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bluesidez · 9 months ago

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Can I request a Miguel O'Hara x Curvy reader where they both get intoxicated from sex pollen ??

[Sticky-Icky]

lab taster: @waterinthefire 🩻

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Curvy!Reader

summary: He's a lot less irritating when he puts his mouth to better use.

content warning: a PWP but you guys know me (there's a little plot), this is so 18+ that it's crazy so MDNI, sex pollen (or more like Miguel is playing around and doesn't know wtf he's doing), unprotected p in v sex (WRAP IT UP 🫵🏾) manhandling, temperature play if you squint, standing 69, facefucking, creampies, wrong use of webs, biting, breeding, spitting, squirting, cunnilingus, fellatio, fluff if you squint...I think that's it. my god.

word count: 4.3k, halfway proofread

a/n: Listening to Sticky by Ravyn Lenae inspired part of this. Also watching several episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, Hell’s Kitchen, and Law & Order: SVU in the bg kept me sane. And one more rewatch of ATSV.

My duty as a fanfic writer is fulfilled as I give you this mandatory trope. 🫡

When you first started working at Spider HQ, you were amazed by the fact that one man was able to create all of this.

It was astounding, beyond what the gray tones of Nueva York could ever present to you.

Now, you think back to your glittering eyes during the first year working here and laugh.

Working for Miguel O’Hara was like squeezing a watermelon through a straw. He was impossible.

Nothing you did was ever satisfactory for him. Something could always be fixed. Sometimes, you wonder why he still kept you employed here.

Currently, he was turning his nose up at a salve you were working on for spiders whose healing time wasn’t nearly as quick as others.

“Run a new test. This batch is no good.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“The formula could be better, it’s too thick, and why does it smell like that?”

The scent was similar to one you wore often and a lot of the spider-people that swung by the pharmacy seemed to like it.

“Uh, jade tea.”

The pinch in Miguel’s eyebrows deepened as he sniffed the air.

“Switch it to something else.”

You huffed, already tired of this conversation, “Well, what smell do you suggest?”

“Anything but this.”

“How about lavender, then? Perhaps peppermint.”

“And now, you’re being childish,” Miguel put the tin down before placing his hands on his hips. “You know there’s spider-people who can’t smell too much of that.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

He plopped a giant file on your desk, “Deal with that later. I need you to work on something else. For some reason, villains across dimensions are obtaining access to a substance similar to rapture. Every time there’s a mission, the spider-person of that dimension has been left affected. I need something to subside the effects until we can get them back here.”

“Ok, well do you have the substance with you?”

“No. But I’ll get you something soon. For now, I have a year’s worth of research on rapture. It should be of some use.”

You took the rubber band off of the manilla folder, something so old school for this era of tech.

You saw a line of formulas that started to make your head spin.

“Are there a lot of people affected right now?”

“Only a few. They’ve used the leftover solution I made a long time ago. It’s only going to work for so long,”

“Good. I need to sleep on this.”

Miguel’s head knocked back an inch, “Are you refusing work? The state of the heroes of different universes relies on this research. It’s not some science project-“

“I understand completely, Miguel, but I’m off the clock.”

He stopped and checked his watch, the red six o’clock burning back on him.

“I only work the hours you pay me, Spidey,” you reach to pat his arm and regret it when his stern face doesn’t move.

“Not interested in paid overtime?”

You bit your cheek to stop the laugh from coming out.

“That’s nice and all, but I’ve got plans.”

“Like what?”

“Like resting, sleeping, not touching lab work with a you-sized pole. All of these are things you aren’t familiar with. Plus, I have a date.”

A pause went through the room as you started to gather your things.

“Since when do you date?”

You push your chair under your desk harder than you mean to, “Since when do you care?”

“I,” he follows to the elevator, “care about my employees.”

“Sure, Miguel.”

If it weren’t for your tired state, you would think he looks a little sad at your statement.

“See you tomorrow, then?”

The doors start to close as you nod your head, Miguel’s gaze stuck just above your head.

Weird. Just like his frequent stops to your lab.

The feeling doesn’t leave your gut even as you’re smiling in your date’s face.

One minute, you’re laughing at a story about some amateur skateboarders Downtown, and the next, an electric billboard is being covered in tiny nano-spiders across the street.

“So the guy just takes one step on the board and then he’s flying. A straight line across the park.”

“That’s,” the spiders start to crawl into different lines. Then a logo forms, displaying the spider on Miguel’s suit next to an exclamation point. “So hilarious.”

Your date chuckles then follows your gaze, the silence too long, “Is there something wrong?”

The nano-spiders flipped around, the regular billboard showing like normal. You squint.

“No, I thought I saw something. Must have been my imagination.”

“You did say you were a little tired from work. Should we raincheck? We can always catch a movie another time.”

You wanted to say no, you’d been looking forward to tonight.

The billboard flickered to a little picture of Lyla with “SOS” above her head.

“Yeah, I should probably get going. Sorry about this.”

The way he doesn’t sweat you practically ditching him makes your heart pang. You’re already dreading another night exhausted and alone. Your date seemed promising.

You wave at him from your taxi, the route leading back to Spider HQ feeling like torture. You unclasp your purse and check your gizmo.

40 missed messages.

It’s not until you’re walking into the regular lobby that you turn it on.

“What is so important that you waste Margo’s time to interrupt my time?”

Lyla pops in your peripheral, hands up and wary, “I’m only doing what boss asks! Don’t get mad at me.”

“Lyla, why am I back here right now?”

“Well, Miguel has gotten himself in some particular trouble.”

You punch the elevator button, “Get to the point, please.”

“He went into your lab to try and start the solution he talked about earlier. After his first accident, he’s never had any luck with lab work, so uh. He’s kind of made a mess.”

The elevator moves and you look at Lyla, “What kind of mess?”

The doors open and you can smell it before you see it.

It’s poignant, like perfume soaked roses and patchouli. The scent hits you hard enough to make you grip the metal opening as you come out.

“What exactly did he do?” you breathe out.

Your limbs start to shake, nerves drumming from the inside out. A weight feels like it landed on your core, your stomach twitching as you continued to take in whatever had transpired.

“Something about DNA splicing and plants. I can trace his movements back if you’d like, but I’m also currently trying to figure out how to reverse it.”

“Great.”

You swing open the door to a disheveled Miguel. He’s sweating profusely as he tries to clean up your lab desk.

Before you can even begin to yell he’s fussing, “Lyla, I told you not to call her!”

“But you obviously don’t know what you’re doing.”

He bites his lip as he tries not to look at you, fingers trembling as he starts to store materials back into their drawers.

“Thought you had a date.”

“And I thought I told you stay away from my station,” you feel like a baby deer walking over to him.

When you get closer he sucks in his breath like you cut him, stopping in his tracks.

“I don’t think you should be near me,” he grunts. His eyes are dark, lips swollen with the way he’s biting them.

“What are you talking about? I’m trying to help you.”

You round the corner of the desk, the image of you two almost comical. Miguel moves to the edge of the desk, chest moving faster, while you chase after him trying to get a hand on his forehead.

He felt extremely cold compared to the numbness of your palm, despite how flushed he looked. His eyes close as your hand slides from his head to his neck, muscles there tensing.

“Please. Don’t,” he whispers.

“Who else is coming here to save you?” you ask, frustrated. “What did you do anyway?”

He doesn’t answer as he peers at you. Your heart is beating faster and you can’t tell if it’s because of the air or because of the way he looks like he’s about to climb you.

Every move you made felt like sharp pricks in your skin, the tight material of your dress digging into your hips. It felt like the ends of burning flames and you wanted it off. Your breaths were picking up and you couldn’t quite comprehend what was going on other than Miguel being your cooling solution.

“Miguel,” you sounded like you ran a marathon when all you did was step into his space.

“It’s the shocking formula that I screwed up. That’s why everything feels-“

“Like I need you,” you interrupt. “Like I want you on top of me.”

The insides of your thighs were fighting against themselves to stay together, the urge to let your legs fall around him strong.

“That’s just the chemicals talking. W-we can get somewhere safe and separated.”

You grab the back of his neck and pull yourself even closer, his hands gripping the table like a lifeline as he groans.

“So you don’t want me?” you press against him, caging a knee around him right next to his hand. “You don’t think about me?”

You can almost feel his heartbeat matching yours as you pull yourself up.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t wonder how I feel when you come into my lab snooping around? How I feel when you come in here barking orders?”

Your face is in his neck and you feel yourself clench around nothing as you take a deep breath. He smells like coffee and fabric softener, but there’s an underlying wave of musk. Of something so unbelievably him and you want to keep that scent close forever.

“I imagine you’re annoyed. But a job is a job.”

“But you still come in here asking for things you know someone else can do,” your panties are soaked, and from the way his nose flares, you know he knows. “Why?”

His teeth grit as you start to grind on him, the feeling giving you an inch of relief that only makes you want more.

“I, I don’t- It’s because I,” the counter began to crack under his hands. His muscles were pulled taut. “Dios, ayúdame.”

Maybe you were wrong, and your hazy mind only brought thoughts from the subconscious one.

“Fine. I get that you don’t like me but could you at least give me some type of relief?” you were whining in his ears at this point, a complete 180 of how you left him earlier today. With every grind of your hips, you left noises in his skin, desperate.

The desk made a terrible sound as Miguel finally lets go and grabs around your waist. Your breath is slammed out of you as your back hits the wall, Miguel’s hand holding your head to stop it from crashing into the wall too.

Your throat makes a gargled sound as Miguel licks down your jaw, his talons ripping into your dress. His tongue swipes into your mouth, breaths rapid as he finally gets a taste.

“I do like you. More than I should,” his words were passed right into you. “You and your smart mouth.”

“Then stop talking and do something about it.”

A yank in your hair stops your complaints, Miguel kissing down your side. Every press of his lips left a chilly flutter. Your hips are moving frantically, patience wearing thin. Right as you’re about to say something again, he flips you, the layers of your dress falling as he rips into your panties.

The blood rushes to your head as he takes a bite into your thigh, sucking as your legs fall to his shoulders.

You moan his name, hands gripping at his thighs. His kisses led to your lips, swollen and dripping. From your clit to your entrance, he groaned as he covered you, drinking like you were water in the middle of the night.

You felt like you were going to slip, but Miguel’s arms were looped around your legs, not letting go. His suit was in your way, your mouth salivating as his crotch stared back at you. Your fingers could only dig as far as his suit allows and you have half a mind to call Lyla to disengage it.

“Please,” you sigh as you rub his bulge with your cheek. “I need it so bad.”

“Cállate,” he hums, face delving deeper into you. The sound of him licking up every drop echos off the cool walls and the light of his suit dims away letting you see what you’ve been waiting for.

His length hits your chin, precum spilling down and you’ve never been more excited for a man to go commando. You open your mouth and let your breath hit him as you take a swipe down to his balls.

Miguel’s grunts and shifts his hips back. His tip swerves around your face as he tries to find your mouth without unlatching his jaw from your sex. You help out with the last bit of sanity you have, and once you wrap your lips around him, his hips snap hard onto you.

All you can feel is Miguel entering you from top to bottom, his hands keeping you stationed in your position. There’s no room to do anything as he’s devouring you and taking your breath away at the same time. Two of his fingers sink into you, and you jerk from the difference between his skin and his tongue.

Miguel nibbles at the hood of your clit, urging you to be still. Whenever his fingers leave you, his pelvis fills your senses. Your throat gags around him, spit building to keep up with his thrusts.

“So good,” he hums. His pace picks up and the tears in your eyes fall to the floor. “Made for me. Only me.”

Your fingers wrap around his thighs and squeeze tight, your vision fading as you try to take in pockets of air. The shake in your legs and the broken moans that escaped your lips only ignited him.

“Bebé,” his hips stutter. He’s sloppy as he drools over the entrance, voice loud. “Bebé, you’re so, ngh.”

He cums down your throat, balls twitching against your face. You close your eyes and try to swallow everything, jaw aching. Miguel groans your name as he slides his dick out to the tip, a few spurts still landing on your lips. You cough, position making everything go north.

The taste of him was delicious, but you needed more of him elsewhere. Your mouth was as drenched as your cunt and yet you still felt empty.

When Miguel flips you back upright, you’re ready to pounce on him again. The state of you both is alarming. Your breasts have completely fallen out of your dress, that black thing barely holding on by its zipper. Miguel’s suit is phasing in and out in the most obscene places. There’s slick up to his eyebrows and his cum is all over your cheeks.

He grabs your jaw and runs his tongue over your face, cleaning up his mess. You let him live in his own bubble before that burning in your core came back.

Your nails dig into his shoulders and your whispers of “more” come to light. You’re clawing at him like a cat begging him to do something, anything, to make this feeling go away.

“Miguel,” you gasp as he sinks his teeth into your skin. “Miguel, it hurts. Fix it, Miggy, please.”

You guide his hands down your body and place them on your ass. His touch sates you for only a moment, but your body reacts as if he needs to be deep in your bones. He spreads your ass and groans as the sound of how eager you are for him follows.

“You’re not ready,” are the words that make you even more frustrated. Your hands pushing and pulling at him, ready to try and put him where you want him to go.

He clicks his teeth and flexes his wrists. His webs tie your wrists together, neon red strings leaving a buzz on your skin. He yanks your dress off and you stumble with the motions.

The clinical room doesn’t aid the building heat you feel, but Miguel turning you around and pressing you into the wall as he cuts the rest of your panties off does.

He squats and grabs two hands full of you.

He spits onto your hole, mesmerized as he watches it slide to your entrance. “Qué hermosa,” he whispers.

You bend, whimpering as your folds cover his nose, clenching and grinding.

“God,” you sigh. Something this small was going to bring you to the edge so quickly. “D-don’t stop.”

“Greedy,” Miguel says as if he’s not moving the fat of your ass to nudge his face into you. The arch in your back deepens as he continues and your whines get higher.

He smacks your right cheek, sound echoing off the metal tables, and you shout his name as you coat his tongue.

Tranquility clears your mind for a second, one where the flowery scent in the air is less strong.

The peace leaves just as fast as it came when Miguel gets rid of his suit and stands behind you in all of his glory.

His eyes followed from your dewey face to the curve of your hips to bitten thighs to feet with one heel still on.

“He didn’t deserve to see this,” he says.

“W-what?”

Miguel ignores you and pulls your wrists up straight, a confused noise leaving you. He wraps another web around your ankles and huffs. He sets your arms under your chest, your hands in front of you like a prayer.

When he picks you up by your waist, his dick lines up with your ass.

He groans as he grinds, watching himself disappear and reappear.

You try to move with him, “No, not there. Inside.”

“You’re always so distracting,” he growls. He slides his length between your thick thighs and you nearly scream as his hips hit your ass, his tip just barely passing over your clit. “Can never think straight when I see you.”

He rubbed over the bite he left on your shoulder, “So pretty. My pretty baby.”

His low voice right in your ears only made you wetter. He was holding you like you were his toy, fucking the inside of your thighs with ease.

Miguel could cry watching your ass bounce on his stomach. Your legs were soft and warm and he just couldn’t stop.

“Want you so bad. Need to fuck you again and again and again,” he said as your thighs quivered around him.

“Please, Miguel. Make me yours,” your voice crowded the sound of his grunts as he held you up and pounded away.

Those were the magic words to get him to lean back with a firm grip on you and release all over the wall. It was everywhere, from your legs to the wall to the ceiling.

He set you to the floor with shaky arms, and you started to sob.

All of this and you still wanted more. If this was making you feel this insane, you can only imagine the small relief Miguel was feeling after being exposed for longer.

“C’mere,” he pulls you to the bare floor and cuts the webs. You immediately try to climb him, legs wrapping around his waist.

He was painfully hard for someone who came twice now.

Your cries of “inside” slur together, tears running down your face. Miguel was no better, fangs dripping with venom and the hairs on skin raised.

The two of you tussle as Miguel tries to keep your hips to stay stationary. You kept jerking in order to get some sort of friction but he was baring his teeth to get you to quit.

You dip your nails into his shoulders and arms while he drags a talon down your sternum to snap your bra off.

A clatter of your stiletto sounds off across the room as he pinches your thigh, “Easy, beautiful. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fucking hurry,” you whine.

He shushes as he plunges inside of you, the noise you both make as loud as a choir.

Your eyes roll back as Miguel presses, bending your body in half.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Miguel leans to whisper onto your lips.

Tight is the first thing that comes to mind and heat is the next.

He moves his hips up and slams back down, your ass shifting from the pressure.

“Miguel!”

“That’s it. Talk to me.” All of that chatter earlier and now you can barely get out a word.

“H-harder,” your hands don’t know where to go. They’re grabbing Miguel, they’re falling next to your head, they’re grabbing at your breasts as Miguel jerks your body.

Miguel goes to open your jaw, lips pulling on your tongue to suck. It’s tender and sensual compared to the way his balls are slapping against you. There’s a ring of white on his shaft getting thicker and thicker as he continues.

“Pretty thing,” he says as he lets your tongue go, a string of saliva falling to your neck. “Watched you on the cameras. Always.”

That stirs something in you, a spark in your chest as you see stars.

“Did you want to do this to me when you watched me?” you manage out.

“Yes.”

“I can put on a show for you next time.”

“Yes.”

“You can come in here. ‘N fuck me over the counter.”

“Sí, sí, baby,” his hands push your knees next to your head and he ruts against you. His thighs were straining as he took and took.

A yell pulls itself from your core, that burning feeling getting a crash of cold water. The dam bursts and you’re running all over Miguel, essence leaving every time he inches out and back in.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps, eyes glazed over.

You nod your head, clenching and pulsing around him.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he shudders against you. You suck him in, gaining a deep moan from him, “Así, bebé. Take it.”

It’s like you can finally think as his cum overflows, your heart rate finally slowing.

He stares at you as you both come back to reality. Your body is limp, the weight of Miguel making itself known.

“Holy shit,” you wiggle and he catches the hint. He lifts a bit and pulls out. The swirl of you two falls out of you in waves. “What. The fuck.”

“God,” Miguel mumbles. “No shocking way we just did that.”

“You can’t say that when the evidence is leaking out of me.”

Miguel groans as he watches you, your face pouty and your hole glistening. It was intoxicating.

His dick twitches, coming to life again the longer he watches.

“‘M sorry in advance,” he says as he pulls you into his lap.

“Just take care of it, O’Hara.”

The two of you sat in the middle of the floor, breathing hard. Pieces of consciousness were starting to come back.

