Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Ruination Series:

By Biting Tooth

(Formerly titled: Teeth)

***

Recommended song pairing:

 PJ Harvey’s “The Piano”

Ayesha Erotica's "9am in Calabasas x Vixen (Slowed + Reverbed)

https://youtu.be/2v0_OuUeAz0?si=4QcstE9z6IVcDmQc 

***

You’re grinding your teeth again. It’s a bad habit from when you were a kid: grinding your teeth, caging your tongue, biting back your words. Hands bound in your shirt still, fingers tightly gripping the iron pole of your headboard behind you–grinding your teeth is the only thing you can do right now to relieve anxiety without making noise.

This peaceful balance that you have with John chatters with energy. Best not to agitate it.

And as you grind your teeth, the muscle of your tongue oozes along the backs of them, exploring the curves, the crevices, the sharp. little. points of your canines.

“Messy, meesssyy girl.” Plump lips murmur sinfully against your core.

John is “cleaning” you up again–broad, flat strokes of his tongue along your vulva and labia as he licks between your legs, dipping inside your pot and scooping up every drop of his spend and your “honey.”

It’s sweetly sickening. His curls tickle across your inner thighs, making you twitch and shiver to attention.

“Darling, you’re stuffed to the brim and overflowing.”

Your cunt practically grabs his fingers at the sensation–more probing than intentionally pleasing–and from his filthy words, which makes him chuckle at your response.

Startled at the sound, you glance down and his eyes, pretty little baubles in his pretty little face, are looking up at you from between your legs. His chin glistens with stickiness as he grins at you like a boy with unfettered access to his favorite treats.

Sinful. The soft, indie boy look is back. It’s awful how easily he can slip into that mask. Or maybe it isn’t a mask; maybe it’s just a part of him that lives at ease with the uglier, nastier bits too.

Adorable cheek lines in full display and you think: probably not. You want to tear more lines into the beautiful marble landscape there. Carve into him as he’s carved himself into you.

“Do you always get this wet or is that special for me?” The question is breathed warmly into your center.

Filthy man. Your nipples respond anyway, traitorous things.

“I hate it when you talk to me like that.” You're grateful to have managed so many words with a steady voice. They’re quiet words, raspy with dehydration, but if you speak any louder, you might pop the tension on this fragile bubble that John’s wrapped you in.

There’s that lopsided smile again, always full of imbalanced devotion.

“I know.”

Two simple words, but they're mischievous.

It's evident from the way he needles you that he grew up with a sibling. Little John and Jane. You found the light riffing cute on your proto-date earlier, not realizing it belied latent venom.

“If you do a bad thing and don’t feel bad afterwards, is it still a bad thing?” he asked you as he clutched at any fleshy bit within reach.

Eyes wide, you didn’t know how or if to respond. “Yes, a thousand times yes,” you wanted to scream. “Do you only read Machiavelli?”

Do you feel bad for what you’ve done, John? For what you’re doing?

Flat on his belly, stretched out with all the comfort of a housecat, John’s drawing lazy-but-firm circles around your clit, mostly playing around the hood to avoid directly stimulating the overused organ.

Christ, you really are wet.

“I suspect it's just for me with how flustered you get about it.”

Unconsciously, you're pulling your bottom lip into your mouth, worrying at the flesh with your teeth.

“Filthier than I gave you credit for; you're still absolutely soaking.” Smug asshole.

Shut the fuck up, John. Mortified and furious, you shut your eyes, wanting to close yourself off to his ministrations.

Your cheeks are wet again and you’re trying to close your legs to curl away from him.

Strong hands immediately hold you in place, though.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ll stop. I forget how sensitive you are.” He watches you wipe your face with bound hands as you try to conceal yourself.

Returning to his task, John's hand pushes through your feeble, fleshy barrier and he slips in two of his broad fingers far too easily.

It’s a weak bleating that escapes your lips, muffled by your arms.

John’s fingers aren’t in a hurry at all and he curls them forward upon every slow drag out of your–

“God, this hot and tight little honeypot will be the death of me.”

Is that trembling whimper you? Your cunt draws up tight at his voice, at his words.

“That wasn't a challenge, honey–hn,” John laughs, “you'll break my fingers off at this rate.”

That kind of talk isn't helping you, either.

