Favorite Bruce Wayne Hc Of The Week: You’re Allowed To Follow Him Into The Cave To Continue Your Argument,

This is just an entire work of art holy shit

kill me again

john price x fem!reader

when your old life is too much to bear, you decide you ought to kill it and bury it. not knowing who else to turn to, you beg John Price to aid you in your endeavor. he decides he wants to give you much more than just a fresh beginning.

tw: inspired by kill me again (1989), domestic abuse/violence, blood kink, blood eating, smut, dub-con, unhinged john price, retired john price, manhandling, light breeding kink

The dreams start the day your husband first places his hands on you. 

Brutal violence completed in a drunken stupor that leaves you with a swollen eye and has your co-workers questioning what you’ve done to yourself—you exercise a rigid equanimity that has them believing the honey coated lies that drip from your tongue. You play this game well—practiced for many years, shrouded beneath quiet smiles and well placed clothing. You keep this composure no matter what falls upon you. Be it his fist, or his lips. 

There is no time to crack or fracture, lest your dream slip between your fingers like fine grains of sand. This liberation—your deliverance—grows closer by the day in the form of hidden clothes and a separate bank account. A suitcase wedged in the boot of your car. A full tank of gas. An internet history littered with searches for a new home. Apartments you can rent. Someplace out of the way. Far from the city. Hidden in the depths below lowering skies and thick forests. 

Except he finds it. The empty dresser drawers, vacant of your clothes, and the letters from the bank about your new account. How your other one is emptied. You find him sitting in his recliner, stupid fingers choking a beer bottle, breath heavy with liquor and eyes brimming with a virulent desire to teach you a lesson. 

And he does. It’s a lesson he teaches well. One that sets every inch of your skin ablaze and leaves snot pooling in the back of your throat as your hands claw at thick forearms. 

“Think you can fucking leave me?” he questions. It’s slurred, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the liquor or the squeezing of his fingers on your throat. “The only way you’re leaving me is when you’re dead. Get that through your thick skull you stupid cunt.” 

So close. Tender and ripe, seeds waiting to spill into your mouth, gullet waiting to swallow—then, taken. Dumped on the edge of the bed. Shoved into overflowing drawers. Fabric stained with tears, suitcase shredded with the knife meant for your gut, offals ready to taste the sour breath of your malevolent lover. 

Your fantasies fade like smoke on warm water. They dissipate into the air, vanishing, utterly forgotten by your mind and soul as you cook for a man who spits at you, dead bed heavy in the evenings, mornings algid enough to leave you shivering. 

Until—one day—you finally wake up. 

“I need you to kill me.” 

It’s been years since John Price has laid eyes on you. Several tours around the world have kept his mind busy with paperwork and his hands occupied with a gun. He’s spent so long wading through the gore of war that he’s not sure he’s gotten the gunpowder to wash free from his skin quite yet. 

Maybe that’s why you ask this question of him, trembling on the other side of his desk, nails digging into the bottom of your seat, bottom lip quivering. His wrinkled crows feet deepen in the creases of his eyes as he smiles at you, a chuckle rumbling in his throat. 

How strange for the one who got away to find his way back to him under such peculiar circumstances. 

“Not really kill me,” you clarify. You’re picking at your cuticles. He notices they’re not painted anymore like you used to when the two of you were younger—before he went off to be a hero and before you were stolen by another man. “I just- John, you’re the only one I can trust with this. I need to vanish.” 

“You want me to help you fake your own death?” he asks incredulously. 

“Tell me you’ll do it,” you beg. 

It’s far-fetched, even for him. Though it’s a set of skills he has honed for many years, that life is behind him now. Idolized in dog tags shoved in the back of the closet and pictures he can hardly stand to look at anymore. These days, he does office work. Paperwork that strains his tired eyes while wearing suits that make his skin crawl. 

“I think you’re taking the piss out of me with this one, sweetheart,” he says jocularly, cheeks pinching as he smiles. 

“He beats me, John.” 

A blink—then, there’s red. Ichor stains his vision, casting you in vermillion light. A glossy sheen coats your eyes, reminding him of the lacquered dolls his grandmother used to collect when he was a child; sitting pretty and pristine on ivory shelves. Hair so delicate and meant for petting, but always just out of his reach. 

