skin like he was afraid to bruise you. No rush. No grab. Just worship—warm palms and shaky breaths like you were something fragile, and he’d waited forever to touch you.

But his mouth? “Oh fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, voice low, voice British, voice filthy. “Look at these tits. Fuck me, you were hidin’ all this under those fuckin’ clothes, weren’t you?”

You froze—not from fear, but from impact. The words hit you low and deep, heat flashing through you like lightning. His head dipped, lips brushing over your chest, but his voice never stopped. “I could spend hours here. Just buryin’ my face in ‘em. Suckin’ on ‘em nice and slow until you’re beggin’ me to move on.”

He kissed you right over your heart. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me worship you with my mouth, baby?”

Your hips jerked forward involuntarily. “Ohhh,” he chuckled darkly, lips dragging across your skin. “You like that, yeah? All soft hands and filthy fuckin’ talk. Never had a man say it while he was takin’ his fuckin’ time with you, did you?”

“Dom,” you gasped—not in warning. In need. He didn’t stop.

“I’d fuckin’ ruin anyone who interrupted this,” he murmured, his voice gravel. “I’d lock the door, press you against this fuckin’ window, and make you scream while the forest watched.”

And all the while, his hands never stopped being gentle. Loving. So soft it made you want to sob. And that’s what undid you—not the filth. Not the hands. The contrast. You wasn't being used. You was being worshipped in a dialect of lust and reverence no one had ever spoken to you in before.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly, voice low, rough, already knowing but needing to hear it.

You arched a brow, unbothered. “Thirty.”

His mouth twitched—not in amusement. In appetite. “Fuckin’ hell.” He said it like a prayer, not a curse. “You’re thirty.”

His hands moved over your hips like they were mapping out something sacred. “No wonder. No bloody wonder you walk like that. No wonder you stand there like you’ve got secrets in your skin.” He dropped to his knees without warning, hands still on your curves. “I love it. Every fuckin’ year. Every inch.”

His palms smoothed over the softness of your thighs, thumbs pressing in just enough to make your breath stutter. “You know how many girls try to look like nothin’? Try to hide themselves to be some fantasy?” His eyes flicked up to yours, burning. “You’re real. You’re a fuckin’ masterpiece. Built with hips meant to ruin men and thighs made to lock around my head.”

You didn’t flinch. You let him look. You let him speak. And Dom—filthy, wild Dom—adored you for it.

“And I do want it. All of it. You, older than me, smarter than me, standing there like I’m the one being undressed.” He looked up, smirking now. “Go on then, love. What do you want me to worship first?”

🖤⚡️🖤

He managed to catch the frantic movement of your hips with his palms, guiding the friction just enough to drive a wedge between your bodies, forcing a small, ragged breath of space.

You watched him, breathless, giving him the silent permission he craved. His hands were anything but gentle as he finished the job your anger had started, tearing the last few buttons of your jeans with a sharp, pop-pop-pop. He cast the fabric aside like it was trash, then dragged his eyes over your torso, drinking in the sight of your tits and the dark tattoos spiraling down your arms.

“You think you can come in here, all smart and clean, and talk me into giving you this control?” he snarled, the threat in his voice melting into pure lust. “You’re gonna beg for it back, love. But not yet.”

His hand shot out, grabbing a handful of your hair at the crown of your head and pulling back—not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you utterly still, exposing your throat.

“You know what I wanted to do the first time you told me I was 'deflecting?'" he growled, his mouth hovering just over your jugular. "I wanted to slam you on that table and fuck that calm right out of your body. Fuck all the rules, fuck the paperwork, fuck every sensible thought you ever had."

You pressed your hips harder against his, your eyes fluttering shut as a low, desperate sound escaped your throat.

"Then do it, Dom. Shut up and make me forget them."

He shifted, his legs caging yours, the hard length of him a blunt promise against you. His free hand snaked to the zipper of his jeans, fingers fumbling with urgency.

“I’m gonna strip every last piece of the therapist off you,” he vowed, his breath hot against your neck, “and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget your own bloody name.”