His fingertips are massaging into that spongy spot inside of you. The one that, with enough stimulation, as you've been getting tonight, will set you off like a gushers.

“O-ooh.” That one was definitely you. Long, drawn out, miserable. 

He’s too familiar with your body. Sweet in all the right ways.

Your teeth ache from it.

Then his mouth is on your clit again. The poor thing is tired, but he’s being gentle, using an encompassing sucking motion, lips vibrating with his own moans.

Meanwhile, you’re beginning to feel a pull that promises a whole other, messy sensation if his fingers continue to massage that spot.

The Gräfenberg spot; the g-spot. That delicious sponge that's been tucked inside of billions and billions of bodies since before history, providing gratification for hundreds of thousands of years.

A lovely spot named after a cis man who never owned one natally. But in naming it, he claimed a sense of ownership to it.

You haven't gushed with a partner since you were branded. Too self-conscious about your scars to relax enough with anyone else. Already mangled and nasty from abuse, you didn't want any more details being weaponized against you.

Look where that still landed you, though. Locked in the beast’s jaws.

If there's a bright side to being caught up in John’s orbit, it's that John, also mangled and nasty, seems to relish in your unpalatable reality. You can't outdo what a beast like him has already done.

“You're so tense, sweetness. You need to learn to let go.” One hand methodically massages your canal while the other alternates between pinching and rolling your nipples.

Heat and tension is building up and you hope he stops before you find out if your body can still gush with pleasure.

Surely, he can feel every pulsating reaction to his stimulation. He’s practically feeding off it. Looking down, meaning to translate for him to stop before it’s too late and you make a mortifying mess of yourself, John, the bed.

Stroking with such intent, John's claiming his own sense of ownership to yours right now. Fingers working at that spot methodically and purposely, despite your whimpered protests. Mouth sucking at your clit.

You can feel it, the possibility building within you now, that pleasurable surge of wetness.

Sopping.

You were just clean, too.

Tendrils of pleasure pulse through you from deep within your core and you’re moaning a bit at every careful curl of his fingers.

“Stop. I’ll–I don’t want to–”

Ignoring you, massaging rhythmically.

You try again, “You’ll make me–”

John makes an obscene sucking sound as he pops off your clit to speak, the confirmation lighting up his eyes. Curls frame his boyish face as he observes you.

“Oh, what a treat.” His eyes crinkle with mirth–he’s not going to stop. He’s going to take and take until he’s had his fill and wrap it up as a kindness to you.

“I’ll get to see how full of honey my girl really is.”

Christ, he really fucking is bad at flirting. And it shouldn’t be egging you on like it is. You clench around his hand.

“At least give me the dignity of a towel. Please,” you’re pleading again; gritting your teeth and surviving. Not barking at him like you want.

He lingers on your softened mouth, your teeth slightly poking out, and you fight not to bare them.

Keep sweet, you remind yourself. If he knows you’re feral, he’ll be tempted to tame you. Or worse: keep you.  

You’ll be replacing your mattress as soon as you can afford it, anyway, but the idea of having one so sullied with fluids and memories in the meantime is too much. 

John’s contemplating your request, trying to decide if he’ll needle you again or simply acquiesce. His eyes stray from your pleading eyes, down the trembling hills of your body, back down to the source of your miserable pleasure.

His hand has slowed, but not stopped entirely. Your cunt’s attempt to wrench away from him is unsuccessful, and the pressure continues to build, biting its way through your center.

“Please.”

John smiles tenderly. “Oh, sweet girl. Gumdrop of mine, I just adore your manners.”

Slowly, he withdraws from you, hand warm as it leaves your body. Thank you, you think to no one. You suddenly feel cold in its absence, trying to ignore the way you suddenly feel empty and without comfort.

But it’s not long before the bed dips down again with his weight and he’s stuffing a decidedly un-towel-like fabric underneath your bare ass. It has ridges and you realize–

My skirt. He’s shoved your own skirt underneath you.

You aren’t going to cry about a fucking skirt right now. You aren’t.

When the tears slip out anyway, he’s there, kissing them away before traveling to your mouth. He drinks from you deeply; erection poking into your belly, loving the attention.

Unfortunately, so do you. John chastely kisses your forehead before returning to the end of the bed.