“I tried to get away, but he caught me. He nearly killed me that night. I was terrified, and I just- I can’t go to the cops. They won’t work fast enough, and I have nowhere else to go, he’s taken everything I have. Please. If you don’t do this, if you don’t kill me, then he will.” 

John folds—wet tissue paper caught in the wind. “I’ll take care of it.” 

That night, John Price does not sleep. 

There’s a cottage that lines the environs of a lake where the bramble is thick and the bushes produce sweet berries in the summertime. Bequeathed to him after the death of his grandfather, it’s been sitting vacant for decades. Rotting from the inside out as time decays the wood and bevels the roof. 

His hands dance. Hammer and nails. Saws and axes. Paint drying on walls. Within three weeks it’s fit enough to be a home. A bedroom large enough for two, and a second room to be whatever you wish—a library, an office—

—a nursery. 

“How much do you need?” 

Your voice is quiet; squeaky like a mouse. The needle pinched between his fingers has your hairline glistening and throat bobbing. There’s swelling on the apex of your cheek, edema bleeding into your eye, but he does not mention it as he pierces your arm, drawing blood into a tube and letting it drip into a bag. 

“Only enough to kill you,” he quips. 

He does this three times. Spread over aching weeks where you’re riddled with migraines and dizzy spells so violent you find your hands gripping the walls at work. Your co-workers look at you with narrowed eyes as they pass you in hallways despite your gracious smiles and reassuring nods. 

Five months after the day you begged John Price to kill you, he finally does it. 

Stale bleach stings your nose as you stare at the hotel bed, stiff sheets perfectly creased along the edge of the mattress, pillows fluffed and pristine. John stands behind you, leather gloves stretched over his hands as he toys with the bags of your blood and the knife he intends to leave behind. 

Your heart thuds so violently in your chest that you feel it traverse up your throat where it swells, ready to burst. Freedom is so close you can nearly taste it. 

“Ready?” John’s voice is even—rough like steel. You shouldn’t be surprised. You doubt the blood scares him anymore. 

Nodding, you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” 

There are several steps to John’s plan—ones he stresses the importance of following perfectly. Obeying, you knock the lamp over at his command, letting it topple to the floor where the lampshade bends and the bulb flickers. When he shoves you onto the mattress, leaving you to stare up at him with wide eyes, he only chuckles. Tells you that he has to make it look believable. There’s no murder without a struggle. 

Gloved fingers rustle the blankets up around you as he manhandles you into different positions along the bed. Despite his firm touch, there’s no pain that lingers or blood that pools in your arms like when your husband touches you. You giggle. Anxiety and relief coalesces into a raging river in your stomach, frying your nerves until there’s nothing left but adrenaline. 

Quirking a thick brow, John looks down at you, leather gloves tracing your ankle as he straightens himself. “Having fun?”

“Sorry, I’m just… so nervous.” But you’re smiling wider than he’s ever seen you before. 

When it comes to the blood, John spills it on top of you. Legs caging the side of your hips, he pierces the bag with his knife and lets it drip over your chest, your stomach, the mattress—when it stains his pants he tells himself he has nothing to worry about. Soon enough, your DNA and his will be used to mingling. It’ll be natural. Necessary. 

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you breathe. The blood is cold against your skin but it spills as if it were warm. Pooling in your neck, sticking to your palms, John tells you to paw at the duvet, and you do. “You said there’s a cottage I can stay at? We’ll be heading there next, right?” 

“Mhm. Fixed it up nice and pretty for you, sweetheart,” he confirms. 

You beam, skin illuminated with your own blood, clothes sticking to every curve of your body. John tosses the first bag to the side before adding another one, this time making sure to wet his knife and fling it, high impact splatters staining the wall, the ceiling, your own face. 

Then, he grabs you again, leather pressing into your wrists as he pins you. He assures you that he’s just making the scene more realistic, an act well done, but the whimper that leaves your lips is very much real. He stares down at you, and the way your eyes trace the way his beard lines his mouth, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than this—on the precipice of escape. 

“John…” His name bleeds off of your tongue.

He’s done for. 

You keen pretty for him when his knife slices through your shirt, exposing your breasts, torso gleaming with ichor like wine. When he decides to have a taste for himself, you can hardly wiggle against the flat of his tongue on your stomach. He smothers your protest with a kiss. You’re rigid against him, lips like cement left out to dry in the sun, but then, you melt. You deliquesce beneath his touch, gloved hands raking down your body, yanking your pants off before your mind can fully make sense of it. 