“You looked stunning tonight,” Miguel said. He looked at your shredded dress on the floor. “I’m glad he won’t see you in that dress anymore.”

The snort that leaves your nose turns into a full-blown laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You just took my soul ten times over and you’re worried about a guy I just met less than a week ago. I fear I’m ruined for anyone else.”

“Oh,” he smiles. “Good.”

“You still should take me on a date. You’ve got a lot to explain.”

Flashes of him confessing to his habit of watching you from afar come back, “O-of course.”

“And you owe me a new dress.”

“On it.”

Lyla pops up next to you both, a blindfold over her shades, “Is it safe to talk to you guys now?”

Miguel checks his gizmo, “I think we’re good for about forty minutes. The effects are starting to wear off.”

“Excellent!” She throws the fabric to the side, “Oh my god, this room is a mess.”

You look at the array of substances over the room and grimace. The entire hall will have to be on lockdown.

“Well, I managed to vent out the solution. You two should be ok soon.”

You lean on Miguel’s chest and close your eyes, happy to hear good news.

“Kind of sad that this is what it took for you to confess, Miguel,” she comments.

“Lyla!”

You laugh again, “Some confession.”

“That’s enough,” Miguel scowls.

Your giggles die down as you pull yourself onto Miguel’s thigh, bubbles in your chest molding into moans as you start to grind over his thigh.

“I’m starting to think you guys are just bluffing,” Lyla gags before she disappears. “Let me know when you’re done.”

“I think,” you nuzzle into his neck, “this’ll be the last time. I’m tired.”

“If not, we can take it to my house.”

The world blurs again as you and Miguel connect under the white lights.

Take a shot every time I say breath or breathe 😭. Anywho, as always, if you enjoyed, please like, reblog, and COMMENT!

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door-insurance · 6 months ago

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Ahm, hello Life is Strange fandom- I got an announcement

I have been working on my own LiS fan visual novel

This is VortexVN,

You play as Victoria waking up from a hangover with no memory of the week prior, you are tasked with piecing together what happened between her and one of the 4 love interests.

And of course the love interests are:

-Chloe (Chaseprice)

-Max (Chasefield)

-Kate (Chasemarsh)

-Rachel (Amberchase)

The game starts with a quiz; you unlock a route by picking answers related to the character you wanna romance (they are very obvious)

It takes place in an AU where the events of LiS1 and BtS didn't really happen and there are no special powers, Victoria's still a bi tch- I guess that's her special powers.

Think of this game as a spiritual successor to Love is Strange by Team Rumblebee rather than Life is Strange 1

Gameplay so far is your typical point and click visual novel affair, you will be given options to explore rooms, examine objects and talk to other characters- the interactions will play a crucial part in how the game ends,

You can win the girl or get rejected or worse... It will depend on how Victoria carried herself throughout the game,

Mistreating certain characters may prove to be a dealbreaker for the love interest,

Each girl has two close friends in the dorm that you should not upset (I'll reveal who in the guide pdf)

This game is also perfect for Victoria haters as you can ruin her life

The game has its own journal system that will be different depending on who you're romancing, it also comes with a read button (I blurred most of the text so you can get curious and play the game)

Read button will display the journal content in Open Dyslexic font

In the demo you'll only get to explore Victoria's room and the dorm hallways and you'll get two encounters from Juliet (Showers) and Alyssa (Hallway)

VortexVN is still in development, I have finished part.1 of the project and will start polishing it soon- the initial build of part.1 will be available to play as a demo!

The cutscenes lack color and proper shading at the moment and you will find placeholders as well, the art style is all over the place- this will change after the polishing phase

Download links:

Mac and Windows

Web browser ver (I don't recommend that you play it on mobile, also the web version lacks animation and takes forever to load graphics)

programs used:

-Renpy (visual novel engine)

-Photoshop CS5 (Drawing/rendering/animating/designing)

-Clips studio (Texturing)

-tablet: XP-Pen Artist 13

Note: I'm not monetizing this project nor do I claim ownership of the Life is Strange ip, all materials and assets presented in this visual novel were either created by me or are royalty free- I did not lift anything from the games via data mining or by leaks

This game is not a response to or a gotcha at Life is Strange Double Exposure or Deck Nine, I didn't really dislike the game

Besides, I've had the idea of a Victoria centric fan game since the first LiS back in 2015

I'm open for feedbacks! You can DM me or reblog this with a review or something- maybe write a comment.

#life is strange #lis #victoria chase #chloe price #max caulfield #kate marsh #rachel amber #chasemarsh #chaseprice #chasefield #amberchase #life is strange before the storm #lis bts #alyssa anderson #juliet watson #VortexVN

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onionsites · 1 year ago

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ONİONSİTES - DRAGON+

Onion sites, also known as Tor sites, are a unique type of website that can only be accessed through the Tor network. The term "onion site" specifically refers to websites that are exclusively accessible via Tor, distinguishing them from traditional websites that can be reached through standard web browsers. These sites utilize a special-use top-level domain name.onion, which designates them as anonymous onion services previously known as "hidden services". The Tor network, short for The Onion Router, is a free and open-source platform that enables users to browse the internet anonymously and access content not typically available through conventional means.

The functionality of onion sites is based on the encryption and routing protocols of the Tor network. When a user attempts to access an onion site, their connection is routed through a series of volunteer-operated servers, or nodes, to conceal their identity and location. This process helps to protect the privacy and anonymity of both the user and the site they are visiting. Onion web list offer enhanced security and privacy compared to traditional websites, making them attractive to individuals seeking to safeguard their online activities from surveillance, censorship, or tracking.

What are onion sites presents both benefits and risks for users navigating the dark web. Understanding the potential advantages and drawbacks is essential for making informed decisions about online activities. Some key points to consider include: Benefits:

- Enhanced privacy and anonymity

- Access to content not available on the clear web

- Protection against surveillance and tracking Risks:

- Exposure to illegal or harmful content

- Potential security vulnerabilities

- Increased likelihood of encountering malicious actors

By weighing these factors and exercising caution while browsing onion sites, users can leverage the unique capabilities of the Tor network while minimizing potential risks to their online security and well-being.

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wiptw · 1 year ago

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Pokémon Stadium Series

Nintendo 64 - Nintendo - 2000 to 2001

You as a Pokémon fan are absolutely fucking spoiled these days. Aside from the mainline games you have spinoffs and fangames offering different experiences, you have entire websites dedicated to documenting everything down to the internal maths of the series, there's no end to the free content you can access with an internet connection between emulators and battle sites like 'Showdown!', and it's now socially acceptable in most circles to be older than 13 and have something with Pikachu's face plastered on it (especially if you're female presenting, especially if your friend group is also infected with the Pokémon hype). Back in my day™ you had almost none of this. You had the anime on Saturday mornings, you had the early run Pokémon licensed merch which WOULD get you called a baby if you continued buying past 10-12, and you had the games. Those sweet, sweet games that indoctrinated a generation of young people into being gamers and awoke a horde of JRPG addicts.

Literally Me

So remember this when I tell you that Pokémon Stadium, both one and two, aren't great games because they do something back then that you can't get today; they're great for what they did back then. So Pokemon Stadium 1&2 were a duology of games from 2000 and 2001 respectively that allowed players to battle Pokemon in 3D, with the addition of some side content such as minigames included to prevent the game from being 100% Pokemon battles. Because otherwise, the game is in fact navigating a series of menus and completing Pokémon battles with 3D models.

Whether it's taking on the gym gauntlets, the marathon of battles in the Pokémon cups, or just free battles with friends and loved ones, 98% of the experience is either selecting Pokémon from a roster of pre-built 'rentals' or transferring them from a saved game using the Transfer Pak, then fighting them in a series of 3D environments. An experience which you can definitely do today using web apps but as I said earlier, we didn't have that.

The peak of Pokémon battles in 2000

So if you're buying Pokémon Stadium (either version really) you're already probably a Pokémon fan right? So that means you have Red/Blue/Yellow/Gold/Silver/Crystal, so why not just play that game and get the full experience? The fun of exploring, talking to NPCs, discovering new and exotic locations? Simple, because in those games battles looked like this

While in Stadium, battles looked like this

If you grew up watching the anime while playing the Gameboy games, there was this special kind of dissonance where you might find yourself saying "Yeah, (for the time) these graphics are RADICAL but I wish I had something closer to these cool Pokémon Battles they had in the anime." As you hide under the covers with your Gameboy Color worm light, nestled in your Ash Ketchum pajamas while you attempt for the 100th time to capture a ditto. Pokémon Stadium was the answer to this dissonance, providing you with vibrant 3D graphics unlike anything you'd ever seen before; bringing Pokémon to life in a way that would be unmatched until Colosseum came out during the Gamecube era.

So, to actual mechanics, you play both games pretty similarly; by building a team of Pokémon (either on your handheld or by using the rental mons the game provides) and take part in a series of battles to become the ultimate battle master. To use your own Pokémon, you'd need to use the aforementioned 'Transfer Pak' to plug in a copy of Red/Blue/Yellow (for 1) or Gold/Silver/Crystal (for 2) with a game saved to the cartridge; otherwise the rental Pokémon covered all released Pokémon (except for some hidden ones) allowing you to build your dream team, sans a few caveats here and there.

Evolved Pokémon have better stats but worse moves, while weaker Pokémon tend to have better moves to compensate

In terms of WHERE you can battle, there's two choices: Either in the Gym Leader Castle, or the Tournaments held in the center of the map on either game. Either way, the game will then have you battle through a series of 3v3 matches versus a set number of trainers who will also select 3 random mons from their full team of six.

A bit bare bones, but there's some spice to how things are run. For one, the rental system was a huge thing for us younger players back in the day. Even if you had the games some Pokémon were hard to catch, had evolution requirements some players couldn't complete (like the trade-mons), or were locked to a version you didn't have. The rental mons give you a list of every Pokémon (some exceptions, but not many) and then lets you build your dream team. Sure, you can't set their moves, EVs, IVs, and it's the era before abilities and natures but I CAN HAVE A MEOWTH/PERSIAN ON MY TEAM. Do you know what I had to do as a child to have this Pokémon outside of Stadium? I had to find someone in the American South who also enjoyed Pokémon, hoped they had Blue instead of Red, hoped they had a link cable, then get them to agree to a trade despite both of us being children (and therefore, objectively terrible) which likely meant giving away a rare Pokémon in exchange for what amounted to common garbage in their game because it was Version fucking Exclusivity™ and everyone seemed to know that meant you'd do anything to get that one fucking Pokémon you wanted.

In the handheld games, if you wanted to build your dream team then likely you'd have to put in some more effort than other games of the time would've required of you. With Stadium, your dreams come true, and if you already have that dream team you can just import them to fight in glorious 3D. Circumventing the fact that rental Pokémon are kinda terrible overall.

Don't feel like building? The challenge cup mode that gives you randomized team comps that has it's own charm (for masochists)

Not to say all of them were bad but construct a normal distribution of 'Good' to 'Bad' picks then that graph is gonna skew left so hard you'd be forgiven for thinking it was just a straight line. To keep every choice 'viable' Pokémon rentals were balanced around stats and moves. More powerful evolved Pokémon and Pokémon with high Base Stat Totals (BST) were given weaker moves and first form and low BST Pokémon were given generally better moves. Charizard might have better stats than Charmeleon and Charmander but his only fire type move is going to be something like Fire Spin. Conversely, Charmander might have Fire Blast but his stats are gonna make him an easy target for the computer's pokemon, which are not bound to the same builds as the rental mons you're using.

Once your team is assembled, then you're off to battle trainer after trainer after trainer with beautifully scored (for the Nintendo 64) soundtracks giving you an unearned sense of importance every step of the way. Battles themselves are conducted with a weird, but functional control layout where A and B access sub menus you then check with the R button before finalizing with the c-buttons, which on original hardware or a USB N64 controller is fine but on emulation with a more modern controller like Logitech, can be a little nerve wracking as you worry about whether your 'up' input on the control stick was up enough for the game or if you accidentally drifted right or left using an unintended move.

fun fact: the name of imported Pokémon affects their coloration in Stadium

Battles are also largely regulated by (at the time) tournament standard rules. Little and Pokecup have level restrictions, and all three non-random cups include clauses for sleep, held items, and repeat Pokémon. Additionally, in any cup if you win the round with all 3 Pokémon still in tact, you're granted a continue; meaning you can retry the battle if you lose. Additionally, there is no 'draw' outcome in these games. Use a move like Explosion or Selfdestruct and the game will register it as your loss on your final Pokémon, regardless of whether you took down the opposing fighter with you or not.

You'll be doing a LOT of back-to-back fights here against trainers with varied team comps, but even with over 246 Pokémon in the available potential lineup you'll get tired fast of fighting. This is, however, slightly mitigated by the 3v3 nature of the matches but even so be ready to here the same Pokémon noises, watch the same effects play out, and wait for the same health bars to tick down over and over as you claw your way to the spot of Pokémon Master.

The art style of non-battle scenes like the main map and minigame plaza have that nice, 90's charm to them as well.

If you do get tired of battling it out, then Stadium 1 and 2 both offer minigames for players to partake in. Either in a tournament format or by using the free-play browser, players are able to take part in a multitude of different Mario Party-esque (without the hand burning) minigames featuring the Pokémon as stars. Minigames consist of stick twirling, button mashing, and point collecting all while controlling fan favorite Pokémon such as Togepi, Eevee, Scyther, and Pichu with no real rhyme or reason behind why these game exist aside from a amusement park theming the minigame zones have for their icons and menus.

You won't get a real explanation as to why you're racing Donphans, cutting logs as Scythers and Pinsirs, or playing Simon Says with a bunch of Clefairy, but you don't really need that either. The games are fun, the models are charming, and watching Clefairy get smacked in the head for each wrong input brings me a level of joy I should probably talk about with my therapist. You won't likely spend hours in this mode, but it's a nice breather from the onslaught of battles otherwise.

fun fact: I still won't talk to some people because of the outcomes to Rampage Rollout over two decades ago. You know who you are.

Additionally there's a quiz minigame separate from the main selection of minigames with easy/normal/hard difficulty selections. Players compete to see who can be the first to get a number of questions correct before anyone else based on facts about the Pokémon (typing, size, silhouette, etc) or facts about the game (where you can find things in the game, names of routes and towns, names of figures in the game).

It's not the most challenging on easy or normal, but playing on hard the game will try to screw you with trick questions so playing with others becomes a balance of "do I let the question play out, or attempt to steal it before someone else can answer correctly?"

Sometimes even playing the game won't prepare you for how out of pocket the questions can get

The real advantage of 2 over 1 is that, in addition to minigames, the game has the trainer academy; a kind of in-depth battle tutorial to teach players not only the basics of Pokémon fighting, but also some secrets as well

You can learn about held items, a feature new to the second generation, as well as participate in mock battles to demonstrate the materials you've been reading and quizzed on. Some of this information for the time too was obscure or hidden knowledge, like the fact that using Defense Curl before using Rollout would boost the damage significantly or that using Stomp on an opponent who used minimize would double the damage.

Some type matchups just make sense, like Ground v Electric.

Overall though what really makes this game is the presentation. The soundtrack does a great job selling the feeling Nintendo wants you to experience, climbing the ladder in a tournament or the Gym Leaders Castle makes you feel powerful, and the little details on top of it all just tie it together in a nice package.

The fights, for example, are also narrated by "The Announcer". A bombastic voice shouting over every detail of a fight. When you score a crit, when you apply a status effect, even using certain moves will get the announcer loudly narrating each detail like a Pokémon prize fight. Seeing the ground rip apart when you use Earthquake is only half the charm, the other half comes from that man yelling in your ears "A DEVESTATING EARTHQUAKE ATTACK!". Clearing gyms or clearing opponents in one of the cups grants you gym badges, a dream for any child growing up on the handheld classics or watching the anime who wished they too could earn shiny bits of metal that gave them an inflated sense of importance.

I would literally kill everyone I came across if it'd get me a real life Zephyr Badge.

Stadium 1 and 2 aren't evergreen classics. They're stuck in Gens 1 and 2 respectively, the roster of Pokémon while impressive is largely useless and makes collecting trophies way harder than it has to be, and the games were made before things like abilities and double battles were introduced, leading to the Pokémon battling game missing out on the generation of Pokémon that made battling more fun (Revolution doesn't count, Revolution is dead to me and disappoints me more than I disappoint myself.)

But for the time especially, it gave fans an opportunity to experience a form of Pokémon more advanced than what the handhelds could output. It was a window into a world of potential that wouldn't be truly fulfilled until arguably the 3DS era of Pokémon released, and gave fans a fun little romp handcrafted for them at every twist and turn. Whether you were a gamer or you enjoyed the anime, there was something here for you.

Overall: 7/10 Sound: 8/10 (for the time) Graphics: 9/10 (for the time) Memorable Moments: Stadium 1: Hearing about Mewtwo, thinking he was an urban legend, then finding out he wasn't Stadium 2: Finally beating the elite 4 using only rental mons.

#wiptw #video games #gaming #pokemon #pokemon stadium #pokemon stadium 2 #pkmn #review #7/10 #Nintendo #nintendo 64 #n64 #retro #retro gaming

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bunnis-monsters · 9 months ago

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Legend of the Drider(Pt2)

Male!Drider x Fem!Reader

Kofi Request

Pt 1

summary: the aftermath of mating with the drider of myth

wk: 800+ words

Life with your drider lover was surprisingly… fulfilling,

After successfully being able to carry his clutch of eggs, he was happier than ever with you. Since mating with you, he had been treating you like a princess.

No… a queen.

Although he had already mated with you, the creature was a traditional man, going about the courting process one normally would in his culture.

The first thing he did was find an abandoned cabin. You needed somewhere safe and comfortable to live, especially as the fall started to change into the unforgiving winter. Being high up in the mountains meant it was rough, and he wanted his mate to be warm and happy while carrying his clutch.

The cabin wasn’t anything special, and you’d have to do some renovations before it would be livable. Thankfully your mate had collected many trinkets, coins, and random wallets containing large sums of money. It was a courting present to you, and it all went to repairing the cabin.

Once it was livable, he was determined to keep you under him and warm at all times. He was almost like a cat, trying to lay in your lap and rub his scent on you.

“Heavy…” you whimpered, causing him to slowly skitter back a bit. He lowered himself, sitting on the ground so his torso was level with you on the couch.

“Better?”

You nodded, kissing his cheek.