Deepthroats his own fingers for lubricant and returns them to your molten core; his head dipping down to worship your clit as his fingers penetrate and scissor and massage.

This time, you can barely hear your moans over his. 

Within a few minutes, he’s worked you back to the brink. Your hands are gripping the bars of your headboard and you’re sweetly whimpering little marshmallow puffs of air.

“That’s it. My good, sweet, sweet girl. You can do it.” He’s groaning the words against your heat, lips brushing yours with every word.

You’re breathing heavily now, practically panting–this impending orgasm feels different, like it’s being coaxed from faraway recesses.

“You’re doing such a good job. Come on, let it go. Let me have it.”

His filthy mouth returns to your clit–thankfully shutting him up–but it’s too late, you can’t stop this from taking over you as you’re suddenly–

There.

No longer able to hold back, you’re coming–your body seizing up with pleasure that bites through from deep within.

You choke out a cry as the first wave crests over you and with it, the first spurts of that gushing liquid release. On your new skirt.

There’s a husky and drawn-out “fuck ” spoken into your clit that spurs you on–hearing his utter wreckage at your pleasure. Still spasming, your cunt clamps so tightly onto his fingers that for a moment, you wonder if you can break them off.

You wouldn’t mind trying.

After you regain your senses and John reclaims his hand–all five fingers, unfortunately–it strikes you as odd that you hadn’t heard the man curse before. Capable of inflicting such filth upon you with such a clean mouth. Until now.

As you’re staring at the ceiling, shakily catching your breath as he clears his throat.

“That’s my good fucking girl and her good fucking cunt.”

***

Afterwards, John brings you actual wash cloths and cleans you up on the bed. And he even–blessedly–unties your hands; circulation tingling through them.

He’s just focusing on your body, cleaning lastly your cheeks that are sticky with tears and snot. The coolness of the cloth is a relief against your skin’s inflamed exertion.

Spends minutes just kissing your face until your pathetic sullenness fades, paying close attention to your puffy eyelids.

Cupid’s bow lips springing violent eroticism upon you.

The whole time, his erection is jutting out from his seated body, and he appears to pay it no mind–until he does, with a “simple enough request.”

“Don’t make me. Please, John,” you plead, throat and eyes raw.

His hand is massaging the back of your neck as he guides you to face him.

“Oh, honey,” the condescension dribbles from his lips. “I could make you do so much worse.”

Your stomach falls out. You know it’s the truth, but when he says it so candidly… Jesus.

“Hey–I’ll even make it easy for you. I promise.” His eyes are on yours, two coils of licorice slithering before you.

You can feel the feral thing within you creeping up again.

Easy?

He wipes away the wetness on your cheeks and sucks his thumb in his mouth. Smiles at the taste.

“Salt pairs well with sweetness,” John murmurs, mostly to himself. 

“Now, what do you say, gumdrop?”

His grip is soft, but it’s his eyes that frighten you; the way his smile doesn't reach them. The reminder is chilling.

Your jaw hangs loosely as you slowly nod. What else can you do? Your teeth worry at your lip again and he tracks the movement, wolf-like.

“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh like you’re livestock. He's plucky again, voice giddy. You’re certain, then, that you want to keep him that way; it's safer than learning what else he's capable of.

When John kisses you, you let him, just as you have every other time tonight. Lips fitting oh-so-nicely against yours–a fact you’ve come to resent knowing. It’s as if he’s trying to crawl into you.

He could, if he wanted to. Crawl into you, that is. There’s plenty of room in there as you’ve been thoroughly hollowed out. Empty and full of potential–he could build himself a nice little home in you.

The sound of your heartbeat echoes in its barren chamber but you can’t feel it.

John sits back against your headboard and takes his cock in hand. He's not quite hard yet, mostly playing as he strokes himself lazily; eyes half-lidded.

Watching you, though. Always watching you. 

Bracing yourself on the headboard, you climb astride John with knees on either side of him, hovering above him while carefully avoiding touching him anywhere–your thighs shake from the effort.

Your eyes are shut tight as you pause to control your breathing. Being on top feels akin to participating in your own violation somehow. You know that’s not true, but you can’t shake the thought.