When he feeds his cock into your aching cunt, he tells you this is how he seals the agreement—a proper bond, an unbreakable promise. This is how he kills you, with thrust after reaming thrust, nestling into the deepest parts of you that your husband has yet to destroy. And when you clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle the moans that leave your mouth, and he catches the glint on your ring finger, he snatches it. Metal free from your skin, he tosses it; lets it topple along the musty carpet before interlacing your fingers with his. 

Then, you’re a corpse. Lifeless beneath him, chest heaving with heavy gasps as your eyelids flutter shut, thoroughly fucked until your brain is mush. He spills the final bag and drowns the room in it before he wraps you up in the blankets and moves you to his car. Bridal style. White linens like a dress. Red blood like the breaking of a hymen—this is your union. 

This is your fateful conjugality. 

Three weeks go by in the blink of an eye. The hours feel like mere minutes when your husband is no longer breathing down your neck, huffing his hate and vitriol into the shape of your spine. John brings you fresh groceries every few days before leaving you on your own to wander the edge of the lake and collect flowers to place in your windowsill. Every morning you wake up and the bed is warm. You can cook without the television blaring or a man grumbling. Your fridge is not marred with alcohol. 

On the morning of the third week, there is a forearm around your waist.  

You startle until you feel John’s voice purr against your ear as he wishes you good morning. His comfort fuzzies your mind to the point you don’t even bother to ask him why he’s here, or why his chest is pressed against your back. Instead, your muscles relax, body morphing to the shape of him. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

John nuzzles his nose into the back of your neck. “Of course they are.” 

Truly, they are. He’s here in this bed with you, half naked and lazy, enjoying the way the daybreak gleams across your form. Everything is just as it ought to be—

—at least where you’re concerned. 

You have yet to notice the reports of your fictitious murder, or how the police found your diary where you recounted the events of your abuse. You have yet to notice the news of your husband’s arrest, or how he’s being charged with second degree murder.

You have yet to notice the fresh flowers resting on your nightstand, or the new ring on your left hand. 

But John tells himself you’ll learn all about this in due time. 

“How long are you here for?” you question, voice thick with your lingering slumber. 

John’s grin sticks to the back of your neck. 

“For the rest of my life.” 

It's my 1 year anniversary on Tumblr

I forget its been a year

It's crazy on here and I regret nothing

I love the concept of Tooks. "Everybody in the Shire is very very businesslike and respectable and has no use for adventures except for this one entire family of mad lads who also run the municipal government"

Day 3 of Inktober : Path

This is the photo I used for inspiration

Credit : Finn Hampton on Unsplash.com

Ok but the 'her thighs are big enough for a cat to perch on comfortably' broke me ;-; thats such an amazing way to describe thighs

What does Sarah look like? You’ve mentioned tidbits, but do you have a full description?

Well, I think she's maybe two years older than Kate which has nothing to do with anything but she teases Kate for being younger and Kate is so close to throwing something at her.

I think she's maybe three inches taller than Kate, a barely noticeable height difference that she enjoys just a little too much. She's a brunette who's just starting to find a few greys but she doesn't care to dye them. She has really dark brown eyes that almost look black in certain lighting. Her shoulders look tanned but if you get close enough then you'll see its just countless freckles that go all down her arms and back. She's got some meat on her bones, if she sits down on the couch then her thighs are big enough for a cat to perch on comfortably. Hips are shoulders are damn near the same width, she's an immovable force whenever she decides to torment Kate by blocking a doorway she's trying to walk through.

She has a good few tattoos, from silly ones like a ghost with a cowboy hat to gorgeous pieces like a cathedral on her thigh. She also has Kate's initials on her wrist, Kate hates it [a lie].

She's generally a pair of jeans and t-shirt person but she can dress up real fucking fancy when the day requires it.

But most days Kate will come home to find her with her hair thrown up in a messy bun, glasses halfway down her nose as she leans on the kitchen counter to sketch something in a vintage Jurassic Park t-shirt and Batman underwear.

Bitches: mad about Rings of Power's Galadriel not being serene and wise at all times.

Me, an enlightened bitch:

I feel like we don't talk enough about the fact that all but three of the dwarves in the company of Thorin Oakenshield are directly related.

Bifur, Bombur, Bofur, and Bilbo are just tagging along on the worst family road trip of all time.

