req for a ten reaction/headcanon/fic where his lady is a virgin but he didn’t realize because she doesn’t seem shy or anything.
and so he ends up fucking her super rough for the first time because she never told him (she thought he could tell + she just trusts him to do whatever) and then like the aftermath of that?? how would he react, and if you want to write out the smut
cw: rough sex (accidental), virgin!reader, trust kink, unintentional pain, guilt, soft!Ten, emotional smut, healing, worship... idk lmk if i missed something
wc: 3k aprox
note: God, it took me a while to finish this!! I hope it's what you had in mind. I actually ended up liking it a lot! I hope you do too.
☆ First, he thought you were experienced
The way you kissed him wasn’t timid. It was hungry. Hands on his chest, your mouth open and eager, tongue teasing like it knew what it was doing. Ten didn’t second-guess it for a second. You climbed onto his lap like you’d done it a hundred times, straddling him with thighs that squeezed, hips that rolled slow and suggestive against his growing erection.
He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding beneath your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts with practiced grace. You moaned—soft but sure—and arched into his palms. Confident. Responsive.
“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he mumbled, kissing along your jaw. “I’ve been dying to get you under me.”
And you only laughed, breathless and flushed. “Then do it.”
That was it. That’s all it took. You said it like someone who knew. Someone who’d had this before, maybe not with him—but with someone. He didn’t think to ask. You seemed ready. Bold. Unafraid. So Ten pushed you down onto the mattress and peeled off your clothes like they were wrapping paper.
☆ Then, he fucked you like he meant it.
Ten doesn’t do anything halfway. Not in the studio. Not on stage. Definitely not in bed.
So when you welcomed him in with no hesitation—pulling him down between your legs, your thighs spread wide and gaze locked with his—he gave you everything.
Not slow.
Not tentative.
Just pure, blistering want.
He kissed you like he was starving. Bit at your neck until you whimpered. Gripped your hips like he was trying to mold them to his own. His voice was low and raspy, filthy compliments slipping from his lips as he pushed his cock against your entrance, teasing you with the thick head.
“You’re so wet already,” he breathed, brushing the tip through your folds. “You want it rough, don’t you, baby?”
You nodded—honest. Naive, maybe. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t stop him.
And Ten groaned, “Fuck yes,” before sinking into you in one deep, unforgiving stroke.
He didn’t notice the way your breath hitched—or maybe he did, and mistook it for pleasure. Because when you gasped, he groaned, “God, you’re so fucking tight—shit.” He thought it was a compliment to your pussy, not a red flag.
His hips set a brutal pace from the start. Fast, hard, deep. The kind of fucking meant to leave you shaking for hours. The kind that came with his teeth on your shoulder and his hand pressed flat over your stomach to feel the bulge every time he bottomed out.
“Can’t believe you’re taking me like this,” he growled. “Such a good girl—fuck, I love the way you moan for me.”
You moaned because you had to. Because it was too much and not enough, overwhelming and raw, and you didn’t want him to stop because despite everything, you wanted this. Even as your body cried out, your mind was quiet. Safe.
You trusted him to break you. Even if it hurt.
☆ And you didn’t stop him.
Even when your eyes blurred.
Even when your throat tightened.
Even when the stretch burned more than it pleased.
You didn’t stop him.
Because it was Ten.
Because you wanted him.
Because the way he touched you—kissed you—looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered… it made you feel safe enough to let go. To surrender.
And more than that? You just… didn’t think you had to say it. You assumed he could tell. Surely a man like Ten—someone so worldly, so sexually attuned, so in sync—he had to know, right?
He had to notice how tightly your walls clung to him.
How your breath stuttered every time his hips slammed into yours.
How your nails left crescent moons in his back because it was so much, too much, too soon—but you didn’t want him to stop.
It felt like being cracked open and rearranged.
Not just physically—but emotionally, spiritually. The kind of thing you can only give someone once, and you were giving it to him. Silently. Trustingly. Letting him claim you in a way no one else ever had.
You didn’t say “slow down.”
You didn’t say “it’s my first time.”
You just held him tighter. Opened your legs wider. Whimpered when it got too intense—and kissed him even harder to keep him close.
And he kept going. Because to him, it wasn’t pain—it was passion. Your tears were overwhelmed bliss. Your trembling thighs? Just part of the high.
You trusted him to handle you however he wanted.
And he trusted you to tell him if he went too far.
Neither of you realized you were both wrong.
☆ Afterwards, he saw it.
It hit him all at once. Like cold water down his spine.
He was still panting, still basking in the post-orgasm haze, the sweat cooling on his skin and his arms cradling your trembling frame when he shifted to pull out—and then he saw it.
Red.
A smear on the inside of your thigh. A little streak where your bodies had been pressed together. Tiny speckles on the bedsheets below your hips.
Ten froze.
He blinked, thinking maybe it was just friction. Maybe his nails had scratched you. Maybe—
But you looked so calm. So soft, boneless in his arms, blinking up at him like he’d given you the world.
And that made it worse.
“Wait…” he murmured, voice a dry crackle in his throat. “Baby—are you okay?”