Sex was a common occurrence, and he had the strange urge to tie you up and stuff you full of more eggs. He knew you were already carrying his clutch, but the scent of your pregnancy hormones made him go wild.

Feeling his fangs press against your neck, you let out a soft mewl. He loved giving you a low dose of his aphrodisiac venom to make you squirm while he pushed his cock into you.

His hands stayed on your belly, rubbing gently while he kissed the bite marks he had left on your neck, lapping up the little pinpricks of blood.

“Such a sweet thing… how I adore you.”

He was soft and sweet with you, always making sure your pregnancy cravings were taken care of and you felt loved. His heart swelled with pride to see you so content and well taken care of, proving that he was a good mate and providing you with everything you needed.

It was easy to take your college classes online, and even though your lover got a bit sulky when you said you eventually wanted to follow your dreams and become a photographer, he did everything in his power to make it happen.

While your babies grew in your belly, your lover began producing tons of spider silk. He confessed that he learned to knit from one of the females, and started making little sweaters for all of your babies.

Some baby driders came out fully independent, which made you sad to think about. You had severe pregnancy hormones and you wanted to mother some baby spiders damn it!

He reassured you that his species required motherly care, and that because he had mated a human, the babies would be more human-like.

The cabin became less like a place to live in and more of a home. Your lover hunted at night, and slept through most of the day. He was such a clingy thing, curling with you and whining if you got up to pee at night. He hated being away from you for even a second… especially as his paternal instincts started kicking in.

Recently he had been aggressive towards any other creature that dared to come near the cabin, and started building a nest out of his silk webs so you’d have somewhere comfortable to give birth.

As your due date drew nearer, he grew more possessive and territorial, making sure to scent and mark you. It wasn’t often that you had any time for yourself, he was inconsolable when you experienced even the slightest pain.

“I don’t want you to be in pain, love. I’m so sorry, I know it’ll hurt to give birth… I wish I could make it all go away.”

He was with you for the whole process, his hand in yours as you gave birth to 3 healthy drider babies. They were small, with the cutest little spider legs and chubby cheeks. Each fussed and cried as they entered the world, already seeking comfort from you, their mother.

From that moment on, everything seemed to click into place. Your little ones nursed as you teared up a bit. You had brought these little ones into the world, and your lover couldn’t be more happy with it.

“Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”

Your question was met with a chuckle. Your love leaned down to nuzzle against you, his eyes half lidded with contentment.

“I don’t think so, I know you will.”

——————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat

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ceoofsammonroe · 1 year ago

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Web of Lies - Stephen Glass Smut

Summary: You and Stephen are coworkers and he’s always harbored a secret crush on you. When he finally works up the courage to ask you to hang out with him, he’s elated that you agree. However, after an innocent night of company, you return to the office the next day to find your name as the hot topic of gossip. When you confront Stephen about the matter, he finds himself trapped in a web of his own lies.

Warnings: dacryphilia (he’s so pretty when he cries, i can’t help it), voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation (Stephen receiving), dub-con (kind of? not really, but tagging it just in case), sub!Stephen, nipple play, manipulation, angst, lying, teasing, edging, denial, begging, humiliation, degradation, stephen whines and whimpers a lot because obviously.

Masterlist

The soft material of Stephen’s socks padded quietly across the floor as he made his way into the break room at The New Republic.

He stood by the door, watching with a small smile as you angrily hit the drink machine. He laughed to himself as you huffed, the frustration clear on your face.

This was something he did often. He observed you from a distance. The two of you had never spoken beyond the occasional greeting when your paths would cross in the office or a brief congratulations from you when a piece of his did exceptionally well.

Those were his favorite times. Watching you react to his stories. He’d ride the elation for hours when your lips would turn up in a smile during one of his pitches. He found himself tuning in to what made you laugh, what piqued your interest, warping his tales to accommodate.

He could do an entire write up on you by now if he was ever asked to. He’d studied you, down to every little detail. He knew what made you laugh and what pissed you off. He knew how you took your coffee and what pastries you’d swipe from the bakery you passed by every morning. He knew how you’d worry your bottom lip when you were deep in thought — that was a personal favorite of his. You’d become an obsession of sorts.

He had found his rhythm, watching your life from the outside. He was content that way. Which was why he was surprised to find himself walking up to you now.

“This machine never works,” he said, startling you as he appeared behind you. He grinned, sheepishly, ducking his head. “Sorry, it’s just that this machine gets stuck more than it doesn’t. Besides, the drinks inside of it are all flat anyways. There’s a better one on the third floor of the building. Works every time, honest.”

“Oh, thanks for the tip,” you laughed, embarrassed that you’d been caught fighting with an inanimate object.

“I was actually coming in here to put a note on the machine before leaving for lunch,” he lied, scratching the back of his neck. “There’s this little cafe a few blocks over that’s just to die for.”

“Are you talking about the one on 3rd Ave?” Stephen nodded, watching your face light up. “That’s one of my favorites!”

Stephen already knew that, of course. He’d watched you accumulate new takeout menus every time you’d go there for breakfast or lunch. He was willing to bet that you had upwards of twenty by now in your desk drawer. Still, he raised his eyebrows like this was the first he’d known of this information.

“Really?” Stephen asked, shoving his hands into his pockets as he shrugged. “Well, if you wanted, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

You eyed the blond curiously. His glasses were perched high on his nose and his cheeks were illuminated with an ever present blush. He had an adorable, naive quality about him. Sure, it was clear to you that most of his stories were more fiction than fact, but who amongst you didn’t embellish every now and then?

You were intrigued by him, by the way his mind worked. He seemed to be nervously awaiting your answer, so you eased his fears with a gentle smile.

“I’d love to,” you told him, giggling at the way his eyes widened before he broke out into a breathtaking smile.

There was certainly a reason why he had the majority of the office wrapped around his finger. He was charming and incredibly easy on the eyes. He was observant, noticing things other people wouldn’t.

Maybe that was why, despite the controversy of his recent article, he didn’t seem to be catching too much heat.

“I’ll grab my things and we can walk there together,” Stephen told you, giving you a shy grin. “I’ll meet you by the front.”

You nodded, noticing the way some of your coworkers were observing your interaction. You brushed it off as typical office nosiness, waiting for Stephen to return.

As the two of you walked through the city, Stephen couldn't help but chat about mundane things: the weather, the noise of the city, your favorite books. He felt an unusual warmth in his chest, enjoying your conversation and company.

You couldn’t help but find his nervous rambling endearing, fascinated by the way he turned everything into a story.

Once you arrived at the quaint little cafe, he led you to a table by the window with a gentle smile.

“This is the best spot to sit,” you said, beaming as you looked out the large window. “You can watch all the people go by.”

He admired you, feeling his chest swell with pride that he had made a good choice.

You continued chatting about various topics, from your hobbies to your favorite TV shows. Stephen found himself opening up more than usual with you — something about you made him feel at ease and encouraged him to share pieces of himself.

By the end of the lunch hour, you had made your way back to the looming office building. You both stopped before returning inside, Stephen turning to look at you with a small smile.

“Thanks for the company,” he said, that familiar blush tinting his cheeks. “It meant more than you know.”

“Of course, Stephen,” you smiled. “Anytime.”

He watched you turn to walk back into the building, reaching out to stop you before he realized what he was doing. He felt a spike of anxiety shoot through his stomach as you turned around to look at him expectantly.

“Would you maybe wanna come over after work?” Stephen asked, breathing heavily. “I have Monopoly, if you like that sort of thing. I also have some left over danishes from that bakery down the street that I simply can’t finish all by myself.”

He watched your ears perk up at the mention of the pastries you’d stop to get before work some mornings. Hope brimmed in his chest as you contemplated his offer.

You couldn’t deny the intrigue. You’d enjoyed his company during lunch, and wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.

“Can I play as the top hat?” you smirked, laughing as his face lit up.

Stephen felt a wave of relief wash over him as he responded, “Consider it yours.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” you said, genuinely, before returning back to the office.

Stephen watched you walk off, his smile refusing to leave his face. As you parted ways, he couldn't shake off the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. Each step felt lighter, as if he was walking on clouds.

The upcoming game night weighed heavily on his mind throughout the day. Every time he caught himself daydreaming about it, he'd snap back to reality and focus on his work. Yet, the excitement lingered, making the hours drag by slowly.

When evening finally came, he rushed home to prepare everything for your meeting. He wanted everything to be perfect — from setting up the game board to arranging the pastries he’d stopped to pick up after work.

You followed the address Stephen had sent you, showing up to his apartment. You couldn’t deny that you were excited to spend more time with him. He fascinated you in more ways than one. There was the obvious about his stories, yes, but there was also the way he seemed to melt when he looked at you.

You knocked gently on his door, waiting for his response.

Stephen stood at the entrance of his apartment, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He had cleaned and prepared everything meticulously, ensuring every detail was just right. As he opened the door, he found his hands trembling.

"Hey," he greeted softly, gesturing for you to enter. The sight of you took his breath away, and he couldn't help but blush under your gaze.

He showed you to the living room, where the Monopoly board lay spread out on the table. Next to it was an array of pastries and a fresh pot of coffee.

"Please, sit wherever you'd like," he said shyly, already feeling self-conscious.

“You’ve got the whole spread, huh?” you asked with an impressed smile, sitting down on his couch.

Your cheeks warmed with a blush of their own when you noticed he’d laid out the exact amount of creamer and sugar that you usually used.

Stephen chuckled softly, glancing around his apartment nervously. "Just trying to make it special," he explained, sitting across from you with the Monopoly board between you.

He poured you both a cup of coffee, watching as you observed your surroundings.

As you began playing, Stephen found himself getting lost in the fun, enjoying the sound of your laughter and the occasional touch of your hand while passing money or property cards. Every interaction sent electric shocks through him, leaving him spellbound.

You had genuinely enjoyed the game night. Both of you winning your fair share of rounds. He knew how to reel people in, that was for sure.

Eventually, you’d consumed all of the coffee and sweets that you could handle and had just bought out the last property on the board.

“There,” you said, triumphantly, winning again. “That makes three for me.”

Stephen couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at losing once again, but instead of sulking, he smiled widely, clapping for you.

"Impressive! Congrats," he said, sincerely. He noticed the time on his wall clock, realizing how late it had become. "Want to order some pizza before calling it a night?" he proposed, hoping to extend your time together.

Despite the losses, he cherished every moment spent with you. Your presence brought him a comfort and joy that he hadn't experienced in years.

You also weren’t in any rush to end the night, enjoying the time you were spending with him.

“I like pizza,” you smiled.

Stephen grinned, elated that you’d agreed.

“Fantastic,” he said, grabbing his phone to order the pizza. “It’ll be the best pizza you’ve ever had, honest.”

While waiting for the food to arrive, he engaged you in conversation — asking about your interests and hobbies.

When the doorbell rang, he quickly answered, accepting the piping hot pizza box. As you both sat down to eat, he felt grateful for this rare glimpse of a normal evening.

You were both laughing, talking about 80s music when you finished the last of the pizza.

“Really, Stephen? Like a Virgin is your favorite 80s song?” you asked, trying to catch your breath from your fit of giggles.

Stephen chuckled, shaking his head. "Guilty as charged," he admitted, sheepishly. "What can I say? It reminds me of being a teenager."

“I don’t know whether that’s hilarious or extremely sad,” you laughed, wiping your eyes.

“Yeah, me either,” he shrugged, grinning at you.

He glanced at the clock, realizing how late it had become. "I suppose we should call it a night," he said reluctantly, standing up.

Your eyes widened as you saw the time. It was nearly midnight. You’d been so lost in the night that you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed.

“Yeah, I suppose we should,” you agreed, standing up as well. “We won’t be very useful at work if we’re walking around half asleep.”

He smiled at your comment as he walked you to the door. He found himself wanting to kiss you, willing his eyes to stay away from your lips. Instead, he extended a polite handshake.

“Thanks for coming over,” he murmured, nervously. “I had a great time.”

You liked this version of him. The sweet, shy Stephen who didn’t feel the need to rely on stories of grandeur to captivate his audience. This version, the real version, you felt yourself falling for.

“Thank you for having me, Stephen,” you said, taking his hand gently. “I had a lovely time.”

Stephen watched you leave, feeling a mix of excitement and sadness. He waved until you disappeared from view, then returned inside his apartment.

The guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders as he sat alone in silence, staring at the Monopoly board left scattered on the coffee table.

The next day, when you arrived at the office, you noticed some of your co-workers giving you odd looks. You ignored it at first, unlocking your office and going about your morning.

You had honestly expected Stephen to greet you, but he was strangely nowhere to be found. He’d been so eager to spend time together yesterday…

You tried to ignore the twist of disappointment in your stomach as you went about your morning.

Later, when you left your office to grab some papers, you noticed the strange looks again. This time, they were accompanied by hushed whispers and giggles. You looked around, skeptically, continuing on with your task.

It wasn’t until you were walking back to your office that you managed to hear a bit of what two women were saying.

“Can you believe it? He said she used handcuffs on him,” one of the women whispered, eyeing you up and down.

“She seems so reserved… I guess you never know when someone’s a freak in the sheets,” the other responded in hushed giggles.

You stopped dead in your tracks, trying to hear more of what they were saying.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to fucking Steve either, but I didn’t think she could be so…animalistic.”

Anger burned underneath your skin as you clutched the papers so tightly that they had all wrinkled. Your breathing was labored as you walked over to Stephen’s cubicle.

“Can I talk to you in my office, Stephen?” you asked, sharply.

Stephen looked up from his desk, startled by your sudden appearance. He swallowed hard, noting the anger simmering in your eyes. "Of course," he replied, following you to your office.

Once inside, he closed the door behind him, waiting for you to speak. "Is everything okay?" he inquired cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest.

You leaned against your desk in front of a chair where Stephen moved to sit, crossing your arms.

“No, Stephen, everything is not okay,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

He was nervous. Fidgeting in his seat, refusing to make direct eye contact with you for longer than a second. All signs that he was feeling anxious about something — or guilty.

He shrunk in on himself, his tongue darting out to lick his lips that had gone dry the minute you walked into his office as he asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad?!” you questioned back, fuming as his eyes stayed glued to the floor. “Care to tell me why the entire office is gossiping about some story of the rough, passionate sex we supposedly had?”

"It was...a misunderstanding," he stuttered, his voice barely audible, panic etched into his features. "They thought we had an affair, which isn't true."

“Yeah, I know it’s not true Stephen,” you scoffed, “but why do they think that it is?”

“You know how office gossip spreads,” he shrugged, his right knee bouncing as he pushed up his glasses. “Someone starts a story and everyone latches onto it like a bunch of leaches until they’re so full of shit that they drop it and move on.”

Your jaw ticked as you asked, “How would they even know to start this kind of story?”

“I don’t know!” Stephen defended, furrowing his eyebrows as his nostrils flared. “People are animals. Believe me, I’m just as upset as you are by all of this.”

He was scrambling, trying to play off innocent like he always did. Normally, you’d write it off. Even finding it somewhat endearing on most occasions. This time, however, it only fueled your anger.

“Did someone make up the story as petty office gossip or did you make it up so that the office would talk about something other than you completely making up Hack Heaven?” you asked, matter-of-factly. You saw the shock in his features, the readiness to deny, so you added, “Yeah, I know you made up that article and god only knows how many more. There’s no point in lying to me.”

Stephen stared at you in disbelief, shaken by your revelation. "How...how did you…?" he stuttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Please, Stephen, you’re a tremendous writer but a terrible liar. I saw through your stories the moment I met you,” you said, a certain bite to your words. “What I didn’t expect was to become the center of one of your fictitious escapades.”

He could feel his world crumbling. All of his lies had caught up to him, and worse, he had involved you in it. "I...I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he stammered, rubbing his temples.

Stephen winced, feeling his face heat up. He stared at his shoes, unable to meet your gaze. "I'm so sorry," he muttered, genuinely remorseful. "I never meant to drag you into this mess."

He took a deep breath, mustering the courage to speak the truth. "I made up stories because I wanted to succeed. I craved recognition and believed that's what it took." His voice cracked as he continued. "Seeing how much it's hurt you...I wish I could take it all back."

The weight of his actions bore down on him, realizing the consequences. There were no more webs to spin, no more excuses to give. He’d been caught in the worst way possible.

You looked at him for a moment, studying the way he sunk in on himself and the water rising in his eyes. You didn’t know whether you could believe his regret or not, though a small piece of you wanted to.

“Tell me the story, then,” you said, uncrossing your arms. When you saw Stephen’s confusion, you continued. “You seemed to have such a riveting tale of our affair, so let me hear it. Tell me what you told them I supposedly did to you.”

“W-what?” Stephen sputtered, eyes wide as he glanced at you. “But…I…”

He waited, desperately hoping you’d back down, but he could see the fierce determination in your eyes. His face flamed as he took a shaky breath.

“I…I told them all kinds of details and descriptions,” he whispered, nervously. “I’m really sorry.”

“Tell me the details and descriptions, Stephen,” you said, sternly. “You didn’t have a problem telling them, so tell me.”

Stephen sighed, shakily, closing his eyes for a moment before recounting the fabricated encounter.

"I told them you were—”

“Look at me, Stephen,” you snapped, interrupting him.

His breath hitched as his eyes snapped up to meet yours. His skin burned hot. It was already bad enough having to tell you all of this, but it was even worse having to look at you while he did it. He released a shaky breath, beginning again.

"I told them you were aggressive and dominant in bed," he started, his voice barely audible. He winced, ashamed of his imagination. “Please, forgive me.”

“Start from the beginning,” you told him with a glare. “How did you tell them it started?”

Stephen swallowed hard, feeling nauseous as he recalled his lies. "I said we started chatting about music, after playing Monopoly," he began hesitantly. "Then, I said that you suggested we continue the night doing…something else."

He paused, unsure if he should continue. "I said you initiated it, that you wanted me in ways I'd never imagined," he murmured. "I painted a picture of desire and lust, claiming you were the one taking charge."

Stephen felt sick, realizing how much damage he'd caused — not only to his relationship with you, but also to your reputation.

You didn’t miss the brief flash of desire in his eyes as he recounted the beginning of this tale he’d spun, even if it was quickly replaced by guilt and anxiousness.

You crossed one leg over the other, leaning back onto the desk more.

“So, in this story, you made it sound like I was all over you?” you clarified, your anger ticking. “What did you say happened next?”