The zipper gave way with a metallic rasp, the sound echoing loudly in the sudden, sharp breach of the final barrier.

You don’t know when your body started shaking. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—not with hunger, but with intent. Like he knew exactly what you needed before you could say it. Like he’d been waiting for you to snap.

And you did. You grabbed his jaw, trembling, panting, furious with the ache pooling low in your stomach, and spit the words like a confession you couldn’t unspeak:

“I don’t want to be the therapist right now. I want you to fuck her out of me,” you went on, breath catching. “I want you to ruin the part of me that pretends not to feel this. I want to forget my name, forget my job, forget everything except you—inside me, on me, all over me. Just use me, Dom. Please.”

Silence.

Then: A whispered, disbelieving “Fuckin’ hell,” like he couldn’t believe what you’d just given him. His fingers dug into your thighs—not hard, but deep. Possessive. Anchoring.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low, guttural, soaked in that Doncaster grit.

You swallowed. “Use me.”

He exhaled like the words punched the air from his lungs. Then he moved.

A hard drag of breath—then your back hit the therapy couch, the air punched from your lungs, the room tilting under the sudden weight of him. Dom was on you in a heartbeat, one hand immediately caging your hair, the other jamming your thigh up until his hips slotted perfectly between yours.

“I can’t wait.” The words were shredded, low, a desperate snarl. “You’re gonna take it. Now.”

You didn’t speak. Your body needed no instruction, arching into his, begging without breath. He kissed you—vicious, starved, leaving no room for air or thought. Teeth scraped. Breath fractured. It was possession disguised as a goddamn promise.

Then he froze. Footsteps. Muffled voices down the corridor. You saw the sharp, calculated focus hit his eyes—and before you could gasp, his hand slammed hard over your mouth. The other hand stayed locked around your thigh, holding you wide open beneath him.

“Not a sound,” he ripped out, right at your ear, his breath a hot, ragged wave. “You stay fuckin’ quiet, love. You don’t wanna be heard, yeah?”

You nodded—wildly, uselessly—as his hips rolled forward, slow, devastating entry. The stretch was unbearable. The pace was merciless. The way he moved inside you was deliberate destruction. You sobbed against his palm.

“Fuck me,” he hissed. “So tight. So bloody wet. You feel that? Made for this.” Then he hit. For real.

His rhythm turned punishing—each thrust deeper, heavier, the therapy couch groaning beneath you. His body slammed into yours, sweat-slick skin catching, his breathing loud and wrecked as he hammered into your hips like he was trying to break through your bone.

“You like this?” he spat between gasps. “Pinned under me? Mouth covered ‘cause you can’t be trusted to stay quiet?”. He let out a harsh, filthy sound—not a laugh. “Bet this is what you wanted. Therapist undone, spread open in her own office, fucked so hard she cries”.

You were crying. Not from pain—from overwhelming, unbearable pleasure. Your legs locked tight around his waist, your body trying to crawl inside his. He didn't stop. He leaned lower, foreheads pressed, breaths tangled.

“You’re takin’ all of me,” he whispered, the awe unmistakable beneath the filth. “Fuckin’ takin’ every inch and I’m still not deep enough. Still haven’t ruined you the way I need to”

Your nails tore at his back, desperate anchors. Then his free hand—the one not caging your mouth—dragged down your stomach, between your bodies, finding the slick, shaking point of your climax.

“Gonna come on my cock, yeah?” he rasped. “Right here, right now, while I’m holdin’ your mouth shut? That what you want?”.

You didn’t just want it. You detonated for it. Your orgasm hit like violence—a white-hot rush of heat, sobs, and tremors. You clamped down around him, shaking, legs locked tight as your body gave up all pretense of control. And still—he didn’t release you. He fucked you through it, dragging you over the edge and keeping you there. His own groan was thunder in your chest—and when he finally came too, it was with his forehead pressed to yours, his teeth sunk into a gasp, his hips locked deep and shaking.