A lazy morning fuck.

cw: fingering, anal sex.

John wakes with a start and a strangled noise when his body clock jolts him conscious at 5.30am. He'd overslept, his startled mind informs him. He fights his way out of his heavy duvet to free his arms, knocking one of his pillows onto the floor. "Fuck, what day..." His head's all over the place because he's bloody exhausted, and he gropes for his phone on the bedside table, eyes fuzzy with sleep. It's not there and he lets out a frustrated grunt as he moves to sit up.

Nik's big arms reach across the mattress and encircle John's body. He pulls him back into the soft warmth of their bed, nuzzles into his fluffy, shower-soft hair. "Relax. You are on leave, solnyshko. Easy." Nik had left all their phones in the kitchen, with all the alarms turned off. The bedroom is quiet and cool, the curtains drawn to block out the early morning light flutter gently in the breeze. They're not on any schedule other than 'rest'.

Nik can feel the panicked rabbit of John's heart, the confused tension in his body, and begins to caress him gently. After their bath, John had pulled on his boxers and a cotton t-shirt before burrowing beneath the duvet and promptly falling unconscious. It had been an abysmal week, even by John's standards. He needs the leave to recharge, to find his peace again.

Nik's big palms move beneath that t-shirt, over John's chest, across his belly, up his arms, enjoying the downy softness of his body hair, the swells of muscle and plusher give around his abdomen, warm and inviting. Nik kisses his neck, noses his beard, and eventually John relaxes back into a deep sleep. He burrows into Nik's chest, nose between his tits, and Nik feels him deflate with a long sigh, aching body sinking into the mattress as Nik pulls the blankets back over him.

Nik stays awake for a while, just watching. John is beautiful in the low light. The lines around his eyes have smoothed out in sleep, his fluffy hair ruffled, broad shoulders rising and falling in time with the slow beat of his heart. Nik can feel it though his back, a strong, steady thrum that lulls him back into a lighter doze. He dreams of captains with pretty blue eyes and muscular bodies stretched out in pleasure, and his body stirs even as he snoozes.

Later, at a more reasonable hour, Nik wakes again slowly. He can hear the traffic outside the open window, taste the morning on the cool air, and he breathes in deep, basks in the peace and safety of the moment, still and soft.

John's still sleeping, but he had rolled over so his back pressed to Nik's chest, the pert curves of his arse pushed up against Nik's morning wood in the most exquisite tease. Nik sleeps naked, and his thick shaft sits perfectly in the dip of John's cleft, cradled by the stretchy cotton of his boxers, his heavy balls pressed up beneath. They had been too tired last night, but morning sex with a well rested, eager John Price is Nik's reward for a long op. His cock gives a needy throb as he rocks it against John's body, aching to be inside him, wet tip drooling a bead of precum in anticipation.

Nik starts as gently as he did before. He circles his fingertips over one pert arse cheek, stroking John through the soft material of his underwear. The flurry of goosebumps that rush over John's exposed arm betrays his enjoyment, even if he hasn't fully woken yet. Nik continues, sliding his big palms up John's torso to grope his tits. They're perfect. Firm, with that soft layer of hair that Nik likes to rub his face into. His thumb circles the soft areola of John's nipple until it pulls tight, so he strokes the firm nub between finger and thumb until John's entire chest is firm with arousal.

Where Nik's nipples are dusky, John's are a light pink, as sweet as the rest of him beneath his austere disguise. The first time Nik had undressed John, he had been completely smitten by the constellations of freckles over his pale skin, the tan lines, the scars, every soft patch of skin and sensitive erogenous zone. How beautiful John was when he let himself be vulnerable. That first night John had sunk onto Nik's cock, making soft noises of overwhelmed pleasure, and Nik had kissed and licked his nipples until he came in the dense curls of Nik's chest hair, gasping and moaning in a low, sultry timbre that Nik still pleasured himself to the memory of.

The memory makes Nik's cock twitch now and he pushes it firmly against John's arse with a low moan of longing. John stirs, his body straightening a little, pressing into Nik's hands with a soft sigh. Nik smiles into John's hair and continues his lazy exploration, squeezing and massaging John's chest as he leans over to kiss his neck and shoulders.

Even asleep, John arches into it, he's so responsive, so sensitive. His freckled skin warms, flushing over his neck and chest, and he begins to squirm in Nik's arms. Nik worms one beneath him, slanting up his chest to slide a hand around John's throat to tilt his head back just as the other strokes down his belly and into his boxers to claim his prize.