"Yes, I...I made it seem like you pursued me," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I described your actions in explicit detail."

He hesitated, feeling uncomfortable talking about it. "I mentioned the way you touched me, and your voice...” He took a breath, fidgeting. “I said that you led me into my bedroom a-and that you…undressed me. I told them that you had…uh…that you had handcuffs. I made it sound like you were very aggressive."

Seeing your anger, he felt a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. Please, understand that I never meant to hurt you."

You noticed him shifting uncomfortably, covering his lap with his hands as he spoke. Why was he trying to cover his lap? Was he getting turned on by this? Did he want to hide his arousal? Without wavering your stoic face, you said, “Put your arms by your sides, Stephen.”

Stephen's eyes widened slightly at your command but he obeyed without question. He put his arms by his sides, his face flush. "I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice barely audible.

He could feel his heart racing, partly due to the embarrassment of his reaction and partly due to the regret of his actions.

As he held his arms at his sides, you noticed the unmistakable tent forming in his pants.

“Keep going,” you said, cocking your head. “How did you tell them I used the handcuffs?”

Stephen's face turned bright red, mortified by your observation. He gulped, struggling to maintain eye contact. "I...I said you handcuffed me to the bedpost and...um…took control," he stammered, his voice breaking.

“Was this some sort of weird fantasy you’d had all along, or did it just fly off your tongue like all the other stories you tell?” you asked, harshly.

Stephen's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't deny it.

"I...I won't deny that it was partially a fantasy," he admitted, his voice a whisper, "but I never intended for it to become reality or cause you any harm."

He could feel the weight of his words, realizing the magnitude of his actions. "I'm so sorry. I was wrong, and I will do whatever it takes to make it right."

“Is that why you’re getting hard just talking about it?” you laughed, bitterly, glancing at the growing erection.

Stephen's face was crimson, his embarrassment palpable. He couldn't look at you, averting his eyes instead. "I don't...I don't know," he mumbled.

He knew he'd crossed a line, and he was desperate to fix it. "Please, I'm so sorry. I'll do anything to make it right. Just give me a chance."

“Anything?” you asked, raising a brow at him. The sunlight from the open blinds lit up his scarlet cheeks, accentuating the blue in his eyes. “Unbutton your shirt.”

Stephen froze, his eyes wide with shock. He glanced at the open blinds, then back at you. Despite his reluctance, he slowly took off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his pale chest.

You didn’t move from your position as your eyes trailed down the exposed skin of his torso, stopping back at the growing erection in his pants.

“Now, undo your pants,” you instructed, crossing your arms.

Stephen gulped, sweat breaking out on his forehead as he slowly started to remove his belt and unbutton his pants. He hesitated, his hands shaking, but he knew he had to follow your instructions.

As his zipper lowered, the erection became more apparent, straining against his boxers. He tried to keep his eyes on your face, but the embarrassment was overwhelming.

The bright redness that burned his face had now also began flushing his chest. You stopped yourself from smirking at the sight.

“Well, go on…” you told him. “Push them the rest of the way down.”

Stephen hesitated, his hands trembling as he gripped his pants. He took a deep breath, knowing there was no turning back. With a shaky hand, he pushed his pants down to his ankles.

He sat there, utterly exposed and humiliated, waiting for your next command. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of fear and shame coursing through him.

You stared at his sizable erection, straining against the boxers he wore.

“Boxers, too,” you said, cocking your head.

Stephen's face was beet red, but he complied, slowly pulling down his boxers. His erection sprang free, standing rigid and exposed.

He felt vulnerable and humiliated, but at the same time, he couldn't help but be aroused. He waited for your reaction, expecting your anger to be unbearable.

Your eyes widened slightly at the size of him, springing free from its confine. The sunlight caught him deliciously and you couldn’t deny the stir in your stomach.

“Look at you,” you laughed, “this worked up from your own imagination. You’re practically leaking everywhere.”

He felt his entire body flush at your attention, feeling the pre-cum dripping down his shaft. He felt like he was drowning in his own desire and lies.

“Yes, I'm...I'm sorry,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

“It looks awfully painful,” you said, still studying him. “All red and aching…”

You stood up straighter, standing tall over where he was sat in the chair. If he wanted you to take control, then that’s what he was going to get.

“You’re going to finish telling me the story that you told them, recounting every twisted detail you dreamed up, and you’re going to fuck yourself in front of me while you do it.”

Stephen's eyes widened in shock, but he didn't argue. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. The combination of his arousal and your command left him breathless.

He reached for his erection, feeling the heat and wetness pulsating in his veins. Hesitantly, he began to stroke himself, his mind flooded with the details of his fantasy.

He hoped this would show you his remorse, that this would be his way to beg you for forgiveness.

“What did you tell them happened after I handcuffed you, Stephen?” you asked, watching as he fisted his dick.

Stephen's grip tightened on his erection, his breathing becoming ragged. "I...I said you took control, touching me slowly...and teasing me." He groaned softly, his body responding to his thoughts. His actions mirrored his words as he absentmindedly teased himself, adding to the intensity of the current situation.

You locked eyes with him, seeing how his pupils dilated as you asked, “How did I tease you?”

Stephen's fingers danced faster, his breaths growing ragged. "I, uh, said you played with my nipples, tracing them with your fingers." He moaned softly, his eyes fluttering closed. "Then, I said you kissed me...all over." He gasped, his body arching slightly.

His mind was consumed by both your questions and his arousal, making it harder to separate fantasy from reality.

“Did I make you beg for it, Stephen?” you asked, your voice growing husky. You were relishing in the way he was falling apart, so submissive and eager.

Stephen's eyes snapped open at your question, his body trembling. "Yes," he gasped, his fist moving faster. "I said you made me beg for it, for relief and your touch."

His breathing became erratic, every thrust of his hand mirroring the intensity of his thoughts. "I begged for you, begged for everything you were doing to me."

He could barely focus on the task at hand, his arousal and fantasies clouding his mind.

“Tell me what you said I did to you after you begged for it,” you told him. You saw the way he was quickly losing himself and added, “and don’t you dare thinking about coming before I tell you to.”

Stephen's breath hitched, his grip tightening on his erection as a whimper escaped his lips. "I...I said you took me, forcefully and passionately," he panted, his body trembling.

He could feel the edge, the pleasure threatening to overtake him, but he forced himself to slow down, obeying your command.

His eyes locked on yours, desperation evident in his gaze. "Please, I need...I need to come."

“Is that what you dreamed of saying to me in this fantasy of yours?” you asked, leaning a bit closer. “Did you beg me to let you come while I was passionately taking you?”

Stephen's heart raced, his mind whirling. "Yes," he breathed. "I...I begged for release, for you to let me come."

He could feel the pressure building, the pleasure and humiliation overwhelming him. "Please,” he whined, “please let me finish this."

His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would grant him the release he craved.

“Not yet,” you said, coldly.

His skin was flushed with arousal and embarrassment, sweat was beading on his brow, and his eyes were blown with lust. You enjoyed his desperation, deciding to push it further.

“What do you think would happen if someone looked through the window and saw you right now, Stephen?” you taunted, tilting your head towards the open blinds letting in the sunlight. “Or what if one of our coworkers walked right in to my office? What if they saw you, desperate and begging, just like your little stories?”

You glanced over at your closed office door and said, “Come to think of it, I don’t remember locking the door.”

Stephen's eyes widened, panic rising in his chest. "Oh god," he gasped, his grip tightening on his erection.

He could feel the orgasm building, the pleasure and humiliation threatening to consume him. His eyes darted to the door, the possibility of exposure sending chills down his spine.

He knew he was at your mercy, desperate for release and terrified of what might happen. "Please, I can't...I can't take this anymore."

You walked over, placing your hands on each of the armrests and leaning over him — giving him a delectable view of your cleavage beneath your shirt.

“What’s stopping me from opening that door right now and letting them all see you, hm?” you taunted. “You were so keen to describe the details of this fantasy, why not let them witness it for themselves.”

Stephen's heart pounded in his chest, his body trembling. "No," he whimpered, his gaze locked on your cleavage. "Please, don't do that. I...I can't handle it."

“What’s wrong, Stevie?” you taunted. “You made up this story in the first place to take their eyes off of your fabricated articles. I think this would certainly do the trick. Nobody would be thinking about Hack Heaven if they saw you like this — exposed, desperate, needy, fucking yourself as you beg for my mercy. I think this is a front page picture.”

Stephen's eyes widened, panic rising in his chest. He glanced at the door again, the possibility of exposure weighing heavily on him.

"Please, I can't... I can't have them see me like this," he pleaded in that whiny voice of his, tears in his eyes.

His grip tightened, his body shaking as he fought against the impending orgasm. He needed you to decide, to put an end to his torment.

“Yet you’re gripping your dick that much harder,” you noted with a smirk. “Does the thought turn you on, Stevie? Being seen like this? Being exposed?”

Stephen's breath hitched, his eyes locked on yours. He nodded, slowly, tears streaming down his face. "Still…I don't want them to see me like this. I'm begging you."

His hand didn't stop, his body betraying him as the pleasure built. He felt trapped, his desires conflicting with his fear of exposure.

“You look so pretty like this, though,” you teased, grazing your nails lightly across his nipples. “I’m sure they’d love to see their favorite coworker so compromised.”

Stephen gasped, thrusting his hips up off of the chair. "Please," he whined, stroking himself faster.

You kept teasing his sensitive nipples with your nails, loving to see how wrecked he was. The anger you had felt had morphed into desire as you watched him falling apart in front of you.

“You’re just so close,” you cooed, taunting him, “aren’t you?”

"Yes," he whimpered, his eyes locked onto yours. "I'm...I'm so close."

He could feel the orgasm building, the pleasure and humiliation overwhelming him. Your touch sent shivers down his spine, his body betraying him once again.

“Beg me to let you come, Stevie,” you told him, mercilessly circling the hardened buds on his chest.

"Please," he gasped, his voice trembling. "Let me come, please."

He could feel the climax approaching, his body tensing. He needed your permission, your approval.

You backed away from him, becoming his audience.

“Come for me, Stephen,” you commanded, watching him intently.

Stephen's eyes widened, relief washing over him. "Thank you," he whimpered, his grip tightening as he chased his peak.

When he finally let himself fall over the edge, his eyes rolled back, his body jerking as the orgasm hit him. He came hard, whimpering your name and arching off of the seat as he bit down on his bottom lip to muffle his whines.

He slumped forward, panting heavily, his emotions a chaotic mix of gratitude and humiliation.

He looked utterly disheveled. His clothes hanging off of him, his skin flushed, his hair a mess, his glasses fogged. He looked delectable.

You handed him a box of tissues and said, “Clean yourself up and put your clothes back on.”

Stephen's breaths were heavy, his body still trembling as the afterglow settled in. He took the tissues gratefully, cleaning himself up.

He quickly straightened his clothes, his movements shaky. He felt vulnerable and exposed, but also strangely liberated.

As he stood up, he met your gaze, a mix of gratitude, embarrassment, and desire in his eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

You crossed your arms, standing in front of him after he’d somewhat composed himself.

“Never ever lie about me again,” you told him.

Stephen's heart raced, his eyes locked on yours. "I won't," he promised, his voice quiet but firm. "I'm sorry for everything."

He knew he'd made a mistake, and he wasn't going to repeat it. He wanted your forgiveness, to start anew and make things right.

Despite the harshness in your tone, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over him.

You nodded, sighing as you uncrossed your arms.

“Well, I didn’t have handcuffs on me, but at least now your story has some credibility,” you joked, letting up on the sternness.

Stephen managed a weak smile, the blush still tinting his cheeks. "That it does," he replied, trying to lighten the mood.

He could feel the tension easing, the weight of his lies lifting from his shoulders. He knew he still had a long way to go, but this was a step in the right direction.

He hoped you could move past this, build something stronger and more honest.

You didn’t think he was malicious, just insecure and unsure of how to create his true identity. It was somehow still endearing.

You grabbed his face, gently pressing a kiss to his lips.

Stephen's breath hitched, his heart racing as he eagerly returned the kiss, melting into you with a soft whimper.

He felt a mix of relief, gratitude, and desire. You had given him a chance, and he intended to prove himself worthy.

As you pulled away, he met your gaze, his eyes filled with sincerity. "Thank you," he whispered.

You glanced at the office door and then back at him, his adorable face flushed.

“If they ask what happened, for once in your life just keep your mouth shut,” you giggled, softly.

Stephen chuckled, his cheeks flushing even more. "I will," he promised, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He knew he had to learn from this experience, to be honest and true to himself. He wanted to earn your trust and respect.

As he looked at you, he realized that, despite the chaos, something had changed between you. You had shared something intimate, and he felt grateful.

#hayden christensen smut #stephen glass smut #stephen glass #shattered glass #oneshot #imagine #fanfiction #smut #smutrequests

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orcelito · 3 months ago

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Someone fuckin save me I am so so so so tired

#speculation nation #just got done with orchestra. gotta get home and eat then get back to work on my website stuff #i can do it im fairly sure. i am just. so so so so so so tired #the kind of desperately tired where even just having my eyes open is a chore #i might... need to take a little nap or something. i dont know. rest my eyes for an hour or two.#i dont have much time but i feel like my brain is about to melt out of my ears #and at least i finished my header and footer stuff for my html pages #i just gotta put the content in. which has already been made. just gotta. figure out formatting.#and class is canceled tomorrow morning so i can sleep in. i just need to get through the last of this project. then i can rest a bit.#of course then i have a presentation on thursday but at least ive already organized that #so i just need to do my slide(s) and make sure everyone else has done theirs #since i went and appointed myself unofficial leader and organized the damn work allotment for everyone #since Someone had to do it. i gave it 3 days and no one did anything so i went ahead and did it myself.#that at least can wait until after class tomorrow ish. at the very least.#maybe i can do my dishes in the morning tomorrow. i dont think im gonna manage it today either.#but that begs the question of what the fuck im doing for dinner today. i have... two clean spoons. bc i washed them yesterday #i washed a bowl a fork and two spoons yesterday. i had none clean before. i have no clean bowls again.#my soul fuckin screaming for the love of god help me. ive got no clean dishes and im so desperately tired #and i have to finish making 6 web pages before midnight or im !!!!!!FUCKED!!!!!!#for now.. i just need to focus on getting home... i get home and then i'll figure Something out for food.....#ugh.......

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mxchibomb · 3 months ago

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content. mdni 18+

siren! rafayel

cw. monsterfucking, dubcon, oviposition, ooc?

fin-like protrusions grew out of his ears, gills in soft lines behind them. his serpent-like eyes glew a dangerous blue, luring you in with a deadly gaze as his tail flapped against the warm, wet sand in the dark of the night. you sat atop a wet rock after the tides sank, neck arched downwards as he hummed to the beat of imaginary instruments. your heart was almost beating out of your chest and his sugar sweet voice made your head go dizzy, foreheads touching.

his kisses made your lips tingle and his tongue against yours made you drool, spit falling from the corner of your mouth. he greedily yanked you off your safe rock and you squeaked as water splashed and your knees dug into the same sand he was laying on.

webbed fingers pushed your hair out of your face, grabbing the back of your neck to leech off of your newfound desire, digging his fangs into the side of your neck and causing you to flinch in pain with a loud gasp. your skin turned a myriad of colors. reds, pinks, and purples. pushing you to the ground, sharp nails tore your shirt and anything underneath it to shreds and his kisses and bites continued downward your wet torso. you found yourself heaving, your skin burning at the sensation of his rough, forked tongue. your thighs squeezed together at the uncontrollable pulse of your aching cunt. your back arched above the sand and weak moans left your lips.

"...more.. want more.." you muttered unconsciously, the feeling of his sharp nails against your skin making you need instead of hurt. as per your request, your short shorts and cute bikini bottoms had the same fate as your top garments. the siren's purple hair tickled the insides of your thighs, sensitive nose dragging along the strong scent of the pheromones dripping from your arousal soaked cunt. with a soft grunt, his tongue jutted forwards against the heat between your legs. he ignored your needy hands in his hair, tugging tightly. the night was quiet, just your whining and his loud slurps with no one else to be seen. his cheeks hollowed inwards as he sucked gently on your clit, following after it as your hips bucked against his face.

"hahh.. fuccckkk!~" you yelled into the night as your string snapped, closing your legs tightly around his face as your hole tightly clenched around nothing but air. getting a few more tongue licks in before you tried pushing his head away, he ripped your legs open without a struggle.

he snuck himself in between, a pair of two cocks happily unsheathed from the slit present on his pelvis. both decently sized, the smaller sat beneath the other and curved slightly more upwards towards the second cock. pointed tips, dark blue to a lighter blue gradient and covered in decorative ridges all the way down. in a post climax daze, you still managed to gulp in nervousness.

"two.." you quietly assessed to yourself, backing up slightly in intimidation.

"one is fine." he reassured softly, fangs showing in a mischievous smile. "we can always work you up to size." he sent shivers down your spine. he wiggled forward, the bottom cock slotted against the space between your folds. you whined at the friction and suddenly his hard dick against you made your mind numb again. with soft grinds, he hissed everytime his tip caught onto your hole. without using his hands, he pushed and pushed until he felt your hole to slide in.

gripping onto the forearms he balanced his upper body on, you let out an elongated moan. he towered over you, purple bangs draped over his eyes. the larger cock that wasn't inside you sat on your stomach as he reached as far as he could, poking at your cervix. you whimpered as he wriggled against the floor, hips digging as deep as they could possibly go as he desperately ground against you with huffs and whines. scales uncomfortably rubbed against your thighs but you chose to ignore it as he slammed into you, instead wrapping your legs around his waist.

" 's so deep.." you murmured, using a hand to wrap around his free cock and allowing his thrusts to create friction against your palm. he whimpered loudly, high in pitch and he followed the pleasure you gave him.

"i want you to have my children." he practically begged, swallowed aggressively as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. you nodded mindlessly, as if you hadn't processed his words. twitching once more, pearlescent white decorated your stomach and unexpectedly something strange began to push past your cervix. it was a slow process of an unexplainable flow of many small round objects. and strangely enough it brought you to the edge. your head tossed back.

"oh god.." your voice strained and your eyes rolled into the dark of the back of your sockets and your walls clung tightly to him. your finger pads held onto his biceps for dear life, his hips fighting to push into you even further as his eggs filled your warm insides, perfect for bearing his children. you could feel them in your stomach, the smallest bulge outstretching.

even as he was finished, two fingers whisked up the sperm on your stomach to shove it back inside you to fertilize.