John’s grip is rough as he grabs your hips. Missing your touch, he pulls your thighs down to meet his and the sound of your skin slapping together cuts sharply through the air. It takes your breath with it.

“Now, I'm ready for my next treat,” he says as he guides your arms around his neck, locking them into place with his will alone.

I can be very, very demanding. You’re so sweet, so polite–I don’t think I’ll need to demand much from you. You’re just going to give it to me. Right, gumdrop? I’d really, really, hate to demand anything from you. The warning he’d instilled earlier.

In this position, your faces are close enough that you can only look at one eye at a time, and you aren’t sure whose breath is whose.

His hardening cock is beneath you, yet it’s the intensity of his expression–adoration, so sickly sweet and wrong–that sets you alight and sends a thrill through you.

He’s smiling, sharp teeth on full display.

Just breathe, you remind yourself. As though you’re about to give a public speech instead of being forced into this. And the traitorous slick heat between your legs builds again. You can feel it beginning to coat him as well, his length sweetly and sinisterly nestled against you.

All of John’s hard work in cleaning you up is gone. You almost laugh, feeling hysterical. Instead, you bite your lip again.

Your gaze drifts down his neck as you gulp, wanting to avoid his eyes. The flutter of your hands mirrors that of your belly, and one of your hands creeps forward to caress his throat. You feel distant, mesmerized even, as a snarl works its way across your lips.

You aren’t strong enough to choke him successfully, but you imagine it anyway. Wrapping your warm hand around his trachea in a vice grip, squeezing and squeezing until your knuckles pop and your joints ache and then you squeeze and squeeze some more.

John’s face turning that cherry red that he so love–

“I'll make it so easy for you.”

He moves suddenly, interrupting your fantasy. Alarmed, your eyes snap back to his face as his hands move to grab your backside. You can’t feel your heart, but you can feel the indentations his fingers are making in the meat of your ass.

You’re on top, but he’s still the one in control.

It seems that John’s patience is running low, maybe even against his own will. He’s struggling to keep composed, but you can feel it in the strength of his hands gripping you, in his kisses he’s sucking into your neck, in the tension of his thighs.

He’s leveraging your ass to move you against him, not penetrating yet, but just kneading. Rolling his hips upward into your pelvis and wetly moaning into your skin.

“Just like this,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded.

John sucks your nipple in his mouth just as he grinds his now fully hard cock expertly into your swelling clit. 

“John.” You hate it, but you moan too. 

“That’s it. Oh, sweetness. You’re perfect.”

But you aren’t. A perfect woman wouldn’t be moaning at this horrific display of mock intimacy. A perfect woman wouldn’t be flushed with heat so intense she could burn up in it. A perfect woman wouldn’t be here.

He’s kissing you again, melting your charred flesh together.

His hand travels between your bodies to savor the skin of your sides and belly before traveling down, down, down again. His rough thumb provides friction exactly where you’d need it to come again, massaging all around your clit as he thrusts upward against it.

“Fuck,” you breathe out. Softly, but you still can’t help but say it.

“Mmm there’s that filthy mouth again,” he says, words filled with rot.

“I wonder what things a good girl with such a dirty mouth can do.” John sounds pensive as he rubs your groins together.

“Shut up.” No fire in it, again. You mean it, but you’re careful with your tone. The beast has his heavy cock so precariously placed in a position to injure you.

But then he’s pouting at you again and it sets you off.

You feel that primal thing within you claw its way upwards as he looks at you with those stupid fucking pretty eyes with lashes you’d love to pluck one. by. one. with a tweezer.

That you’d love to make him fucking eat afterwards.

Swallow it, John.

You’re staring at his throat again, watching the muscles contract as he does take a well-timed swallow.

Your teeth are buzzing.

Then you bite him. Surprised, his hand shoots up to grip your shoulder to push you away, but your blunt teeth are viciously latched onto his neck, increasing the pressure harder and harder until you feel the skin give and he starts to bleed and copper slick twangs in your mouth and then–

And then you let go.

You’re baring your teeth at him, knowing that they’re red with his blood.

“That’s what my filthy fucking mouth can do,” you spit at him.

Bewildered, John stares at you for a moment, sizing you up, and you know you’re screwed. Totally and thoroughly fucked. He’s going to hurt you back. Tenfold. He’s going to decimate the very molecules in your body. His hand tightens on your shoulder as the other grips your hair.