John's wet and hard, the soft cotton of his boxers damp against Nik's knuckles as he strokes John's cock with a firm grip from root to tip. John's eyes flutter, damp lips parting as he tilts them against Nik's jaw. He pants, reaching to hold the wrist of the hand around his throat as he's drawn close to Nik's chest, and Nik squeezes a little, and John lets out a soft noise of enjoyment. John's cock pulses in Nik's hand as he draws it over the waistband of his boxers, precum wetting the hem of his shirt.

"Couldn' wait fer breakfast, eh?"

"No," Nik replies softly, fingertips following a thick vein down the underside of John's shaft to the curls around the base, continuing along the seam of his sac, firm and high. "You need this as much as I do." Nik traces lower, caressing down John's taint to his hole, stroking the rim in gentle passes.

"God, fuck, yeah..." John moans, thigh lifting to drape over Nik's, hips rocking up to encourage Nik's touches, grinding his arse back enticingly against Nik's prick. Precum wets the small of his back as Nik's tip nudges beneath his shirt. "C'mon, Nik. Stop teasin'. Yer so hard..."

Nik chuckles, tugging his hand free long enough to pump out a handful of lube from the tub on the bedside cabinet. Price wriggles out of his boxers, kicking them down his legs, and Nik bites his lower lip as the soft skin of John's cleft presses the heat of his shaft. Nik draws John over him a little more, delighting at the demanding growl that vibrates under the palm around John's throat. Nik doesn't leave John wanting, slick fingertips caressing the outside before the first presses inside. John's legs spread wantonly, the heft of his balls sitting against the cup of Nik's palm as he relaxes.

Nik slides in a second, licking into the shell of John's ear, nibbling the lobe, as he crooks his fingers in a slow, deliberate come hither gesture that makes John's thighs shake. "Nik, fuck... Nik, ahh..."

"Da, solnyshko... da tebya yebat nado." Nik growls, easing his fingers out as he scrubs his face into the coarse bristles of John's beard. He rolls John onto his front, pressing him into the mattress with the weight of his chest, biting and kissing the slope of his shoulder, the skin of his neck between the gaps of the fingers still holding his throat. He reaches down to guide the tip of his cock to John's wet hole, teasing his slit with the soft rim before easing his crown inside. John's still pleasantly tight, sucking Nik in greedily, bearing down with a deep, satisfied moan as Nik sinks in hilt deep until the firm swell of his balls pressed to the back of John's. Nik growls, satisfied by the wet heat enveloping his cock, snug, keen, perfect. "Ya zastavlyu tebya umolyat ob etom."

"Mm, Nik, fuck... fuck... yeah. So, f-f-fuh.. s-so good." John's cock is trapped between his belly and the mattress as Nik slowly rocks into him, keeping him pinned with his bulk, thick chest pressed to his back. Nik grinds more than thrusts, precum and lube making obscene noises at the seam of their bodies, echoing their gasps and groans, muffled only when Nik presses his mouth to John's shoulder to breathe him in as the pleasure rolls through his hips in a deep, slow ebb that matches the pace of their love-making.

Even with his cock inside him, Nik wants to be deeper; to burrow in his scent, to feel the heat of his body against every inch of his skin. John sounds so good, every low moan, every time Nik's name slips out in his deep, gravelly tone, cigar smoke and the roar of battle buffing his voice like sandpaper. Nik could listen to John talk for an eternity, but the way he sounds in pleasure, his moans, his pleas, is a whole new level of indulgence.

When John spreads his legs over the bed, tilting his hips to urge Nik deeper, Nik nudges his knees up beneath his thighs and grinds in slow, graceful rolls that drags his cock in and out at an angle that makes John moan loud and wanton. The firm muscles in his back pulling taut in a decadent arch. "Oh fuck, Nik... 'm gonna cum, 'm gonna.... fuck, 'm so close... please, please."

"Not yet, detka," Nik murmurs against John's neck. "Hold on." Nik lifts up, changing his grip to the back of John's neck to push the side of his face into the pillow, the knuckles of his other pressed against the bed.

"Nik, please... please..."