"stay with me.." he purred, pressing a tight kiss to your swollen lips.

idk how to write rafayel🧍‍♂️

#love and deepspace #lads #love and deep space rafayel #lads rafayel #love and deep space x reader #lads x reader #lads rafayel x reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #love and deep space smut #lads smut #lads rafayel smut #rafayel smut #tw monsterfucking #monster fucker #monster fic #monster smut #18+ mdni

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eddies-ashtray · 3 months ago

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YOUR HEART GOT TEETH!

Masterlist

Edit

Pairing: Kas/Vampire!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Your grief swallows you whole. And so will he. 18+ ONLY, minors do not interact.

WC: 7.0k

Content: Predator/prey (he basically hunts you in the forest), no use of y/n, kinda ooc Eddie cause he’s Kas/a vampire, discussions of grief/loss, somewhat detailed (but brief) description of eddie's scars (from the demo-bats), taunting/mocking, unprotected piv, rough sex, dirty talk, fingering, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of spit play, blowjob (kind of?).

A/N: I did a little research on Kas so some of his character is incorporated into this but I also took my own creative liberties. So this is not supposed to be a totally accurate depiction of Kas.

*gif source | *divider source 1 | *divider source 2

He must have been lurking in the murky shadows and fog clinging to the trees. Or maybe he was part of it—moving through the fog as the mist himself. Of course, you were initially ignorant to his presence, drowning in grief as you were.

The dense wood of the forest effectively dampens sound from beyond, making it easy to pick up on any snapping twigs or skittering up in high branches.

But he—it?—moved silently. Swiftly. Evading sight.

Then there was this sense. Like a sixth one kicked into gear, raising goosebumps on dewy skin. An overwhelming presence which immediately triggered your fight or flight response.

You should run. But you’d always been one to freeze. Vulnerable. Easy prey.

This time is no different. You don’t move a muscle, standing stock still in front of the large old tree stump. Staring down at the polaroid of that grinning face you miss so dearly, which lays among the trinkets and things left there by his little sheep and the band. All laid out nicely atop the stump, it’s many rings—some light, some dark—barely visible beneath the clutter. Though it will never spend another season growing additional rings.

With your heart slamming against your ribs and the blood rushing in your ears it takes you a second too long to regain control of your muscles. To flee this place–this crudely cobbled together memorial, unstained by public view & tampering.

So when you turn to leave, there he is.

You freeze. And you swear your heart stops pumping blood through your arteries. Terror taking over as your blood runs cold.

Moonlight slashes across half his face, illuminating one sparkling brown eye and a slice of that slowly spreading grin. Sharpened canines slide over dark lips, pleased to find you here.

Pinkish-red scars decorate his flesh, shredded skin healed unevenly, giving them this odd webbed effect. They begin at his jaw and crawl down his neck only to disappear beneath tattered clothing. His bat tattoo, your favourite, is present but marred by the deep scars where the demo-bats tore away at his flesh. The irony is not lost on you, but the sight is too grim to dwell on.

When he leans in closer you can smell him. An odd mimicry of Eddie. Different from before when his heart pumped blood through his veins. Something in your body naturally resistant to it, but simultaneously lured to him—an unadulterated pull. With every erratic inhale you crave more, like a smoker greedily sucking nicotine into their lungs.

You loathe to admit its intoxicating effect. Because this—this thing—can’t be Eddie. Not your Eddie. But some spectral version, warped by the mirror world.

It’s only when he speaks that you have any sort of visible reaction to him at all. Like he could’ve been some figment of your interminable grief—unbelieving in him until his acknowledgment of you.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

Stupidly, you gasp in surprise, stumbling backward, hand reaching out behind you for something to tether you to this earth because surely you must have gone mad.

The rough and textured feel of bark scrapes against the sensitive skin of your palm. Though it does little to ground you.

He moves swiftly toward you again, this bona fide creature keeping close, commanding the fog to shift around you. Invading your senses. That grin is ever-growing and increasingly self-satisfied.

You’re breathing hard, eyebrows scrunched together—confused, intrigued.

Though his scent is somehow subtly altered, his voice remains much the same, but with richer notes of darkness. An almost imperceptible difference. His tone differs too. It’s mocking, yes—not in the same playful way Eddie used to be—but it’s also curious, unfamiliar.

It presses the heavy implication over your heart that he doesn’t recognize you. How could that be?

The way he examines you reveals his unfamiliarity, though his eyes remain unchanged—the same shade of dark chocolate. And it is this which elicits an aching longing. One that burrows deep in your heart.

Though he looks like him. Sounds like him. And almost smells like him. It isn’t him. You know this to your marrow, like you know that the sun will rise tomorrow. It’s his body, yes. But not his mind. At least, not all of it. Clearly, it does not carry his memories.

When he reaches up, cold fingertips ghosting past your chest, your collarbones, your neck, you have to suppress a shiver. But the renewed goosebumps rising on your skin betray you.

His lips curl into a smirk, this one self-satisfied and hungry as the knuckle of his index finger grazes the sensitive flesh of your cheek. Try as you might not to, you flinch. He pouts at you mockingly, his touch unyielding.

“I could devour you, sweetheart,” he whispers, like the thought has only just come to him as his flesh met yours. Like it excites him to no end and sends the fresh scars pressed into his flesh thrumming.

“You won’t,” you say shakily, not because you know this, but because you’re hoping.

But your heart is beating out of your chest like a bunny that’s been caught between the sharp teeth of a fox, who knows it’s only a matter of time before its heart stops pounding and its blood ceases to pulse through its veins.

You wonder if he can hear it with the way his face twitches and he appears to stop and listen, savouring some near silent thumping. This has you suppressing another shiver.

Do you want him to devour you?

No.

You want him to try.

“I won't?” he retorts with a tilt of his head, his voice suddenly taking on a sharper quality. A dangerous edge to it like he’s responding to a challenge—provoked by the suggestion that he could be merciful.

He could tear you to shreds right here and now and you’d let him–couldn’t stop him. He wants to. You can see it in his eager gaze. While this incites deep seated fear, it’s also a thrill. Something which awakens you after the nightmare that the last few weeks have been. Spending your days sleepwalking, rather than living. You realize it’s the first time you’ve felt alive since he took his final breath in your arms.

He must see it in your face—as perceptive as he was in life.

“Watch me,” he spits. Watch me tear you apart.

You swallow, throat dry.

He leans in and you almost bear your neck to him, seemingly ready for him to take you from this earthly plane.

Suddenly, his gaze snaps sharply down to his left. Your heart lurches in your chest, stomach flipping as your eyes flit over his shoulder to the left. Then to the right. Has he heard something? Possibly, a presence that could put an end to this? Oddly, the thought does little to relieve you. Instead, panic surges—a need to keep him here with you, if only it will result in your end–burning bright in your body.

The treeline remains empty and dark, save for the still hovering fog choking the trees.

If you were going to escape, this moment offers an opportune window. But that panic of losing his presence keeps you as rooted against his chest as these very trees are to the ground.

Of course, you don’t hear it. The disembodied voice only falls on his sharp ears when it hisses, “She serves a grander purpose.”

His sword, sheathed in its scabbard, speaks. He is ever bound to its command, whatever it calls for.

Your eyes return to his—finding with a shock that his gaze has already fallen upon you again—when he speaks.

“A greater purpose than a meal?”

His gaze rests upon you, but the question is evidently not for you—who it is for, you may never know.

Whatever one-sided conversation he was having must yield unfavourable results because his jaw ticks and nostrils flare. Frustration, maybe even anger, bubbles behind dark eyes.

He must obey.

But he’ll still have his fun.

Eddie decides right then and there that if he cannot satisfy his blood lust for you—if he cannot indulge in his thirst—then he will instead seek to satiate an alternatively carnal form of hunger.

Drinking your blood is not the only method of sowing terror. There are other means. He can get creative.

He leans in then, teeth bared, and you catch his canines growing sharper, protruding further from his gums when he whispers, “I'll give you a head start…run.”

When he says it it’s like the forest goes silent. Like all those tiny, near undetectable noises cease when he speaks. It’s eerie the way you don’t notice them until they’ve quieted.

At that moment, you tear through the woods, blowing past his memorial. Leaves crunch and twigs snap underfoot. You’re the opposite of stealth. Something this Eddie seems to be well-versed in. You’re clumsy in your terror, easy prey.

Having spouted falsities, he gives you no head start, immediately tracking you effortlessly through the fog.

You ignore the stitch quickly cutting into your side and keep running. But your sense of direction fails you quickly, everything beginning to look the same–all looming trees, dappled moonlight, and menacing shadows. All you can do is keep moving forward.

Then there’s movement to your left.

Is your mind playing tricks on you? Morphing the shadows of great oaks in your periphery to resemble the creature that’s hunting you? Or is he right there, just waiting for the ideal moment to strike? Letting the fear build in your gut before he pounces.

You just need to keep moving.

One moment it sounds like he’s hot on your tail, but when you chance a look, he isn’t there.

There’s the quick scratching against bark like an animal hurriedly climbing a tree, traversing it as effortlessly as a duck floats on water.

But you can’t look again, unwilling to tear your eyes away from the winding paths to see him scaling trees. Just the idea raises the hair on your arms.

The road. Only a sliver of it, gently illuminated by a dull street lamp, is visible through the dense wood. But it’s there. Just a hundred feet or so ahead–freedom and safety coming into view.

Despite your terror though, your all-out sprint fades into a jog. Hesitating in the densest part of the forest.

You lost Eddie once. This would be like losing him all over again, wouldn’t it?

You crave just one more glimpse of him because running from him after weeks of yearning to hold him in your arms again feels wrong. But you know your grief is clouding your judgement, and a voice of reason pops up, telling you to run, go!

When you realize what he’s done–lead you into the densest part of the woods on purpose–it’s too late.

Your moment’s hesitance costs you.

He led you here so you could hardly revel in the warm embrace of safety before coldly tearing it from your grasp.

Nearly nose-to-nose, Eddie seemingly materializes from the mist in front of you. “Boo!”

“Shit!” You jump, falling hard onto the dirt floor of the forest. You groan–heart hammering and tailbone aching, just laying there, willing your heart to calm.

Then he’s gone. There, in terror-induced vibrant clarity. And then a vanishment so swift you can’t be sure he was ever really there to begin with.

Laughing darkly from somewhere above–a sinisterly, amused sound–you venture a hesitant look upward, into the dense branches above.

Eddie is in the tree. There, he crouches on a thick branch as he observes you with the tilt of his head. His curious smile seemingly glowing in the darkness with the top half of his face shrouded in shadow.

And then once again, he manifests by your head.

He’s more menacing like this. Always was taller than you. But from this vantage point he’s a leering predator appraising injured prey. An easy meal. He could make quick work of you.

“That stupid, huh?” he laughs as if the prospect is the most amusing thing in the world. “Thought you’d get away easy?”

He continues to taunt you as he stalks around you, now standing at your waist.

You try to raise up onto your elbows, but to no avail as searing pain shoots up your spine.

“Hm?”

It should be the last thing to spring to mind right now. But his tone strikingly resembles the condescending one Eddie would use in bed. When he’d ask: That feel good? Hm? And he knew it did.

It forces you to look at him—like Pavlov’s dog drooling at the sound of the bell. A conditioned response.

Eddie’s practically glowing in the soft moonlight.

He’s so…alive.

It chokes you up a bit. A lump forming in your throat as unshed tears sting your eyes. You tear your gaze from him, guilt sinking into your belly like an anchor in the ocean.

“Look at me,” he demands immediately, voice proud and controlled. Despite the guilt, you cannot reject your body’s reaction to him. It’s that tone. It sends shivers up your spine and warmth into your gut—a pleasant ache for something raw and intense.

You obey.

Maybe it’s the grief. The sudden loss of someone so dear. But as you lay here—bruised and tired, and gazing up at him—you don’t mind that he has no memory of you. He’s still right here, standing in front of you, isn’t he? You think you’re still trying to convince yourself.

You are a tangled, contradiction of feeling. Fear continues to nip at your neck while intrigue licks at your spine as you observe this freakishly orphic creature observing you. He’s…enchanting, captivating.

Eddie sighs deeply, gazing up briefly at the moon peeking through the leaves. It hangs bright above you, branches extended toward it, as though worshipping it.

The sound he makes is like savouring relief. Upon feeling the open air on his skin, thankful for the reprieve from the shadows that the moonlight brings. Though you can’t know this—that he is confined to the darkness for all eternity.

You’re finally able to push yourself up on your elbows–not without wincing–when he returns his gaze to you. Your breathing slows and deepens as another pleasant and warm feeling twists in your belly.

“What am I going to do with you?” he ponders sardonically, excitedly.

You find the answer comes out of your mouth without thought. Another involuntary response from your body.

“Anything.” It sounds so needy. Feathery, as your response floats off into the trees.

Were you crazy or desperate? Or maybe just so haunted by his ghost that what he is–what he’s turned into–is irrelevant? Whether he be an apparition of your own imagining or a real monster twisted by the mirror world. Maybe he doesn’t have Eddie’s soul. But he has his face. His body. Is it so wrong to want him?

When he leans over you, you whimper, “Please.”

He pouts at you in faux sympathy.

Is the mercy you seek defined by his departure? Or does your version of “mercy” mean letting him devour you like he’d promised?

When he flashes those pointed canines and a mischievous dimple carves into his cheek you have your answer. You no longer need to question or analyze your thoughts. You just want to feel.

As Eddie leans in and strokes your cheek with the back of his index finger, you press gently into his touch. Feeling warm all over, buzzing with electricity.

Strangely, you feel safe under his scrutinizing gaze. A crease forms between your brows as he leans in even closer. Your parted lips brush his tenderly. You might catch fire.

Just as your eyes fall shut in anticipation of his kiss—your first with him in weeks—you hear his humorous scoff. Your face heats as your eyes open to find him leaning back.

“Pathetic,” Eddie whispers.

“I-” you’re not sure what you’re going to say in your defence, but he cuts you off anyway, with a curt:

“Lie down.”

His hand is a firm pressure against the center of your chest, pushing you toward the ground after stooping down next to you. Your back presses into the cool dirt floor of the forest.

Will he devour you now? Take you without another word?

No. He isn’t done teasing you yet–another similarity between the human Eddie and the creature Eddie. Always itching to get you writhing and whining beneath him. Never satisfied until he could make you beg for it.

The hand that pushed you to the ground remains on your body, cold as it drags slowly down in quiet curiosity. As if feeling you for the first time, just getting used to the way your body curves and trembles beneath his touch.

Calloused fingertips just barely brush your tits on his way down, raising goosebumps beneath your top. When you gasp and arch into his hand imperceptibly, he pauses just as the rough skin of his palm ghosts over a sliver of your exposed belly, above your navel.

His eyes flit to your chest, only remaining there for a single inhale before returning to his hand which continues to skate painstakingly down your body. Studying you.

The path of his hand ends at the edge of your skirt, caressing the skin there with a tender touch. You have to bite the inside of your lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise. Not wanting to seem too desperate. Although you’ve probably already failed at that.

“Eddie,” you sigh, head lolling over to look up at him. He meets your gaze, hand curving over your hip.

Humming thoughtfully, Eddie tilts his head at you. Like you’re the one who’s become a creature. Morphing into a small thing, bursting with need and a deep desire to be taken care of.

All the while, his hand continues its path down until he meets the skin of your thigh where he squeezes the doughy flesh roughly. Like he can feel the thrumming of your veins beneath your skin, yearning to take a bite out of you.

“Oh, God.” Your skin tingles delightfully. A soft moan, as quiet as the sound of skin brushing against skin escapes your throat.

The barest hint of a satisfied smile cracks his features.

You may be so haunted by him that you’ll entertain this potential dream or nightmare, or whatever this is. But you are also undeniably desperate. To feel his touch on your skin again is transcendent. Like the very first time he touched you, it feels as though every single one of your nerves is exposed. Readily available for him to toy with.

Excitement courses through your veins, a drug only able to be injected by his hand, as it curves over your leg. Hand pressing into the flesh of your inner thigh, he squeezes again, his blunt nails scratching sensitive skin. He pushes them open, giving him the easiest access to slide his hand up your skirt.

When he finally tugs your panties down, and finds the soaked mess between your thighs, he releases a breathy, “Oh.”

Stroking his fingers through the mess, he says, “Look at this…”

Your hips flex when he dips gently into your dripping hole, collecting the sticky stuff before pulling his hand from you to put your desire on display.

When his now sodden fingers come into view, and he pulls them apart to show you just how wet you are, you whine high in your throat. Embarrassed that you’re this worked up when he’s hardly done anything to elicit your lust.

Thin lines connect his fingers, your essence seemingly sparkling in the moonlight as gentle waves of humiliation crash over you. Watching on as he savours the taste of you on his fingers, you huff impatiently.

The moment his hand returns to your heat, his fingers swipe through your wetness again, dragging it to your sensitive clit where he rubs his middle finger in a dizzying circular motion, the slide smooth. Upon the second circuit of his fingers, you’re gushing around him, getting wetter by the second. A fire blazes in your belly and your hips twitch, finding it difficult to remain still when he’s working you up so.

“Fuck, look at you. Could probably make you cum from just this,” he laughs, applying more pressure as he continues his torturous circles over that magic little button.

The lewd sounds from your pussy fill the still night air as the lustful haze in his eyes grows more determined–his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in concentration.

It’s all too much and on pure instinct your own hand wraps around the wrist of the hand up your skirt. That you’re still fully clothed—sans underwear—makes this feel all the more dirty. Let alone that you’re in the woods on the filthy ground, the exposed sliver of your back likely coated in a thin layer of dirt.

Though your grip is loose on his wrist, he doesn’t let you get away with it. Grabbing both of your wrists in his free hand, he pins them above your head.

“Stay,” he orders.

You watch helplessly as he presses his two middle fingers into your pussy, curving them on the first stroke. If this were months ago, and Eddie had you like this in his bed, you might think the squeeze he gives your wrists—bound by his own hand–was an act of reassurance. Now, you know it is solely an act of dominance. I have you at my mercy.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Eddie…”

You forgot how nicely his fingers filled you. How you feel like a bright, burning star when he touches you like this. Deep and slow, like he’s forcing you to savour each stroke. How the tips of his fingers, longer than yours, caress parts of you that you couldn’t fathom. How he works in earnest to pull noises from you that you didn’t even know you could make.