And then he kisses you so hard that your mouths gnash together–teeth on teeth.

You’re both making obscene sounds as he digs his tongue in to taste another of his bodily fluids he’s left in you and your cunt is practically singing at the abasement.

You’re moving yourself against him, slickly and furiously grinding over his cock as you seek something beyond climax. Revenge? Redemption? Hips moving faster and faster, eyes closed, arms held tightly around John’s neck. The heat in your body intensifies.

Your breath is coming out in sharp little huffs and you can feel yourself on the brink of a shuddering sob. With desperate, shaking hands you reach down and grip him, ready to take him inside you and fuck away the pit growing in your belly–but he stops you.

“Hey–hey, slow down,” his voice is strangled, overcome with sensation as he guides your arms back around his neck. 

Your fingers automatically play with his hair, finding a way to distract yourself.

Something is so very, very wrong with this beast trying to soothe you before he devours you.

“I hate you.” You're the one pouting now, pathetic. You don’t know if you mean your former friend, John, or yourself. Maybe all three of you.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate youIhateyou.” Soft, whiny whispers in the neck you just attacked.

John shushes you lightly as he rubs your back. Why does it have the power to soothe you?

Something must be so very, very wrong with you, too.

He kisses you like he did back in the hallway outside of your apartment, before he shed his sheepskin. It’s gentle, sweet, and full of adoration.

You do sob then, short-lived against his mouth, wet eyelashes brushing his with how close you are; fingers tangling in his devastating curls on the back of his head.

“We could’ve had this.” Ah, there it is. The thing you’ve been mourning without knowing why.

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting. But it's the first time John’s looked sad and you actually believe him.

He's quiet for a long moment before he pulls away, brushing hair from your fair and looking into your eyes. He’s somber.

“No, gumdrop, we couldn’t have. Not really.” He’s right, of course. You know full well what he is, but it’s the loss of what you thought you had earlier–of what you’d fantasized about–that really burns.

He looks like he’s revealing something, some hidden grief within himself and you hate that too. Ensnared in another man’s misery–you’re so goddamn tired of being used.

Still seated in his lap, you take a moment to wipe your face before turning back to him. He’s patient as you observe him. You take in the smooth paleness of his forehead; his thick, dark brows that are seated nicely above his equally dark eyes. It isn’t fair how nice his lashes are.

You take in the length of his nose, nicely shaped; his adorable mole and his cheeks with those not-quite-dimples; the sharp Cupid’s bow that you adored with that little downward lick of his lips.

His eyes are damp, too–how many women, John?–and you’re cradling his face in your hands.

“I know.” You’re nipping at his lips before you return to his neck to lick at the only wound you’ve given him. He deserves so many more.

Shifting your body, you next take in his rigid length deep into your body, both of your wretched selves gasping at the feeling–you don’t have a choice, after all.

His hand immediately returns to you, rough fingertips apologizing to the scars he can reach before massaging your clit and pelvis in the way he’s learned you like. You set a quick pace astride him, quickly finding a rhythm that serves you both.

You’re still practically grinding atop him, stimulating your clit with each forward thrust–

“Ride like it’s yours. No more riding like paid actors–unless you like that, of course.” Your friend’s sage advice.

John’s breathing is getting rough, and you remember that he’s mostly been gratified symbolically through your debasement. Before long, John’s thighs are contracting underneath you and his hands and his fingers squeeze your ass hard enough to bruise.

“Please.” His first time begging you is barely more than a groan–he’s going to come soon.

Abruptly, you stop.

“No,” you tell him. His eyes cut to yours–doesn’t like to be told no. “Not yet.”

And surprising you, maybe even himself, John nods. Mouth soft, eyes heavy. Pliable. He merely sits up straighter and pulls you in an embrace so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

His thumb on your clit slows its rhythm to firm circles.

You resume, slowing your pace; every movement is purposeful. Your stomach is beginning to tire from the work and you’re unconsciously expressing your frustration with taps on his back.

Sweat is pooling between your bodies, so close he's practically part of you, now.

You’re grinding your teeth again.