Only then did he lift his hand. You gulped air like a drowning woman. He stared at you—eyes glassy, wide, utterly devastated. Neither of you moved. The office was silent again. But the silence was a lie.

🖤⚡️🖤

Your body was still trembling, wrecked from the orgasm he ripped out of you, when he shifted suddenly—not away, but down. Dom slid off the couch, lips dragging fire along your stomach as he sank to his knees between your thighs. His hands were still rough on your hips, dragging you forward until the edge of the couch bit into your spine and your legs were trembling open for him.

He looked up at you—flushed, wild-eyed.

“Don’t look away. Want to watch you come again. Right fuckin’ here.”

Your hand flew to your own mouth instinctively—not to silence yourself, but to contain it. He saw it, saw how your fingers trembled, and his eyes went impossibly darker.

Then he lowered his mouth. The first flick of his tongue on your clit was maddeningly slow. Almost cruel. You jerked—an involuntary, wrecked movement—and his hands locked tighter around your thighs to keep you still.

“Shh,” he whispered against your skin, warm breath making you jolt. “Be quiet for me, baby. Just let me have this.”. Your back arched. One hand in your mouth. The other twisting into his hair. He licked you like he was reading something holy. Slow. Focused. Every movement precise—every drag of his tongue designed to pull new noises from your throat, new tremors from your legs.

But what undid you wasn’t the pace. It was the eye contact. Dom refused to look away. Every second, every flick of his tongue, he kept his eyes locked on yours, almost begging for your reactions. You couldn’t look away if you tried.

“Fuck,” you whispered into your palm, trying not to break. “Dom… please, you’re gonna—” He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. If anything, he groaned into you, as if your voice alone pushed him deeper. The sound was devastating. Wet. Worshipful.

And when your second orgasm hit, you nearly bit your own hand trying to stay silent—your entire body arching forward, his name a wrecked sob muffled against your fingers. He didn’t let go. He held you through it. Mouth locked to you. Hands gripping. Eyes drinking in the mess he’d made.

And when it was over—when you collapsed back against the couch, legs shaking, lips parted—he just rested his head against your thigh and laughed, breathless.

“Told you I’d ruin you,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

“You did,” you whispered back. “Now let me return the favor.”.

You didn’t wait for permission. Your hands were already moving on his hard cock. Dom looked down at you, chest rising hard and fast, still kneeling, lips swollen, chin slick with you.

“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” he breathed when your hands wrapped around him. But the second your mouth brushed his skin— he grabbed your wrist. Not to stop you. Just to make you look up.

“You do this,” he rasped, “you stay fuckin’ quiet. You understand, baby? You start makin’ them sounds again and we’re both fucked.”. The threat was real—but so was the way his voice shook. You nodded, pulse pounding. “Promise me,” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head now, fingers in your hair. “Be good for me now. Be quiet.”

You blinked up at him, heat flooding your spine, then leaned in — slow, deliberate — and took him into your mouth. Dom’s breath punched out of him in a stifled grunt. His head snapped back, hand tightening in your hair, but he didn’t say a word. He let you have him. Let you worship.

Your mouth was hot, soft, wet. You moved slow — torturously slow — just to see him tremble. And God, he did. Knees locked, jaw clenched, every muscle trying not to fall apart.

“Jesus f—” He bit down on the curse, his hand flying to cover his mouth, your trick now turned against him. He was trying so hard to stay silent, but you didn’t let up. You sucked deeper. Twisted your wrist. Swallowed around him, slow and focused, your own thighs clenching at how his body jolted. He whimpered into his hand.

“Fuckin’ hell, love—stop—” You didn’t. Not until his whole body tensed — one arm braced on the couch, the other clamped across his mouth, teeth sunk in to keep from howling. When he came, it was almost silent. Almost. His groan vibrated through the bones of his chest, his hips twitching, his fingers tangled hard in your hair. But he didn’t shove, didn’t snap — he just surrendered. Let you take everything, let you wreck him completely, while the whole staff sat quietly just one hallway away.