The pace he sets is simultaneously torturous and delicious, his aim clearly being to tease and overwhelm. Tears burn behind your eyes as his thumb rolls over your clit and you whine, that familiar feeling slowly beginning to build in your belly. Like you’re on the incline of a rollercoaster.

“That feel good? Hm?” he asks with a syrupy tone as he watches you fuck yourself on his fingers like you’re in heat. With your hands pinned, it’s all you can do to writhe in his grasp.

“I-yes!”

You’ve never seen him more smug and satisfied.

“Yeah?” you nod furiously, mouth occupied by wanton moans. “I know, I know, baby…Know you’re dying to take my cock.”

A delicious heat twists in your belly. “Please!”

Before you reach the peak of your rollercoaster, he pulls his fingers from you, releasing your wrists simultaneously–though they remain above your head. You whine in protest, feeling suddenly cold and empty without a part of him inside of you. Though this feeling does not last for long as he moves quickly.

Eagerly, Eddie swiftly removes his scabbard and undoes his jeans and fly, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. It bobs, hard and leaking so much pretty precum your mouth waters for it. Beautiful as ever.

The sigh he releases when he strokes his dick is euphoric as he smears your wetness from base to tip. Already soaked with you. You shift your hips, fidgeting in place, impatient. Wishing it was your warm mouth encircling his girth instead of his own hand.

Just as quickly as he’d tugged his jeans down, he’s on top of you again, slotting himself between your thighs before flipping your skirt up. Getting his first proper look at you.

“Fuck, look at the mess you’ve made, sweetheart. All for me?” He says it like he’s mesmerized by the sight, eating up the way your body unabashedly calls for him.

Grasping himself at the base, he lines himself up, your breathing growing shallow and quick. Anticipating the feeling of him inside you, desperate to feel every ridge and vein. The warmth as he fills you.

You hold your breath.

Meanly, he paints the flushed red tip up and down your soaked folds, causing you to whine and writhe against him. When it glances your clit you gasp and your hips jump as white hot pleasure zips up your spine.

Your eyes are on high branches now, but you hear his low, satisfied chuckle. He wants for you to experience a unique kind of anguish before he rewards you for your perseverance.

You’re about to lose it completely when he smacks the head of his cock heavily against your clit. The sticky sound it elicits is vulgar. It forces your eyes to roll into the back of your skull and groan.

He is not merciful. But, eventually, he puts you out of your misery. A sharp inhale marks the moment he finally slides the first inch of his cock inside of you.

Bracing for the inevitable fullness and slight sting that comes along with it proves unnecessary as he does not nudge himself any further. It only takes you a moment to realize he’s still teasing and you release another low whine. Just his weeping tip penetrates your fluttering hole, making your head spin.

He is going to make you earn it.

“Jesus, it’s like she’s suckin’ me in,” he mutters under his breath in disbelief. “Beg for it, sweetheart.”

You don’t waste any time. Not a single second before you begin to plead with him, cutting him off before he gets the pet name out.

“Fuck me, Eddie! Need it so bad. So, so bad,” you mewl pathetically. “Please, please, please, please-” you might be embarrassed if you weren’t an absolute wreck, distraught on account of his teasing. Right on the edge of intense pleasure, feeling like you can’t take it anymore and might-

His cock sinks into you fully, not slowly but roughly. His heavy balls slap against your ass as he tugs your legs up to sheath himself even deeper inside of you.

Twin groans float into the air, his eyes locked on yours. His become impossibly dark, like the slow spill of black ink across a page. Pleasure explodes in your belly as stars seemingly explode in the night sky. You are a live wire casting sparks in every direction.

He is all that matters right now. The world could be ending around you, and you would be ignorant to it, lost in the feeling of his cock sliding home inside of you.

His large palms pin your thighs back, as close to your chest as they can stretch while he stretches you out on his cock. And, fuck, is it a stretch after all these weeks.

Your pleasure errs on the side of pain, but you savour it nonetheless and let him devour you. The sensations commingle and soon, you cannot tell the difference between the two. The pleasure is pain and the pain is pleasure.

On a particularly rough thrust, as his balls collide with your ass with a sharp smack, you cry out, moaning his name freely into the open air. The sound gets trapped in the thick trees, as do his groans.

For the first time since he pinned your hands to the ground, you wrap them around his neck, exploring his back, heavily textured by scars. Feeling the way his muscles flex beneath your hands as he continues to pound into you. Slowly, they find their way up into his hair, feeling his waves between your fingers. Somehow soft and knotted at the same time.

But he doesn’t let your hands roam free for too long before pinning them back above your head again, one palm still pressing firmly into the back of your right thigh. When you try to wrap your legs around his waist, he simply presses them back toward your chest, his throbbing cock reaching deeper inside of you as the obscene squelching sounds amplify.

Your own sounds rival the distant symphony of insects–somewhere far off in the meadow, the chirping crickets and singing cicadas are drowned out by your moans. The tiny creatures may as well be silent with how loud your wails have become. But how could you be quiet when you can feel him in your belly?

“Take it,” he growls, as if you are not laying here fucking yourself back onto his throbbing dick. Meeting his deep thrusts with your own, feeling his tip kiss your cervix and whining. “Tell me how good my cock feels inside of you.”

All you can do is whine and gaze up at him, barely registering his words as your heart unexpectedly swells at the sight of his gorgeous, pleasure-stricken features.

Every minute detail is identical to your Eddie. Every freckle–including the tiny one just below his eye. His cheeky dimples. The sparse trail of hair below his navel that you used to trail your tongue down, causing his hips to jump in response.

Predictably, you get lost in his beauty and the overwhelming sensations, barely recognizing when his hand abandons the task of binding your wrists. Abruptly, you are snapped back to the moment when that same hand lands a sharp slap to your clit. It only causes you to squeal, your pussy fluttering around his dick as the sting quickly merges into pleasure. You get more lost in the haze of dizzying pleasure-pain.

Realizing that he only succeeded in further blurring your thoughts, Eddie grasps your face in one large hand. He squishes your cheeks until your lips pucker, smearing your wetness across your face. “Tell me.”

Dizzying pleasure continues to cloud your mind, making it difficult to recall what he’s asking of you, let alone produce a response.

You must take too long to answer as he squishes harder, your teeth pressing harshly against the inside of your cheeks. The feeling borders on pain, causing you to whimper again as heat sinks into your belly.

With a jolt, you remember what his question was.“Tell. Me.”

He needs to know.

“It’s g-” you choke when he thrusts deep, kissing that sweet spot deep inside.

With the hand still gripping your cheeks, he shakes your head a little, like he’s trying to shake the thought free. “Huh?”

“Good!” you squeal. “L-love your cock!”

“You ‘L-love’ it?” Eddie laughs dryly, clearly enjoying the praise and the way you struggle to give it to him.

That sweet humiliation warms your chest, feeling almost as good as the way he presses inside of you. Hot and heavy.

You agree with a moan, lacking the wherewithal to respond coherently. When he removes his hand from your face, it travels to grope your tits greedily over your thin top. Arching into his touch, you close your eyes and revel in the sweet sensation.

His groans and the filthy sound of skin slapping against skin fill your ears as he repeatedly strokes that wonderful spot inside of you. Pleasure bursts in vivid colour behind your eyelids.

When his hand travels further down your body, middle and marriage fingers pressing into that tender bundle of nerves at the top of your cunt, your pleasure surges to new heights. The coil which has been tightening slowly while he fucks you threatens to snap.

Pace slowing in favour of deep, calculated thrusts, Eddie leans down to your ear. “Gonna make such a mess of you,” he whispers, sending shivers straight down your spine. The promise is like molten lava on your skin.

More reckless moans spill from your lips as he nips at your earlobe, then drags his teeth slowly down your neck. A reminder that he could easily sink his teeth into your flesh. It sends a thrill through your body–not unlike the one that licked at your spine as he hunted you through the woods.

“Promise?” you ask breathlessly. A fucked-out smile on your face.

He stares hungrily, longingly, at your neck for just a moment before returning to your eyes after registering your words. A challenge that quirks his brow.

Bracing himself with an elbow dug in the dirt, his pace quickens again as he works furiously at your clit. His rhythm is clumsy, but successful at continuing to send shockwaves of twisted pleasure through your body. His hips slam so hard against you that it would be unsurprising to find light green bruises pressed into your ass tomorrow morning.

You gasp, tossing your head back on a particularly deep and perfectly angled thrust. He dangles you over the cliff’s edge, keeping you on the precipice of release. It’s all you can do to tighten your hands into fists as you twist your them in his unrelenting grasp.

He doesn’t even have to ask you to beg this time. The pleas for release simply tumble out of your mouth with little thought. “Please! Gonna cum, Eddie! Please, please can I cum?”

Hot, overwhelmed tears threaten to spill over in anticipation of his permission. You doubt you’ll be able to hold on much longer with that perfect pressure on your clit and incredible fullness. His heavy panting indicates he isn’t far behind you.

“Cum all over my cock…Let me ruin you for anyone else.” He’s breathless as he says it.

It’s his words that inevitably shove you over the edge, pleasure swelling inside of you. Your clit numbs and you cry out, cunt clenching around him as you drench his cock. It is not a soft, gentle climax that graces your body, but an intense thing that seems to carry on forever.

“I love you,” you whisper into the cool night air, your body still twitching with your orgasm as tears slip down your cheeks. The phrase so easily blurts from you and it’s then that he groans and begins to spill inside of you too. Face pressed into your neck as he shoots hot spurts of cum into your cunt. Rope after rope of the stuff, warming your belly fulfillingly.

His thrusts slow and eventually stop as he collapses on top of you.

Aftershocks flow through you in raw, euphoric waves as you pant into his curls. A sated smile tugs at your mouth and you tremble against him, boneless when he’s done with you. A blissful giggle escapes your throat.

The both of you lay there for moments, just listening to each other’s heartbeats slow as the insect’s song replaces your moans. The moon gleams in the sky, spinning stars winking at you.

All too soon Eddie pulls away from your neck and observes the damage. You’re sure he finds he succeeded in making a mess of you. Your wetness still smeared across your cheek, hair completely mussed, and your bottom half covered in dirt as you draw in heaving breaths, still coming down from your mind-numbing orgasm.

There’s a small smirk that reaches his eyes more than his mouth before he tugs his hand from between your bodies. Lewdly, he shoves his two middle fingers between your lips. “Hmph!”

Once the surprise wears off and you cup his hand in both of yours, you allow your eyes to drift shut. The mild taste of your own cum pervades your mouth as he presses his fingers deeper. Your tongue swirls around them, sucking softly. He continues to test the waters, pressing in further until the pads of his fingers grace the back of your tongue, causing you to gag lightly around them. When he pulls them out, they’re wetter than before. He smears the spit over your cheeks, just as he had done with your wetness. An act of dominance which leaves you breathless and twists your stomach into knots.

As you open your eyes, you watch him push himself away from you, sitting back on his haunches.

“Clean up your mess.” The meaning of his statement only briefly eludes you.

With wobbly limbs you stumble a step or two on your knees closer to him, intoxicated by your co-mingling scents before his palm finds the crown of your head and he presses you down against him.

You gaze lovingly up at him and you’re sure the sight from above is simply obscene.

It’s been too long since you’ve done this which makes it all the more satisfying when your lips wrap around his slowly softening cock. The gentle weight of him in your mouth, the best feeling in the world. Warm and heavy on your tongue as the salty taste of his cum graces your tastebuds and the musky scent of him reaches your nose.

He inhales sharply on the first suck, then groans as he pushes your head down more. The scent of him here–with your nose nearly nestled against the dark curls above his dick–is dizzying. You try not to gag around him this time before he lets up a bit and allows you to move more freely, greedily licking up your combined juices as his warm cum slowly drips down your thighs.

Eddie allows you to slurp happily up and down his cock for a few more moments before he decides you’ve cleaned him up sufficiently. When he pulls you off, wetness drips down your chin. He thumbs at the spit there and you watch as he licks it off his own thumb, like he’s savouring chocolate ice cream that dripped off the cone.

Then, he pets the top of your head gently in appreciation. “Good girl.”

Your heart simply glows in your ribcage. This blooming feeling is quickly stamped out and replaced with rising panic when he goes to leave. Your heart reaches out for him and comes up empty, as it had when the life had drained from his eyes. It is not the panic from before which left you frightful at the prospect of being caught between claws and sharp teeth. But a panic which urges you to capture him, to keep him in your grasp, even if just for a little while longer.

When you catch his wrist, he spins around and bares his teeth like an abused animal anticipating harm and hurt–one who has never experienced a soft touch. What’s happened to him? What has he gone through these past few weeks while you’ve been grieving him, unable to eat or sleep or think at all?

Now that you’ve had him, back again in your arms with a beating heart and warm skin, you couldn’t bear to part with him again.

This panic, the terror of being clouded with grief again, is what drives you to stutter out, “W-will I see you again?”

Guarded features soften a touch as he stares into your face, trying to determine your motivations. To decipher that hopeful look in your eyes.

When he leans down to caress your chin softly, you know he’s come to a conclusion. You look imploringly from his left to his right eye, awaiting his response as your heart hammers in your chest.

"On the next night that the fog creeps over the hills...maybe I'll sneak into your bedroom...and devour you."

You sigh as he gently licks your top lip, close enough now that you could kiss him easily.

Gently, he grabs your face, his thumb resting on one cheek and his other four fingers on the other. Just before he kisses you you ask him softly, lips brushing, “Promise?”

It’s then he presses his lips to yours, and it’s almost tender before he drags his teeth over your bottom one. A final kiss is pressed to your mouth, soothing the gentle sting that you savour.

For the briefest of moments you linger in the feeling after he’s pulled away.

And when you open your eyes, he’s disappeared into the fog. Evaporated into the mist. And it’s like he whispers back to you, Promise.

⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

You wait for him.

All the while, thinking only of him and nothing else. It’s like your grief has intensified—worse the second time around—and after a while you begin to wonder whether you imagined the whole thing. It isn’t much of a stretch to say so.

After he died, you often took to lying in bed for all hours of the day, staring out the window and watching the shadows grow long before drifting off into a fitful slumber. Tortured by your grief, even in sleep.

Could it have all been a dream?

As the days and weeks stretch on and you begin to question your grasp on reality—you return to this schedule. Lying in bed. Watching the world move as you remain still. Nightmares. Repeat.

You always dreamt of him. Nothing else. Watching the light drain from his eyes. The blood pool around his body.

He rots until he becomes pearly white bones. And the skeleton comes to life, badgers you with questions. He would ask you, Why didn’t you save me? Why aren’t you dead instead? This is all your fault! I’ll never forgive you!

Your encounter in the woods must have never occurred. It was just another fucked up way for you to torture yourself over his death.

Some nights you never slept, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. And, despite yourself, watched desperately for the fog to roll in.

It’s weeks before the fog returns to Hawkins.

When it does, and you hear the slow and steady creak of your window being opened as you lie in bed, you know it was all real.

And Eddie kept his promise.

Thank you so much for reading!! Please reblog and let me know what you thought!

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things #stranger things x fem reader #stranger things x you #eddie munson x fem reader #joseph quinn #joe quinn #joe quinn smut #joseph quinn smut #kas eddie munson #vampire eddie munson

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bakubrattt · 3 months ago

Text

Getting Used to Forever

-Zayne x reader

A week after moving into Zayne’s house, a tipsy Friday night of making him dinner while he sets up your shared gaming corner turns charged with playful banter and unchecked desire. Somewhere between the laughter, the heat, and the way he worships you—you realize you’re not just getting used to the space, you’re building a life you could stay in forever.

word count: 13k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, tipsy reader, domestic as hell, living together, Zayne fucks you on the dining table

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 link🩵

The rich, savory aroma of braised beef drifted from the kitchen, wrapping the living room in a comforting warmth. Zayne sat cross-legged on the plush rug, his brow furrowed in concentration as he untangled a web of cables. The new gaming console, freshly retrieved from one of the labeled cardboard boxes lining the wall beside the couch, rested before him. Setting up the new system was a priority—a mutual decision made as you settled into his home together. You had pitched the idea, emphasizing its importance for unwinding after exhaustive days of unpacking. Beyond practicality, you were eager to see your envisioned gaming corner come to life—a cozy nook adorned with different gaming systems and the myriad of plushies collected over the past two years from countless arcade visits, each a testament to shared moments and victories.

Pausing his meticulous work, Zayne’s gaze wandered to the assembled plushies. Each one held a story: the quick triumphs where a single attempt secured a prize, and the hard-fought battles where repeated efforts led to exasperated sighs and playful pouts. He fondly recalled those instances when your frustration peaked, prompting him to return secretly and master the claw machine, later presenting you with the coveted toy as a surprise. Those plush companions now stood as tangible reminders of laughter-filled weekends and the sweet tradition of post-arcade ice cream runs.

His eyes then drifted to a particular corner of the entertainment system, where delicate ice figurines resided—miniature animals he had crafted using his Evol over the years. Among them, two seals held a place of honor. The first, a clumsy creation from your shared childhood, bore the innocent simplicity of youth. You had mistaken it for a snowball since you were kids—a mortifying revelation that prompted the creation of the next one Zayne made you as an adult, just before your romantic journey began a little over two years ago. These seals, side by side, symbolized the intricate weaving of your past, present, and the unwritten future—a silent narrative of a stoic boy’s enduring affection for a silly girl who evolved from childhood friend to patient, and ultimately, to the love of his life.

As he pleasantly got lost in this reflective reverie, Zayne’s fingers unconsciously shaped another ice sculpture between his palms; of everything he always compared your beauty to. It was only the familiar cadence of your voice gently pulled him back to the present.

“Zayne?”

He turned to find you leaning against the living room’s entryway, amusement dancing in your eyes as you observed him. The sight of you, clad in one of his oversized sweaters with its long sleeves rolled up to your elbows, sent a flutter through his stomach. The sweater’s hem grazed your bare knees, and a gentle flush from the kitchen’s warmth—or your wine—colored your cheeks—a vision of domestic intimacy that made his heart skip a beat. In that moment, his hands stilled, cradling the freshly formed ice sculpture as he basked in the simple, profound joy of sharing his space, his life, with you.

“Dinner’s ready, hun…” You called gently, your voice trailing into the living room like the scent of the food still simmering on the stove. You caught sight of something between his elegant hands and stepped forward, curiosity flickering in your eyes, “what did you just make?”