John notices your growing exhaustion and moves his hand to the cleft of between your cheeks. A finger explores its way down, briefly dipping to gather your slick before returning to that ring of muscle it had passed. This time it prods and you clench instinctively.

He probes anyway, as is his way, causing you to twitch around his finger.

It’s an odd sensation and you aren’t entirely sure what he’s planning. You’ve always liked that, but you’re worried that he won’t stop with a finger.

John’s cock is shallowly thrusting inside you again, his movements just enough to massage your g-spot without interrupting his rhythm.

You squeak and clench around both intrusions: one hand is still slowly circling that bundle of nerves and while the other stretches you out. The strangeness of it sends a shock through your belly.

He’s winding you up, up, and up again, and it's just a matter of time before he’s pushing you off the edge.

For the first time, you dip your face towards his to initiate a kiss, tongue plunging into his mouth, violating one of his cavities for once. And his fucking moan, sweet little whimpering sound pushed through his incisors, unspools you with its vulnerability.

Have you always had to fight for affection, John? To take it?

It’s enough for you though. Your body snaps with the first wave and your climax is a delicious inferno.

Plunging into fiery depths, warmth flooding outward from your core as you ride John through the tremors rocking through you. His hand between your legs is deliciously relentless.

The twang of copper is sharp in your mouth.

When you open your eyes again, John’s there. Never far, this one. He brushes his hand across your forehead, clearing the sweat.

Kisses your forehead in the reverent, cherubic way that you like.

John’s cock is still hard inside of you. His other hand has softened on your rump, lightly squeezing and releasing as you resume your rhythm, syrupy and slow this time.

You feel boneless–emptier and emptier–and you’re leaning against him now, movements getting sluggish.

“Mmm is my little honeypot getting tired?” Too tired to speak, you simply nod, head lolling on his shoulder.

“Sweet, sweet girl. You’ve been working so hard. Doing so good.”

Against your will, you preen. You’re doing pretty fucking okay given the circumstances.

John’s eyes flutter shut as he peppers kisses onto your face. “So good. C’mere.”

Leaning you back into his arms, lays the both of you onto your sides; you’re the little spoon, of course.

It’s so intimate, this position, even if you can’t see his face. You can feel his entire front pressed against your back and his scent overtakes you–sandalwood, rosemary, and the sweat you’re sharing.

It’s how partners would embrace. Then John, the man and secret beast, hefts your leg over his, opening you up.

“I’ll take care of my girl. You just have to let me.” And you do.

He slides back in, meeting no resistance. His messy, sopping girl.

“I’ve got you.” His hand drifts around again, massaging your core. He’s relentless.

John surrounds you. You wish you could stare at the wall to imitate distance, but you can’t. His other hand is around your neck, not choking, but keeping your head tilted back enough to see your eyes as he thrusts towards his own completion.

He’s using the opportunity to enjoy your scent as well, taking deep inhales of your hair. You’ve got notes of orange and cinnamon in there tonight, which he seems to appreciate, thrusting deeply at this angle.

“O-oh,” overstimulated, you can’t help the noises you’re making.

Like this, it really is easy, just as he promised.

“Christ.” That one got a chuckle from him–my silly girl–and you can practically feel his chest puff up with pride.

Ragged gasps escape your open mouth as John truly fucks you, letting you know how much he’s been holding back before now; groin slapping against your ass as you just take it. Making the most of it, even. He’s too good at this, too familiar with your body already.

He groans in your ear and you can’t help but respond in kind. You’re keyed up, and his incessant talking isn’t helping. Good girl. You take me so, so well. Like you’re made for me.

His incessant rubbing of your cunt isn't helping either.

“Come on, I know you can give me another one.”

You know you can, too. 

Then his teeth are on your neck, and you tense up, gasping. Time for payback.

But he doesn’t return your vicious bite, just scrapes his teeth along your skin with playful pressure. You feel yourself clench around his cock, mouth pulling into an unexpected frown.

John hums against your neck, face turning curious. “Unless…you want me to?”

Hearing your whimper at that, he bites down again. Hard. And accompanies it with an equally hard thrust. The sound you make is obscene in your ears–you have no right to sound that way. 

“Fuck.” Well and truly fucked.

“Yess,” he nearly hisses. He continues his steady movements. 

“There’s my girl. You’re not all sweetness after all, are you?”