🖤⚡️🖤

You were still on your knees, breathless, lips swollen, heart hammering like a war drum against your ribs. Dom hadn’t moved much—just watched you, eyes dazed, chest heaving. But then his hand came under your chin, lifting your gaze. And he leaned in.

“Get up here,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You obeyed. Climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Your clothes were completely gone. His were half-undone. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was the way he held your hips. The way your bare skin slid against his jeans. The way he looked up at you—like your body was the only scripture he’d ever read.

“Look at me,” he whispered, guiding himself to your entrance. “Wanna see your eyes when I fuck you.”

You whimpered, already trembling, already soaked—but he didn’t let you drop. Not yet. He cupped your jaw with one hand, the other steady at your waist. And then, just before you sank down onto him, he said it—low, broken, sacred.

“Be quiet, baby… I don’t wanna lose you”.

The words shattered something in you. You nodded, eyes wide, lip between your teeth. He kissed you once—just once—then let you lower yourself onto him. Slow. Deep. Devastating. You were barely breathing. He filled you to the hilt in one long, stretching moment, your bodies pressed so tight you could barely tell where one ended and the other began.

“That’s it,” he groaned, still watching you. “Take it. Every inch. Just like that.” You rocked against him—soft, silent, aching. And he kept talking. “You’re so good like this. All full. All quiet. You take me like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

You whimpered against his mouth, tried to kiss him, tried to move—but he grabbed your hips and held you still. Deep.

“Shh, baby. Let me fuck you slow. Let me talk to you.” You nodded again, eyes burning. The quiet made it worse. The room was filled with just breathing, sweat, skin. You could hear the creak of the couch. The wet sound of your bodies moving together.

“I wanna wreck this cunt slow, yeah?” he murmured, nose brushing yours. “Wanna make you cry without makin’ a sound. Can you do that for me, love?”

You bit his shoulder, breath shaking. “Fuckin’ hell—yes,” you mouthed. He kissed your cheek, then your collarbone, then your mouth.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said, cock twitching inside you.

You sank onto him slow — aching, full, deliberate. The stretch of it made your breath catch, but your eyes never left his. Dom’s jaw clenched like he was holding back a sob. One hand dug into the back of the couch. The other gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he rasped, eyes flicking down to where your bodies joined. “Look at you takin’ me. Jesus Christ, baby…”

But you didn’t let him spiral. You needed him here. Present. Yours. You grabbed his face — rougher than you meant to — and made him look at you.

“You want to hear what I think?” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “I’ve thought about this for weeks. Your hands. Your mouth. Your cock. The way you’d ruin me if I let you.”

His eyes blew wide. You rode the reaction. “I told myself I hated you,” you went on. “But it wasn’t hate. It was want. The kind that burns your insides out. And now that I’ve got you?” you whispered, hips grinding slow and cruel. “I want all of you. The filth. The need. The chaos. Don’t hold back, Dom. Give it to me like you want to.”.

His hand flew to your jaw. He pulled you in close, mouth brushing yours, breath shaking.

“Fuck, baby…”The tenderness of it broke you open. You whimpered — not from pain, but from how fucking good he made you feel. Not just physically. Seen. Wanted. Worshipped.

“I want to ruin you too,” you whispered back. “I want to see what you look like when you break”. Dom groaned deep — and it turned into a desperate gasp when you clenched around him on purpose.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked. “You’re not bloody real. You can’t be…” His head fell back against the couch. Sweat glinted on his throat.

You dragged your lips along the edge of his jaw.

“You begged for me,” you whispered. “I heard it in every look. You wanted someone who could take it. So here I am.”. He looked at you like a man who didn’t know if he was about to cry or come.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ end me,” he muttered.

“Then die slow,” you said, rolling your hips just right. “Feel every second.”.

His hands flew to your waist — grounding, anchoring — and you rode him hard, both of you staring at each other like it was the last time you’d ever get to look.

And that’s when he reached up, hand over your mouth. “I said be quiet, love,” he whispered, but his eyes were soft. Begging. “I care too fuckin’ much. I can’t have you losein’ everythin’ ‘cause of me.”