Zayne blinked as if coming back to himself, looking down at his palms like he’d only just realized he’d been sculpting anything at all.

“…A jasmine,” he said, his voice soft as he watched you pad across the wooden floor until the rug he sat on silenced your footsteps, “I thought it’d look nice next to our picture here.”

The picture in question was a tiny Polaroid, propped neatly in a minimalist black frame at the corner of the shelved entertainment system. It was a photo of the two of you, taken at his last med school alumni gathering. The memory hit all at once—your dress, his tie, the laughter, the music, the air electric with reunion chatter and shared glances across the room.

You watched him delicately place the crystallized flower beside it, the ice glinting faintly under the dim light, its petals intricate, fragile, beautiful. As you came to kneel beside him on the plush rug, you caught your breath. The memory of that night swelled in your chest, a quiet warmth blooming at the center of you. It filled your belly, deeper and more comforting than the wine you’d been sipping while cooking dinner.

“It does look pretty there…” You murmured, your voice a smile. You reached out, fingers barely grazing the cool, perfect edges of the little ice blossom, “you know…I can never look at that picture without blushing a little.”

“Why is that?” Zayne asked. But that knowing, subtle ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth said he already knew. Said he wanted you to say it anyway.

You leaned in closer, eyelashes fluttering up at him, your voice dipping low, soft, conspiratorial. Like you were sharing the world’s most scandalous secret, “well, between you and me…” Your hand slid over to grab his thigh, deliberate, “I totally thought you were gonna do me on the pool table that night…”

Zayne’s laugh came out quiet, breathy, the sound catching at the edges like he couldn’t quite believe you’d said that out loud. A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears, the flush creeping upward like a secret, “at an alumni gathering of all things?” He said, tilting his head, amusement tugging at his gentle voice, “you must take me for quite an unprofessional professional.”

“Oh no,” you purred, your fingers squeezing his thigh a little tighter now, slow and purposeful. That wine-glazed glimmer in your admiring eyes gave you away. You were tipsy. And teasing. And beautiful. And his, “your exclusive tutorial was super professional, Doctor Zayne,” you added, your tone sinfully sweet, “so professional, in fact, and thorough, that if I recall correctly, I was begging for you to continue tutoring me all night when we got home…”

A delicious shiver of desire coursed through him at the vivid memory of his gloved hands on your naked skin, a warmth pooling low in his belly, tightening with aching intensity between his legs. The tantalizing sensation was amplified by the teasing dance of your fingertips kneading gently yet provocatively up his inner thigh. You, his irresistible, playful temptress—inebriated yet fully aware of the sweet torment you inflicted upon him—held his attention effortlessly, ensnaring him entirely in your playful seduction.

“You’re the best student I could ever ask for,” Zayne murmured, a slow, affectionate smile curving his lips as he reached out, encircling your wrist tenderly. His touch was a feather-light claim, sliding smoothly upward along your delicate forearm as he gently drew you closer.

“Am I?” You responded, a soft, alluring giggle escaping you as your breath, warm and sweet from your indulgences, brushed enticingly across his parted lips, “and what makes you say that?”

His gaze lingered on the curve of your throat, pausing at the charming little smear of food on your jaw—an innocent oversight during your solo drinking session. You were captivatingly vibrant, endlessly endearing; your presence alone enough to steal the breath from his lungs and the rhythm from his heart as he stared.

“…You are,” he whispered, brushing the soft pad of his thumb across your lips, smiling as you instinctively pressed tender kisses against his palm, your heated cheek nestling comfortably into the coolness of his hand, “very attentive…Very passionate about demonstrating your many talents…”

He noted with satisfaction the way your breath caught, how your eyelids fluttered closed, your hand kneading up the muscles of his thigh—boldly, tantalizingly, inching dangerously close to the hardened arousal swelling beneath his sweats.

“A bit clumsy at times,” Zayne teased affectionately, gently pinching your chin to tilt your face aside, deliberately exposing the small droplet of savory sauce you never caught. Leaning in, he pressed slow, deliberate kisses to your jaw, savoring the warmth and sweetness of your skin far more than the taste of the lingering food, “but I enjoy your many surprises…”

His soft chuckle vibrated gently against the tender column of your throat, his warm breath sending a delightful shiver cascading through you. He captured your wrist with a low, indulgent sigh when your bold hand ventured toward the hardened mass he struggled valiantly to contain, conscious of the dinner waiting patiently for you both.

“And how could I possibly forget,” he whispered teasingly, emerald eyes twinkling with playful intent, “just how eager you always are to take in everything I have to give you?” His innuendo sent a fresh surge of desire through you, your free hand instinctively moving to grasp him again. Yet, Zayne anticipated your move perfectly, pulling back just enough to savor the desperate hunger flickering in your eyes, prompting a frustrated groan from you. With gentle amusement, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, gently binding your wrists together with one hand as his other lovingly tousled your hair, “however, perhaps you could stand to learn a bit more patience, my love. Good things come to those who wait.”

You let out a playful yet frustrated huff, frowning in response to his infuriatingly sweet smile, “yeah? Well, I don’t like waiting.”

“Who does?” Zayne conceded softly, releasing your wrists with a gentle squeeze and adjusting his clothing, subtly pulling the fabric of his sweats away from his body to ease his discomfort, “I certainly don’t, when it comes to you…I prefer indulgence, in that matter. But you’ve gone through so much trouble preparing a lovely dinner—we should enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

He was right, as always. You had dedicated the past couple of hours to creating a hearty, nourishing beef stew, carefully choosing ingredients that would replenish Zayne’s strength and energy. It was your way of caring for him, knowing how demanding his role as a cardiac surgeon was, compounded by sleepless nights filled with insomnia and haunting nightmares, not to mention the long evenings spent tirelessly helping you unpack following your recent move. You knew he recognized your efforts, felt deeply your gratitude and love through every thoughtful gesture.

“Fine,” you conceded reluctantly, rising unsteadily to your feet, “but only because I know you must be starving—Woah!”

Immediately, Zayne’s arms wrapped securely around your thighs, stabilizing you effortlessly before you could stumble in your intoxication. Your hands instinctively grasped at his silky hair and broad shoulder for support, clutching him tightly.

“Please, be careful,” he urged softly, lifting his gaze to yours, genuine concern evident in his emerald eyes beneath your clumsy grip, “are you alright? And I’m the supposed lightweight who can’t handle alcohol…”

“I had two whole glasses of wine, not a tiny piece of liquor-infused chocolate!” You griped, your cheeks warming with embarrassment as you suddenly became aware of how intimately close Zayne’s face was positioned near your core.

His large hands remained securely anchored to your bare thighs beneath the comforting shelter of the oversized sweater—his sweater—that you had slipped on, with nothing beneath but underwear. The warmth of his breath, the silken texture of his skin, and the quiet, protective strength radiating from him sent tantalizing shivers rippling through your body.

You released a soft whine, feeling the surge of frustration intensify at the sight of him gazing upward at you beneath those dark, thick lashes, his expression a familiar blend of stern caution and tender concern, “Zayne…”

“…Yes?” He raised an inquisitive brow, his grip loosening ever so slightly as he tenderly squeezed your thighs—part affectionate reassurance, part cautious assessment of your stability. He hesitated to rise too suddenly, ensuring you wouldn’t lose balance the moment he stood.

You whined softly again, gently pushing him away with the hand tangled affectionately in his hair as you reluctantly nudged his wrist, “you’re like two inches away from making me pin you down on the couch, you damn tease!”

You knew full well he hadn’t meant to fluster you, and that awareness made your desire burn even hotter. Zayne never really deliberately tried to drive you mad—it was simply his nature, effortlessly alluring. He didn’t try to seduce you. But as a man, he was a giver, a worshiper, a dutiful protector, a devoted lover who revered you as though you were a goddess, someone who’s way of loving you alone was the driving force that always made you so feral for him; eager to offer yourself up entirely to him without hesitation for him being so wonderful. Indeed, his green flags were what made you want to drop your panties more than anything else about him.

Zayne chuckled softly at your playful accusation as he rose carefully from the rug. Immediately, his hands found your hips, steadying you with gentle assurance. The way he towered over you sent another rush of warmth through your body, making your head spin deliciously as you took him in. God. That beautifully gentle giant. Your big snowman. Every detail about him seemed meticulously crafted to set your pulse racing. For a brief moment, you wondered if your tingling desire was amplified by the wine, or perhaps your body’s natural rhythm was to blame—whatever it was, it had you thoroughly intoxicated by him.

“Mm,” Zayne hummed with a barely suppressed smirk, amusement sparkling in his soft green eyes, “I’d like to see you try—”

He had barely uttered the words before you took them as an irresistible challenge. In the same instant, he realized his mistake, noticing the mischievous glint in your gaze as you quickly glanced over at the couch behind him. By the time a triumphant grin lit your flushed face, Zayne’s agile hands intercepted yours mid-air, stopping your playful attempt to seize his shoulders. Your delighted shriek filled the room as he effortlessly spun you off balance, gently yet decisively tackling you instead. You landed softly on the couch, bouncing lightly as your laughter rang out, wrists pinned securely above your head by his firm yet tender grip.

“Zayne!” You cackled, tickled by the fan of his laugh.

Your playful struggles gradually ceased under the gentle, soothing pressure of his lips pressing warmly against your heated cheek. The affectionate kiss, accompanied by his comforting smile, calmed you into sweet surrender underneath him.

“That was such a short show,” he whispered, his fingertip trailing languidly down the length of your inner forearm, leaving a deliciously ticklish path that sent shivers cascading through you. He rendered you breathless beneath his captivating gaze, “it happened so fast I’m afraid I missed your attempt entirely…Now, are you going to behave if I decide to let you go?”

“Oh, not at all in the slightest,” you laughed, playfully rolling your eyes and shaking your head in exaggerated defiance, “especially not when I have you all to myself at this angle…”

Before Zayne could form another playful retort, the moment his thumb brushed tenderly against your cheek, you suddenly captured it, drawing it into the suction of your warm mouth. His breath faltered, eyes widening slightly at the sensation of your plush lips wrapping gently yet firmly around his knuckle, your tongue swirling as your cheeks hollowed. Heat surged mercilessly through him, his self-restraint hanging precariously by a thread; even more so when you gazed up at him with that blissful expression of submission that melted his heart into a helpless puddle.

“…Calls me a tease,” Zayne finally managed to remark, feigning sternness as best he could, though his voice held an unmistakable tremor of desire betraying the composure he desperately tried to maintain, “proceeds to suck my entire thumb into her mouth…”

You grazed your teeth against his skin, releasing him with a mischievous giggle as he withdrew his hand, shaking his head in mock resignation, “what? It’s just your thumb…”

“Just my thumb, she says,” he pretended to chide, moving carefully off you before helping you sit upright. Despite his mask of composure, he couldn’t conceal the undeniable, prominent evidence of his arousal tenting his sweatpants. With an inward sigh, he silently cursed his choice of clothing around you at that moment, “as if it’s not a less than subtle hint alluding to what’s really going through her imaginative little mind…”

“Or yours, Doctor Zayne,” you teased with a lighthearted chuckle, leaning forward to plant a playful kiss against his temple as he crooned closer to help you rise.

“I have no idea what you’re implying, Y/n,” he answered smoothly, taking your hand in his own and guiding you carefully across the living room, avoiding any lingering boxes or misplaced cords, “my mind is as sterile as the OR. Yours, on the other hand, could use some terminal cleaning…”

You couldn’t decide what cracked you up you more—his bone-dry humor, the casual way he tossed out medical terminology about post-surgical sanitation, or the outright absurdity of his claim that his mind was even remotely pristine.

“yeah right, that’s bull!” You laughed brightly, playfully swatting his firm bicep before slipping your arm through his, your fingertips lightly tracing along the familiar, raised scars that marked his skin—evidence of his Evol’s cruelty, “what, did it remind you of something else in my mouth?”

Zayne opened his mouth, a witty retort poised on his tongue, but instead, a brief pause settled over him as you both stepped into the kitchen. A faint, contented smile blossomed across his lips at the sight of the simmering pot of stew, the delicious aroma intensifying, tantalizing his senses as he had patiently awaited for hours.

“It did, as a matter of fact…” He murmured thoughtfully.

“Oh yeah?” You pressed yourself affectionately against his side, intertwining your fingers with his while your other hand teasingly trailed up to caress his chest—his most sensitive erogenous zone, “what, exactly?”

Zayne halted before the stove, lifting the lid away from the steaming stew pot and carefully placing it down on the countertop beside your half-filled glass of wine you had indulged in while cooking. He took up the wooden spoon you’d thoughtfully left nearby, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma and inviting heat enveloped him in mouthwatering warmth. But before you could open your mouth to keep teasing him, Zayne outpaced you in your intoxicated state, swiftly guiding a spoonful of the savory stew past your lips. His other hand came prepared beneath your chin, ready to catch any stray droplets.

“Food,” he finally responded with a soft, amused smile, thoroughly entertained by your exaggerated expression of mock outrage, which quickly dissolved into laughter. You nearly spat the stew out amidst your giggles, your chin dropping gratefully into his waiting hand as you composed yourself enough to swallow as he wiped your lips for you.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you laughed softly, shaking your head with amused disbelief as your fingertips subconsciously traced his scars, a tender gesture filled with quiet affection.

Zayne gently cupped your face between his warm, sturdy hands, leaning down to press a tender kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered briefly, a soothing caress that sent gentle warmth radiating through you, “you’ll do no such thing, you silly woman…But you will have some water with your wine. Cold water.”

You peered up at him through your lashes, chuckling quietly as his imposing height shielded your sensitive eyes from the glaring warmth of the kitchen lights, making the scene before you softer, dreamlike in your tipsy state, “doctor’s orders?” You teased.

“Doctor’s orders,” he echoed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pinched your flushed cheeks with utmost tenderness.

You both moved in quiet harmony, filling your bowls and carrying them together into the intimate space of the dining room. Hunger clearly gnawed at you both, evident in your eagerness to savor the meal. Your heart swelled with warmth and satisfaction as you watched Zayne enjoy your cooking, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation, giving you a pleased, approving nod. The dining room felt subtly transformed now—no longer merely his space. It was yours as well. The knowledge that you were making a home together here, sharing every corner of this sanctuary, filled you with a delicate blend of excitement and disbelief. Though Zayne insisted with gentle conviction that everything here belonged equally to you both, you still felt the lingering shyness of adjustment. Whenever you’d teasingly remind him, “but we’re not even married,” he’d simply shrug, an affectionate certainty lighting his eyes as he’d respond softly with, “we will be one day.”

The idea of marrying Zayne lingered sweetly in your tipsy, pleasantly hazy thoughts as you gazed lovingly at him across the table, utterly captivated by the subtle charm he exuded even in such a simple act as eating dinner. He remained blissfully unaware of your silent admiration, completely immersed in savoring the rich flavors you’d cooked with care. You couldn’t suppress the soft laughter that bubbled up inside you as you took a slow sip of your unfinished glass of wine, causing Zayne to glance up curiously, suddenly aware of your amused scrutiny.

“What?” He asked, swallowing his food as his curious eyes met yours from across the table.

You shook your head, a tender smile playing at your lips, “nothing, nothing…”

“Tell me,” he urged softly, setting down his spoon and fixing you with an amused, inquisitive gaze, “something clearly has you entertained.”

Entertained—if only Zayne knew the truth. It wasn’t mere amusement that warmed your heart; it was an overwhelming, blissful love, so profound that at times it bubbled up into laughter at the simplest moments.

“…Do you think you could get used to this?” You asked, tracing your finger idly along the delicate stem of your wine glass, eyes lowered yet brimming with quiet affection, “living together…You come home after a long day of some crazy life-or-death heart surgery to my hopefully amazing cooking, I spend the night on the Switch in bed while you read next to me and play with my hair, you give me some lame excuse about how blue light is bad for my eyes and tell me to put the video games down, and then all of a sudden your book’s barely hanging on the edge of the nightstand with your glasses and you’re on top of me and I’m lightheaded in the best way possible…You think you can get used to it?”

Zayne chuckled softly, eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement at your vivid description. You laughed too, charmed by his endearing expression as you sipped your wine, watching him carefully dab at his lips with his napkin.

“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, picking up another spoonful of stew and pretending to consider deeply, “well, I’d say it depends.”

“On?” You prompted, smiling as you propped your chin on your hand, thoroughly captivated by the gentle anticipation of his response.

Zayne reached over, his fingertips softly nudging your bowl closer, silently reminding you to keep eating. His gesture was tender, a subtle reassurance woven with quiet care, “a lot of things.”

“Liiike?” You giggled softly, lifting your spoon again, warmth bubbling within your chest as you awaited his explanation.

He paused thoughtfully, emerald eyes reflecting an affectionate warmth as he met your curious gaze, “…If you stare and smile at me the way you always do when you wait for me to take my first bite.”

“Huh?” Your laughter was light and flustered, tinged with playful embarrassment as warmth crept up your cheeks, “I don’t stare at you!”

“Yes you do,” Zayne replied softly, his lips curving into a subtle, knowing smile as he swallowed another bite of stew. His voice held an affectionate certainty, the gentle teasing only amplifying the intimacy of the moment, “it’ll also depend on you bringing the Switch to bed so that we can be near each other when we unwind, even if we’re not engaging in the same activity together.”

Realization dawned upon you, a tender understanding blooming in your chest. You knew then—Zayne wasn’t only speaking about shared routines; he was revealing how deeply he cherished every quiet, simple moment you shared together.

“And then of course,” he continued, reaching for his cup of water, eyes full of sincerity, “if I have to put my glasses on the nightstand because I know I won’t be picking my book back up until the following night.”

He was talking about love—about the comfort and certainty of a shared life.

“I could get used to it all,” he confessed quietly, his gaze soft and steady, a delicate tenderness warming every word, “not that I’d ever take any of it for granted, or have those expectations of us both without making sure you’re just as used to things as I am.”

A radiant warmth filled you, extending far beyond the fuzzy intoxication of the wine as you drained the last drops from your glass, “Mm…And how would you make sure that I’m still used to it, too?”

“…Reminding you to eat and get proper nutrition when you’re distracted by all else and need my help with staying on task,” he answered, his voice a velvety caress as he reached out once more to your bowl, tapping it lightly until your spoon resumed scooping the hearty stew, “spoiling you when you ask for five more minutes of scalp scratches while I read beside you…Paying close attention to your body’s signals when you need to catch your breath before I steal it again.”