You never claimed to be, but you’re still hot with embarrassment at his words. He heaves against you again, stroking along that sponge again with each drive in–blunt head of his rigid cock dragging along it on his way out.

“Stop,” you whisper. The temperature is building in you again. 

“No, you’re not. There’s a lot of heat in you; molten, even. Almost enough to burn up in. I wonder, was that true before your…friend…or after?” You’re burning, hot all over.

“Stop,” you plead. Louder this time. Teeth exposed but nowhere to bite.

He doesn’t stop. “Didn’t even notice it until it was nearly too late because of this honeyed face. But something in you is dark, too. Maybe even dangerous.”

“Stop!” you practically growl at him, your hand moving back to sink deep in his beautiful, insidious curls before you tug.

Hard.

John, the fucking maniac, laughs against your neck before releasing a loud groan as his hips roughly smack against your ass and cunt, coming as deeply as he can–replenishing your honeypot.

He sounds absolutely wrecked as he strains against the force of his orgasm.

You can feel him twitching inside of you, shooting hot strands of milky cum that he'll probably clean up later. The eroticism is unholy, yes, but you never liked church anyway.

Unthinking, your body responds to his pleasure, shoving your ass backwards against him to maintain contact.

His face is out of sight, but it's his sounds as he comes undone that suddenly send you into another climax, sharp this time.

It rushes over you and you want to scream from pleasure so close to pain. Something is definitely wrong with me, you muse a bit pathetically, body spasming.

Eventually, you come down, both of you resting on the bed now. It’s quiet for a few minutes afterwards, which leaves you to wonder if he’s fallen asleep. His heartbeat is slowing against your back.

Then John is massaging your scalp and giving your head sweet little kisses. His other hand wanders down your side and caresses you, especially careful around the areas that will be tender later. 

He turns you to face him, bodies cuddled together in a mocking imitation of your positions at the bar. It feels like ages ago now that you were there; laughing, flirting. An evening full of possibilities, but you never expected this one.

“You’re full of surprises, gumdrop. How did I get so lucky?” He’s drawing out his words, savoring them.

You’re ready to cry again. “Stop making fun of me, John.” The words, soft and vulnerable, sound childish to your own ears, but you can’t help it. You feel raw.

His hands are still caressing your wounded thighs and genitals, like he’s trying to erase your scars.

“Oh, honey. I’m not,” he says. You’re looking anywhere but at him.

“Really.” John cradles your hot face in his big hands. “I adore you to pieces. I just can’t understand.”

You’re looking at him now–not much choice. His eyes are tender with affection, maybe even real.

He kisses your forehead again before speaking. “How could he scar someone as delectable as you?”

Because he was a beast, John. Just like you.

With bouncy hair framing his lovely face, he looks deeply into your eyes; in search of what, you can’t tell.

It’s in these open moments that you swear you can get a glimpse of another side of him. Maybe it’s the person he could have been, had his life gone better–had he not made monstrous choices.

The loss haunts you and suddenly you’re wondering how long it takes before Stockholm sets in with people. Does it count if it’s less than a day? You’re empathetic to a fault, but do you need to be hospitalized for it?

He breathes in your hair before he covers your face in kisses again, playful. Sweet.

Wanting to break away from the intimacy–you really, really need some space–you clear your throat before speaking. “John.”

“Mmm?” he sounds nearly asleep.

“I need some water,” you say. It’s true. It’s been hours and your mouth has had sugar, sweat, tears, blood, but no water. And alcohol before that.

You feel dizzy. “Please.” An eye cracks open.

That dopey smile. “Of course. How can I refuse such a polite request? I’m not treating my girl right, am I?”

He ties you up, though. Uses your shirt and his belt to bind and tether you temporarily, not trusting you alone in the room. 

But he brings you water and assists you in drinking it–he hasn’t untied your arms yet. You’re exposed on the bed, covered in both of your juices and candy residue.

I’m going to need it, you think, taking a big chug and observing the wolf before you.

His eyes are watching the water as it spills from your mouth, traveling down your chest to meet your sweat.

He takes in your nude form while his hands caress your thighs affectionately.

The wolf looks hungry again. You take a steadying breath before meeting his eyes.

Your tongue traces the sharp points of your canines.

***