You nodded, breath shaking against his palm. You didn’t need to speak anymore. Everything was being said in the way you moved. In the way he held you. In the way your bodies clung like you were terrified of what came after. You weren’t fucking. You were confessing. With your skin. With your rhythm. And it was perfect.

His hand stayed over your mouth while he fucked you deep — not rushed, not frenzied, but with a purpose that left you aching.

“This is ours, yeah?” he whispered, teeth grazing your jaw. “Just you and me. Our filthy little secret”. Your eyes fluttered shut. But he didn’t let you look away. No one’s ever gonna fuckin’ know,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face when he thrust again. “They’ll see you walkin’ through the halls like nothin’ happened, but you’ll be drippin’ with it, baby. Full of me”. You whimpered into his palm, and he smiled — slow, wicked, reverent.

You clenched around him hard — too hard — and he groaned, dropping his forehead against yours.

“But I won’t hurt you,” he breathed. “I care too fuckin’ much. I won’t let this cost you. Not your job. Not your life. Not you.”

You nodded furiously, your fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer. His voice dropped, raw and full of ache.

“I’ll keep you safe. I swear. I’ll fuck you dumb and keep you safe.” You couldn’t answer — not with words. Your body answered for you, arching up into him, surrendering fully, desperately.

“Good girl,” he rasped, his cum spilling inside you, filling you up hot. He kept kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips. “You’re fuckin’ perfect. You’re mine”.

🖤⚡️🖤

You’re still folded into him—skin to skin, your breath cooling on his chest, the slow thunder of his heart beneath your cheek. But the ache of something unsaid presses between your ribs. So you ask. Quietly. Carefully.

“I know you have a girlfriend.” His chest stills under you, just for a beat. You don’t lift your head. You stay there, listening.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.” You nod. You already knew. The press photos, the hand-holding at some award show, her name whispered in a tabloid.

But this isn't jealousy—this is recognition.

“Do you love her?” you ask, and your voice isn’t laced with accusation. It’s reverent. Like asking if the stars are real. His breath is low, quiet. But steady now.

“I do,” he says. “She’s… brilliant. Gentle in ways no one knows. Fuckin’ weird like me. She's got this way of looking at me like I'm human.”.

You close your eyes and smile—because that’s the answer you hoped for.

“Then I’m glad she exists,” you whisper. “I’m glad you have that.”.

His hand finds your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek like he’s memorizing the shape of your acceptance.

“I told her about you on the phone,” he admits, barely audible. “Not the details, but… enough. She said I looked different. Said I was softer after our sessions”.

You finally lift your head and look at him—really look. There’s no shame in his eyes. Just truth.

“She loves you that much?” you ask. He nods.

“Enough to know I needed something… Enough to let me go and find it”

You swallow the ache, the strange, beautiful ache in your chest.

“That’s not weakness,” you say. “That’s the most radical kind of love.”. “I think I love her for that too”

Dom stares at you, stunned. Not because you said it—but because you meant it. Your voice is steady, your breath warm, your hand tracing lazy circles against his shoulder like you’re soothing her through him.

“You’re not stealing anything from her,” you murmur. “You’re bringing something back. Some soft part of yourself that got lost out there. I think she knew that. And I think I was just… the mirror you needed for a little while.”.

Dom lets out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re fuckin’ unreal,” he says. “Like you just walked out of a song and knew exactly where all the pain goes.”

“And you too,” you whisper, your thumb brushing his lips.

There’s no regret here. No shame. Just two people collapsing into an intimacy that neither of them owns, but both of them honor. And in that moment—three hearts exist in the same space. Yours. Dom’s. And hers. And no one’s losing.

His eyes burn. With lust, with gratitude, with everything. “Will I ever see you again?,” he asks.

“Probably not”, you answer with honesty.

Your head rested on his chest. His breath was steady now, rising and falling under your cheek, sweat cooling against the still air of the glass-walled room. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was sacred. He tucked his chin to look down at you, fingers trailing lazy lines across your back.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, quieter this time. You shook your head slowly, pressing a kiss to the space over his heart.