You smiled lazily, almost shy. “Mmhm… just a little sore.”
His chest tightened.
“A little sore?” he echoed. “What do you mean—? Did I hurt you?”
You hesitated.
Then—gently, like it was nothing—you said, “It was my first time.”
Everything stopped.
Ten sat back like you’d just slapped him. Eyes wide. Mouth parted, stunned. “Your what?”
“My first time,” you repeated, a bit slower. “I thought… I mean, you didn’t ask. I figured you knew. I wanted it like that.”
Like it was no big deal. Like giving him your virginity was just something you gave. So easily. So trustingly. No fear. No conditions.
And Ten’s heart shattered.
“Baby…” he whispered, almost sick with guilt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You touched his arm, trying to soothe. “Because I trust you. And I wanted you to have me the way you wanted.”
And that? That undid him.
You hadn’t said anything because you trusted him to take care of you. To know. To see you. And instead, he’d fucked you like he was chasing a high—not making love to someone who’d never been touched like that before.
And now, all he could think was: She trusted me something special … and I didn’t treat it like it mattered.
☆ He felt like the floor dropped out from under him.
“Your first time?” His voice was quieter now, barely above a whisper—but laced with disbelief, and guilt, and something far too raw to name. His eyes swept over your body, all flushed and marked and open beneath him. The red blooming on the sheets. The slight tremble in your thighs. The little wince you gave when you shifted.
Ten’s breath caught in his throat.
He’d done this to you.
And he didn’t even know.
He brought a shaking hand to your cheek, cupping it gently—too gently now, like you might shatter. “I thought—fuck. You didn’t seem nervous. You were so confident. I didn’t even think…”
You smiled again, soft and sleepy. Still trusting. Still safe. “I wasn’t scared,” you said. “Not with you.”
And that wrecked him.
He didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding your hand until you squeezed back, trying to ground him. “I wanted you,” you added, voice laced with honesty. “Even if it hurt. It was you.”
But Ten shook his head. “No, baby. That’s not how it should’ve happened.” His thumb traced your cheek. “Your first time should’ve been slow. Gentle. Something you remember like a dream, not a storm.”
You blinked at him, surprised by how emotional he sounded. It wasn’t just regret. It was ache. Like he’d been given something priceless and only now realized he’d broken it in his hands.
“You deserved to be worshipped,” he said, kissing your knuckles. “Not wrecked.”
And you whispered, “You did worship me.” But Ten wasn’t convinced.
He was already spiraling. Already cataloging every rough thrust, every bruising grip, every filthy word he whispered in your ear like you weren’t someone’s first. He thought about how you moaned and arched and gasped—and how he hadn’t once stopped to wonder if that was pleasure or pain. He just assumed you were used to this. That someone like you, so bold and stunning and confident, couldn’t possibly be untouched.
But you had been.
And now he’d touched you in every way wrong for a first time.
☆ He took care of you like you were glass.
Ten couldn’t undo it.
Couldn’t rewind time and give you softness before the stretch, kisses before the ache, words of devotion before the sharp slide of his cock into a body that had never known it.
But he could do this.
He could hold you closer.
He could wipe your thighs clean with trembling hands and whisper “I’m so sorry, baby” again and again against your skin, even when you swore it was okay. He could press his forehead to your hip and breathe deep until his own tears stopped threatening to fall.
“Let me make it better,” he said. “Please. Just… let me take care of you.”
And you nodded—because of course you did. Because you trusted him. Even after everything.
So he wrapped you in his shirt and held you against his chest like a heartbeat. He kissed your temple and your shoulders, whispered praises into your hair like a prayer: “You’re perfect.” “So brave.” “So fucking beautiful.” “I’m going to do this right.”
He ran a warm bath. Not too hot. He tested it three times.
He carried you there, cradled like something sacred.
He sat you between his legs, chest to your back, and washed your skin with the slowest, softest touch.
“You should’ve told me,” he whispered against the shell of your ear. “I would’ve treated you like gold.”
“You still did,” you whispered back.
But Ten wasn’t convinced. Not until you sighed and leaned into him. Not until he saw your eyes flutter shut in comfort, not pain.
He dried you with a towel that smelled like him.
He lay you back on clean sheets and pulled the covers to your chin.
He kissed your fingertips. Your knees. The inside of your wrist.
And then—voice low, but steadier now—he asked, “Can I… show you how it should’ve been?”
You blinked. “Now?”
He nodded slowly. “Not to fix it. Just… to give you the real first time. The one you should’ve had. With kisses and slowness and me telling you how fucking lucky I am to be the one you chose.”
Your throat tightened. “Okay,” you said softly. “Yes. Please.”
☆ Then he made love to you—like a first time should be.
No rushing.
No roughness.
Just Ten, moving like every part of him was designed to honor every part of you.
He started with a kiss—slow, tender, the kind that made your toes curl and your heart ache. His hands didn’t roam. Not yet. They stayed on your face, cradling your jaw like something precious, like he was memorizing your shape with just his palms and mouth.
“I’m going to take my time,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “You tell me if you need anything. You lead. I follow. Yeah?”