John's fingers curl in the sheets, fists shaking as Nik fucks him with the same firm, deep pace, the continuous drag of his cock teasing him higher. Nik looks down the slope of his body, watches his thick shaft sink into John's body, ruddy skin slick with precum and lube, John's hole fucked open and desperate. He picks up his pace a little, listens to John's low moans break into whimpers as he walks the precipice. "Nik, Nik, Nik... Ahh, ahh."

Nik closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He knows the moment John comes he'll follow, he's on a knife edge, the knot of tension in his hips pulled tight. John begs, whimpering, and Nik chokes out his permission. "Da, John... da." He feels John come, his body tightening, and fucks in deep to enjoy every spasming pulse of it. When his own crests, he releases John's neck to take his hip and draw him back onto his cock, shoulders hunched as his head drops, forehead in the centre of John's. As his heart thunders, cock twitching in the aftershocks, he presses gentle kisses to the back of John's neck and draws out.

He slumps to the side and strokes John's hair as one fuzzy blue eye watches him from the folds of the pillow. They say nothing in the soft afterglow, heavy breaths fading into deeper ones. When the sweat had eased, Nik draws John into his arms again and kisses the soft skin beneath his ear and lets him doze.

When he wakes later, John shrugs out of his t-shirt and pushes Nik onto his back, straddling his hips to sink onto his cock again, hole still fucked open and eager. Nik watches those thick tits bounce as John rides him, John's head tilted back in ecstasy, big hand pumping the length of his prick as he chases another high. They'll spend a lazy weekend in John's flat, smoking expensive cigars and drinking expensive whiskey, having marathon sex that Nik will drop tantalising hints about over poker, leaving the sergeants equal parts aroused and traumatised. Nik is, after all, a great believer in finding joy in the simple pleasures.

gym partner!gaz who invites you to tag along with him to the gym to show you how to lift properly and all that.

maybe he’s your neighbor who’ve you grown a good relationship with — you water his plants while he’s on deployment and he feeds your cat while you’re away.

so when you mention in passing that you want to start lifting after one too many gym girls show up on your TikTok fyp, he jumps at the chance to show you.

“why hire a trainer when you got me right here, love? save your money and allat.” and he’s right! kyle’s military and clearly works out enough to know what he’s doing, so what’s the harm in him showing you how to barbell squat and do a couple of RDLs? your apartment has a gym so it makes it easier for you two to meet up anyway.

except you aren’t exactly prepared for just how good kyle looks bench-pressing 225 lbs.

you’re not blind, you know that kyle is a good-looking guy to put it simply, and enough of your friends have lingered at your door on the way out in hopes of catching a glimpse of him while he’s leaving or coming back in.

but this is just so different — he’s so focused, so disciplined, so in control.

gone is the kyle who jokes about your upstairs neighbor who stomps around at 6 in the morning. he’s been replaced by some tactile man who controls every movement with hairlike precision. fingers wrapped around the metal bar firmly as his arms flex with every up and down movement.

you just hope that when he finishes he doesn’t realize just how turned on you are.

he grunts as he finishes his last few reps, and you subtly squeeze your thighs at the noise, wondering if it would sound the same as he slides into you for the first time.

“are you alright?” kyle questions, looking up at you with concern, and you just manage to nod. kyle drops it before taking a drink from his water, and you watch, a little dazed, how a few droplets of sweat fall down the column of his neck underneath his black compression shirt.

“i know you said you mainly wanted to focus on legs, but i figured it be nice to walk you through every movement before getting started.” kyle’s clearly showing off —the proud look in his eyes gives him away — but it doesn’t really matter because whatever reaction he was angling for, (awe? fluster? horniness?), he got it.

“c’mon, lemme show you how to squat,” he says before walking you over to the squat racks, and suddenly you remember the whole purpose of this gym sesh which wasn’t to ogle how good kyle’s ass looks in his sweatpants.

he gets everything ready for you, hands super touchy when he positions you, and the next thing you know, he’s right behind you, spotting you as you squat the bar. his body heat warms every inch of your skin and you feel yourself unraveling by the minute as he brings a hand to your leg to position you properly.

your thoughts of ‘you’re fine, it’s completely fine, it’s just your neighbor, kyle’ are completely shot when he leans in and murmurs “that’s a good girl” after completing your last rep.

fuck it.

you’re just lucky that you made it back up to your place before you’re both stripping, teeth clashing into one another as you messily make out, whimpering into his mouth as he grinds his hard-on into you.

you were always more of a cardio girl anyway.