“You held me like I was something worth protecting.”

Dom didn’t say anything at first. He just held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your neck, thumb brushing your skin like he was still trying to memorize it.

“I would’ve covered your mouth with my fuckin’ soul,” he whispered. “If it meant keepin’ you safe. I swear to God, I would've.”.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They weren’t wild anymore. Just open. Honest.

“You did keep me safe,” you said. “Even when you were wrecking me.”.

He smiled faintly, but there was a storm behind it.

“You’re so fuckin’ good at what you do,” he said. “Brilliant, even. You didn’t deserve this mess.”

“I wanted it,” you whispered. “I wanted you.” He looked at you like you’d just undone him all over again.

“Still. I didn’t want to ruin anything. Not your job. Not your name.”

“But you didn’t,” you murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingers. “You never did. You watched me. You read me. You knew exactly how far to go.”

His voice cracked, just a little.

“Part of me’s gonna stay in you. You know that, yeah? Not just in your body—”

“In my bones,” you said, finishing it for him. “I’ll carry you.” He blinked, eyes glistening—but not with sadness. With knowing.

Then he reached for the cigarette, lit it with one hand, and exhaled toward the high wooden ceiling. You sat up just slightly, still naked, still glowing with his fingerprints. He offered you the smoke without a word. You took it. Inhaled. Let it burn.

“I hate that this was a secret,” you said softly. “But I love that it was ours.”.

Dom smiled at that, watching you over the curl of smoke between you. He reached up and pushed a damp strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re gonna go back to bein’ brilliant,” he said. “And I’m gonna go back to bein’ a fuckin’ mess.”.

You looked at him—this messy, gorgeous, soft-eyed man who had just worshipped you in every way that mattered—and smiled.

“We’re all a mess,” you whispered. “You just make it beautiful.”.

And as the snow kept falling beyond the glass, you laid your head back on his chest—your body warm, your soul heavier, your heart impossibly full.

🖤⚡️🖤

You’re already at the door. Hair wild. Shirt wrinkled. The aftertaste of sin still blooming across your skin. You can see your own reflection in the glass—eyes dazed, mouth swollen, a version of you that shouldn’t exist here. Your hand is on the handle.

“You’re really gonna leave like that?” His voice. Rough. Ragged. Ruined. You don’t turn. You can’t. You’re holding the weight of something impossible—his scent still on you, your body still trembling.

Then: the soft sound of footsteps. The door doesn’t open. Instead, his hand lands flat against it—above yours. And he’s there. Right there. You feel the warmth of him before he speaks again.

“Don’t make me watch you walk away without this.”

And then— He pulls you around. One arm slamming the door shut behind you. The other cradling your face like you’re something fragile and sacred. And then his mouth crashes into yours. Madness. His lips devour. Teeth drag. Tongues clash. It’s not polite. It’s not gentle. It’s the fucking end of the world pressed into a kiss.

He groans against your mouth like he’s been waiting his whole life to kiss you like this—like he knows this is the only time it’ll ever happen, so he pours everything into it. The want. The worship. The regret. The fucking ache of it all. Your fingers tangle in his hair. Your hips hit the door. You kiss him back like it’s your last breath, like you’ll never stop tasting him.

You break the kiss first. But only because your lungs are begging. Your forehead rests against his. And for a second, nothing moves. No breath. No guilt. No time. Just the sacred, impossible truth of a kiss that should have never happened.

You whisper:

“Don’t open the door for a few minutes.”

He smiles. Devastated. In love. And lets you go.

Outside the therapy cabinet, the mountains stood still — ancient, indifferent, powdered in fresh snow. The same peaks that had watched her arrive now watched her leave, the same trees silent under a heavier sky. The same glass reflected nothing.

No evidence of what had happened inside. Just a door, softly closed. A couch still warm. And the northern wind curling through the white pines — carrying secrets it would never speak aloud.

[dumanick]

G.I.L.F (god I love fentanyl)

[dumanick]

The woods cry my name

[dumanick]

They should make knives that don’t talk to you in your sleep