You nodded. You were already breathless—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.
But oh, he would.
Ten’s mouth moved down your neck in soft, lingering passes. Gentle sucks, warm licks—nothing rushed. Nothing demanding. He kissed your collarbones like they held secrets. Your breasts like he was grateful they were bared for him. His tongue circled your nipples, slow and reverent, while his hand cupped the weight of you with care, like you were made of silk.
He took his time between your thighs, too.
Not just spreading them, but admiring them—his thumbs stroking your skin, his eyes worshipful.
“So beautiful,” he whispered, voice warm and low. “You’re unreal.”
And then his mouth was there, licking gently through your folds.
Not fast. Not messy. Just… focused. Precise. Loving.
He tasted you like you were art. Like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted, and now that he had you, he’d never waste a second of it.
When he slipped one finger inside, it was slow. Careful. Watching your face the whole time.
“You okay, baby?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “It’s so good…”
And he smiled against your skin.
He added another—still gentle, still patient—and worked you open in slow waves, curling and stretching and kissing your clit in tender pulses until you were clinging to him, moaning softly, trembling for all the right reasons this time.
By the time he moved back up, your body was already floating. Lit from the inside. Warm and weightless and ready.
“I’ll go slow,” he said again, kissing your forehead. “I’ll take care of you this time.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist.
“You always do.”
☆ His body slid into yours like a vow.
No thrusting.
No rough grip.
No dirty words.
Just a slow, aching press of hips to hips—his cock nudging into you with a deliberate gentleness, like he was asking your body for permission even now. His forehead rested on yours. His breath shook. His eyes didn’t leave your face, not even for a second.
And you felt it.
All of it.
The stretch, yes—but sweet now, fuller than before, softer. Your muscles had already been tender from before, but now he was giving you time. Letting your body unfold around him inch by inch. Letting you gasp. Letting your hands clutch his back. Letting you feel how deeply he filled you—and how much care he carried in every second.
“You’re doing so good,” he whispered, brushing your hair from your face. “You feel so fucking perfect.”
Your eyes fluttered. “So do you…”
He sank deeper—slow, smooth, and reverent.
You gasped and tightened your legs around him, drawing him close, anchoring him inside.
And he just held you there.
Deep. Still. Chest to chest, heart to heart.
“You okay?” he murmured, kissing your cheek, then your temple, then your eyelids. “You want me to move, baby?”
“Please,” you whispered. “Just don’t stop touching me.”
He smiled. “Never.”
And then he moved.
So slow.
Like ocean waves.
Like worship.
Each roll of his hips came with a kiss. A praise. A whisper of your name like it was sacred.
“You’re mine.”
“You’re perfect.”
“You were made for me.”
It didn’t feel like sex.
It felt like healing. Like a rewrite. Like he was kissing every place he’d been too rough before—and making it right now, one loving thrust at a time.
He didn’t fuck you. He loved you.
And it was more overwhelming than anything rough could ever be.
☆ And when you came, it wasn’t from pressure—it was from love.
It started in your chest.
A warmth that spread slowly—like a tide coming in.
No sharp drop. No sudden grip. Just… fullness.
Emotion swelling inside you like your body was made to hold him. Like you were finally, finally being given what you deserved.
Ten’s lips were on your throat, his hand holding yours tight, his voice a soft stream of praise against your skin.
“So good, baby. You’re taking me so well.”
“You’re perfect like this—so soft around me, so mine.”
“You feel that? How deep I am? That’s how much I love you.”
And then—
That slow, heavy pressure in your belly crested.
Your thighs trembled.
Your nails sank into his shoulders.
And the orgasm bloomed.
It wasn’t sharp—it was deep.
A slow-motion rush, like falling into something warm and endless. Your walls fluttered around him, clenching and milking him in gentle waves, and Ten felt it—his breath catching, his hips pausing, his hand flying to cradle your face as you moaned out his name like a song you’d waited your whole life to sing.
“That’s it,” he gasped. “That’s it. Let go for me.”
And then he was coming too.
Not with a growl this time. Not with a brutal thrust.
But with a whimper.
His face buried in your neck. His hands gripping your sides like he couldn’t believe you were real. His whole body tensing as he spilled inside you in slow, rhythmic pulses—still moving, still careful, still kissing your skin through it.
“God,” he whispered. “God, I love you.”
☆ The afterglow was soft, sacred.
He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried inside you, hips flush, arms tight around you. One hand stroking your spine. The other brushing your hair back from your damp forehead.
You were dazed. Drowsy. Drifting on the high.
And he looked at you like you were everything.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
You nodded, cheeks flushed, smiling dreamily. “Better than okay.”
His eyes glistened. He kissed your knuckles. “You sure?”
You tugged him close, nuzzling into his chest. “I’ve never felt so… loved.”
Ten exhaled shakily, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll never stop making it up to you,” he promised. “You trusted me, and I’ll spend the rest of our time showing you how much that means.”
You smiled. “Then start by staying here. Don’t move. Just hold me.”
He tightened his grip. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he meant it.
Because this time, he didn’t just take your body.
He held your heart.
And he’d never let it fall again