Your pulse quickened, your skin erupting in a pleasant wave of goosebumps. Dear God, Zayne had a remarkable ability to turn simple, caring conversation into irresistibly sensual promises, his words making your heart swell with warmth even as desire stirred vividly within you. His genuine tenderness, the protective and nurturing nature underlying each carefully spoken word, somehow managed to make your heart feel full while simultaneously setting your senses aflame with longing. How did he always manage that? Even for a doctor—someone naturally skilled in attending to the needs of others—Zayne had an astonishing talent for seamlessly blending gentle caretaking with undeniable sensuality, making you feel perpetually desired, cherished, and utterly, passionately loved.

“So, get used to it,” Zayne teased gently, his fingertips squeezing your bare knee beneath the table, sending a pleasant shiver through your body, “you live here with me now, after all. You might as well see this as just the beginning of something you’ll eventually grow so accustomed to, that one day, you’ll find yourself in the middle of the vegetable isle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew.”

You nearly choked on your stew, laughter bubbling uncontrollably as Zayne’s dry humor caught you entirely off guard. Your hand swiftly reached for the glass of water he thoughtfully pushed closer, relief washing over you as the cool liquid soothed your throat.

“Thank you,” he sighed softly, a relieved smile curving his lips, his eyes filled with quiet affection as he watched you recover, “for never adding carrots to your cooking. I love you dearly.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, fueled by endearment, amusement, and the gentle intoxication from the wine, “I love you too, Zayne,” you managed between lingering chuckles, feeling delightfully flushed.

After dinner, the two of you moved in sync to clear the table, the simple act of cleaning together feeling natural and intimate. Domestic. Zayne watched you quietly from his position near the stove, hand still resting on the cool, digital surface as he paused his wiping to admire you. Unbeknownst to you, he studied you with quiet reverence, captivated by the way you stood there in your own little world on the kitchen mat, sleeves of his oversized sweater continually slipping down as you washed the dishes. You hummed softly, completely absorbed in your task, creating a serene atmosphere that he cherished.

Finding every excuse to draw closer, Zayne eventually stepped up quietly behind you, his warmth enveloping you before you even registered his presence. His hands reached around, gently pushing your sleeves higher up your arms, and he leaned down to pepper tender kisses on your head, “it’s a bit late for chores, isn’t it?” He whispered into your ear, his voice deep and inviting, “you should leave the rest for me tomorrow; we have the day off together. You’ve done enough today. Come relax with me, now.”

A knowing smile curved your lips as you felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing insistently against your lower back, igniting a familiar heat deep inside you, “what’s the rush, huh?”

Zayne’s hand moved slowly down your arm, urging you to set aside the pan and allow the warm water to rinse the soap from your skin.

“In truth,” he murmured softly by your ear, his words almost inaudible yet clear by every consistent, his presence overwhelming as he reached past you to shut off the faucet, “it’s the order of things I’d like to prioritize finishing tonight, starting with the most important…”

“Oh, what’s first on your list?” You asked playfully, arching subtly against him, relishing how it made his fingers tighten reflexively around your wrist as you tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

Without warning, Zayne lifted your arm and ducked beneath it, scooping you up effortlessly into his arms. You gasped in delighted surprise, clutching instinctively at his sweater as he lifted and spun you away smoothly from the sink.

“What you started earlier,” he said with a warm smile, looking down at you tenderly as he walked confidently from the kitchen.

“Oh, right,” you murmured teasingly, drawing yourself closer and lightly tracing your finger along the collar of his sweater, your touch brushing provocatively close to his chest, “I was trying to get some playtime in, but somebody insisted on being responsible first…So tell me, oh responsible, sensible one,” you punctuated playfully, poking a finger against his cheek, “are you gonna be able to keep up with me?”

“You know I always leave myself plenty of room for dessert,” Zayne teased back, carrying you toward the large, inviting couch, “and as much as I’d prefer to eat at the table—”

“—Wait!” you exclaimed suddenly, a mischievous light flickering in your eyes, the clarity of your tipsy revelation surprising even yourself, “the table!”

He halted abruptly, confusion knitting his brows as he glanced toward the coffee table, “…What about it?”

“The dinner table,” you clarified urgently, gripping his sweater tighter as you leaned closer to whisper excitedly, “take me back there!”

“Why do you-…I thought you wanted me to—”

“—Zayne, hurry!” You urged impatiently, enthusiasm overtaking your voice, a fervent anticipation coloring your words.

Zayne listened despite his evident confusion, swiftly changing direction as he carried you toward the dining room, his strong arms cradling you securely against his chest, “…Alright. Just what are you up to, anyway? Is the wine getting to your brain?”

“You know it is,” you responded playfully, a mischievous smirk gracing your lips, “just trust me!”

He chuckled softly in surrender, moving obediently to your desired destination without further protest, “if you say so…Though, blind faith is a lot to ask for from a man when his girlfriend becomes such a spirited, intoxicated minx.”

“That’s okay,” you murmured teasingly, gaze fixed intently on the dining table as it grew nearer with each step, “you’re an ever-flowing fountain of faith with how devoted you are to certain things about me…”

Gently, Zayne lowered you onto the polished wooden floor, his hands lingering on your waist, steadying you as he gazed down at you with curiosity, his brow arching, “such as?”

You offered him a seductive, knowing smile—one that instantly set his heart racing—as you firmly grasped his hand, guiding him towards one of the dining chairs. Without hesitation, you gripped Zayne’s broad shoulders and decisively pushed him down, watching with satisfaction as he obediently sank into the chair. Poor, irresistibly vulnerable man.

“So aggressive,” he playfully reprimanded, “it’s a good thing I’m not your patient, with the way you enjoy handling me the moment you have a glass or two of alcohol in your system…”

“Shhhh,” you silenced him softly, placing a fingertip against his warm lips.

You swung one leg over him, standing over his seated form. Your fingertips cupped his chin, lifting his gaze to meet yours. You didn’t need to check for the tent between his legs to know how eagerly his body responded to your proximity; his green eyes, darkened with desire, revealed everything even before his hands slid reverently up your bare thighs, drawing the sweater higher to expose more of your smooth, enticing skin.

“The one time I’ve seen you drunk, the first time we had sex, you held me up against the wall in the kitchen whispering to me that it was because of me that everything was spiraling out of your precious control,” you whispered, voice rich with seductive nostalgia as your fingertips tenderly traced the contours of his handsome face.

Heat suffused your body at the vivid memory, relishing the intensity of his uninhibited passion. Your breath caught slightly as Zayne’s hands traveled higher, pulling you closer by the backs of your thighs, eyes roaming hungrily over your body. Slowly, you raised the sweater to your waist, allowing his gaze to settle shamelessly on the delicate, translucent, blue lace panties he had bought for you on Valentine’s Day, a symbol of his adoration and intimate desire. His thumbs pressed insistently into your thighs, a clear reflection of his escalating need. A surge of heat blossomed between your legs in response, igniting your own fervent desire as you watched his composure unravel entirely, savoring the exquisite power you held over him, the intoxicating knowledge of how deeply he revered and craved you.

“And if my memory is correct,” Zayne murmured as he traced the delicate lace, brushing against your most sensitive places, your fingertips sweeping back his dark hair to give yourself an unobstructed view of his expressive eyes, heavy with longing as he admired the enticing sight before him, “you enjoyed that side of me quite thoroughly that night…”

“God, I really did, honey,” you giggled softly at the memory, the warmth of it pooling low in your tummy.

Your fingers traced over the scars on his forearm, those familiar ridges of skin your hands knew by heart. He was pushing your sweater higher, slow and purposeful, until his face nuzzled just beneath your breasts. His skin was warm against yours. He pressed a few playful, ticklish kisses along the soft flesh, making you exhale a shaky breath somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. You cradled the back of his head, your fingers buried in the damp, soft strands of his hair, encouraging him. His lips were everywhere, scattered like devotion across your skin, and his hands…God, his hands were reverent—tracing over your feminine curves like you were sacred, like you were something to be worshipped, not touched.

“Like I was saying…” You tried to finish the thought, but the words were half-laughed, half-slurred with affection, “your devotion as a man is unmatched…”

He hummed into your skin, slow and indulgent, his nose pressing gently into your sternum. You felt your eyes threaten to roll back from the sheer intimacy of it, that unmistakable feeling of being adored.

“You always have this way of touching me…” You murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, low and aching, “loving me like it’s worship or something…”

The confession left your lips like a prayer. Honest. Unfiltered. His hands had moved again, slow and sure as they mapped the length of your spine, pushing your sweater up until you understood what he was asking. You didn’t hesitate. You peeled it off, flushed skin rising into the open air, sighing as it cooled your heat. You tossed the sweater blindly behind you—onto the dinner table, maybe. You didn’t care.

Your hands found his hair again, curling into it as you guided him. And the way he responded—burying his face into your breast, mouth open, lips parting around your nipple, tongue swirling with a slow, wet press that sent a bolt of heat through your core—you damn near moaned at the sound of it; the wet pull of his mouth, the low, husky sigh he gave as he sucked with care and focus, like this was the only thing he ever wanted.

“I know you asked me that night,” you whispered, your voice shaking as the memory unfurled like a ribbon in the sultry haze, “how I could pretend I was unaffected…”

You reached for him, found his wrist behind your back, and guided it between your bodies—between your legs. You lowered his hand, slowly, deliberately down your front, breath catching as you pressed his palm against the soft mound of heat between your thighs. A sharp, shaky sigh escaped you. His hand squished against you, his skin meeting the soaking fabric of lace that had long since failed to hide anything from him. The sound of it—wet, needy—was unmistakable.

“But I was affected,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I was so, so affected…”

Your breath came faster now, your thoughts fogging, unraveling. Every time he kissed you. Every time he touched you. Every quiet moment where his love was too gentle to be noticed by anyone but you.

“I’m always affected,” you choked out, the words coming faster now, each one a piece of the storm building in your chest, “even when you’re doing something mundane—just setting up the gaming corner while I’m cooking us dinner—I’m always so damn affected by you, Zayne…”

And that was it. The moment the last of Zayne’s restraint snapped. He moaned—honest, desperate—as if your words physically undid him, his fingers tightening where they took an indulgent squeeze of your core, as if he couldn’t stand the barrier of lace anymore. Your body surged into his as his thumb hooked under the soaked fabric and pulled it aside, finally baring the heat he’d been aching to touch. He groaned into your breast, low and reverent, as his hand cupped your bare flesh and his middle finger slid into you with a slow, satisfying push. You whimpered at the depth, hips twitching as your walls clenched around him, fluttering, gripping his knuckle with raw need.

Your hand found his shoulder, clutching, practically clawing into the firm muscle under the heavy warmth of his sweater. The other hand tangled tighter into his black hair, pulling him closer as you arched into his embrace, wanting Zayne everywhere, wanting more. You could feel the heat of his breath, how wet his tongue was as it circled your nipple. The way he kept swallowing, like he couldn’t stop it, like your taste and your voice and the way you fell apart in his arms had made his mouth water, his body burn.

There was desperation in your hands, in your breath, in the trembling of your voice that said you needed him—needed his touch, needed to be worshipped the way only he knew how. He was undone completely by the way you craved him—by the way your touch pleaded for more without needing a single word. Zayne was dizzy from it. Dizzy from how easily you unraveled him. His breath hitched as he savored the squishy heat radiating through his palm. Nothing could hide the way you were completely undone by him, could silence the truth his fingers had known the moment he touched you—that you had been desperately craving him, already a needy mess for him.

“I know that by now,” he murmured, voice muffled by the indulgent smother of your breast.His lips never stopped moving, never stopped adoring you with reverent smacks pops of your sensitive nipple as he guided you backward, step by step.

He rose from the chair as you moved with him, still inside you, his finger never slipping free, cupping you the whole way as he coaxed you toward the edge of the dining table. You stumbled a little, your hand fumbling for something to brace yourself against. But Zayne was already there. His hand caught yours, steadying it, pressing it flat against the wood before guiding you down, coaxing you to lie back as he crowded your space, hovering over you with the cast of his shadow.

“I also know,” he added, voice lower now, tinged with something dark he looked down at you—so eager, so wrecked, so his, “that you’re as addicted to stepping out of line as I am.”

You were absolutely addicted to the intoxicating high of giving in—of relinquishing restraint, of letting go completely and letting yourself be seen , consumed, devoured by him. Especially on nights like this, where the excuse to indulge had come easily—a Friday, a glass or two of wine, the soft hum of domesticity between you. It didn’t take much. Not when it came to Zayne. Not when you were so deeply, helplessly, maddeningly drawn to him. Sometimes, your love for him felt like worship, too. A craving that burned hotter than mere affection. A hunger to merge, to lose yourself in the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he drank in your pleasure like it was a need he could never fully satisfy.

Your head spun. Your eyes fluttered shut. Every inch of you melted. You felt him—his strong arm wrapping around your thighs, hugging them to him as he leaned in, his lips brushing over the slope of your calf, tenderly, intimately. Then came the shift—the hook of his finger curling into the strap of your underwear, the urgency in his movements humming like electricity against your skin. You sighed in pure relief as he pulled the soaked lace down your legs. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t pause. He drew them off your ankles with practiced ease, like it was natural to him now, like the act of undressing you had been engraved into his muscle memory.

When your eyes fluttered open to witness his passion, you found Zayne holding your underwear in one hand, lifting it to his face, inhaling deeply with his lashes low in indulgence, the expression on his face somewhere between reverence and something primal. And then—he discarded them with a casual flick to the side, as if they were nothing but a wrapper to something far more precious, his sweater following suit as he tossed it off his pale frame like an afterthought. Good Lord. Love wasn’t enough to describe what Zayne felt for you. It was beyond affection, beyond obsession—it was something deeper, something flooded with devotion, worship, hunger. The kind of love that made a man forget his name and remember only yours.

Your heart pounded, full and frantic, echoing through your chest and into your throat as you heard the chair scrape across the floor. The sound grounded you, startled you into the present. He hooked the leg of the chair around his ankle and yanked it forward, dragging it close as he took his seat like it was his throne for a feast. He reached for you, tender and certain, folding one of your knees aside, the soft bend of your thigh resting flat against the table. The other leg he lifted higher, guiding it over his shoulder, settling it there like it belonged. His palms were wide on your skin, possessive, spreading heat as they slid along your calves and thighs in one long, deliberate motion. He scooted forward, closer and closer—his breath warming the inside of your leg as he moved in, up to you. Up to your soaked, flushed, trembling core. Up to his dessert.

Oh God. That man was insatiable when it came to his sweet tooth—and he never once denied that his favorite indulgence wasn’t chocolate or cake or anything store-bought. It was you. Always you. You reached back, fumbling blindly for his discarded sweater, bunching it beneath your head and using it like a pillow to prop yourself up, just enough to see him. Blood rushed between your ears, pulsing loud, your body alive with an unbearable prickle of heat that lit every nerve aflame. And then—you watched him. Watched as he crooned down over you, his lips parting as he pressed soft, deliberate kisses along the inside of your thigh, slow and torturous, each one closer than the last. You could feel the warmth of his mouth, the faint trace of his breath skimming your skin, the reverence in every kiss as if he was preparing himself for something holy.

Your pulse was pounding between your legs, so strong it was almost audible. You felt it throb with each slow press of his mouth, felt it jump beneath his hands when he spread them up your thighs to hold you open. Then, the pause. That familiar stillness. That sacred, quiet moment you’d seen only in the most intimate seconds with him—when he took a beat to look. To truly see you. Not just with hunger, but with something aching in his eyes. Reverence. Desire. Love. The kind that quieted the whole world. He stared at your body like it was made just for him, like it was an exquisite feast and he was trying not to devour it too fast. His gaze traced over every inch of soft skin, every curve that still trembled for him. And Zayne—he didn’t just look. He witnessed.

You saw it in the way his breath hitched as he let his fingertips trail down the twitch of your abdomen, soft and slow, until they reached the center of you. With gentle pressure, he pressed your folds apart, holding you wide, open for himself, watching the way you glistened, slick and swollen, your body aching under his touch. He took it in—the proof of how you responded to him, how wrecked you were already. He let go of a deep breath, and then—one last glance up. His eyes met yours, pleading and glazed and full of love, and that was the final thread. He bowed, his brows knit, his mouth met you, and the first taste pulled a groan from his chest so low, so guttural, it made your thighs twitch.

You always watched him eat, whether your cooking or your body. You always waited to see if he liked it. You always searched for that subtle flicker of pleasure in his eyes, that hushed appreciation on his face. That quiet, sacred pause where he savored something just for him. And it was no different now. Because you watched this too. You couldn’t not watch. You needed to see the way his mouth opened, the way the flat of his tongue dragged through you, slow and hot and so intimate it made your vision blur. You watched the way he lingered, the way he buried his face between your thighs and let out a quiet, helpless sound when your clit met his tongue again, warmer this time, wetter, hungrier. The flick of it was indulgent, precise, so tender and possessive all at once.

Your eyes rolled back before you could stop them. Your spine arched off the table, body seizing with a high, unfiltered cry as your hand flew into his hair, yanking, anchoring him there. You held him like you were drowning. And Zayne—willing and eager—groaned into you, smothering his face into your heat like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Like he had no intention of coming up for air. Like he would eat forever if you let him.

“God, Zayne,” you breathed, voice broken and uneven as fireworks bloomed behind your fluttering eyelids. Your hips twitched beneath his mouth as another slow, devastating drag of his tongue rolled up your core, the heat of it lighting every nerve on fire, “honey, it’s so good…”

You trembled, your body jerking in a soft, uncontrollable spasm at the way his lips sealed around your clit. He sucked—not too hard, not too fast, but with that perfect, rhythmic pull that he knew would wreck you. The wet smack of his lips parted from your slick skin with a quiet pop that made your toes curl. Then he sighed, like he was drinking you in, like he’d never tasted anything better. That sound, that raw note of satisfaction—that ignited something deep in you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again. His finger slid into you with a slow, easy glide, your walls welcoming him back with a desperate flutter as he moved with confidence, with certainty, already seeking out the spot he’d memorized by heart. He found it instantly. A moan tumbled out of you, loud and sweet, as your head tilted back and your free hand clutched his shoulder. The other was still tangled in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging him like he needed it—like he wasn’t already worshipping you like you were the center of his universe.

“R-right there…” You slurred, voice thick with pleasure. A lazy, delirious smile pulled at your lips, “yeah, right there…”

And then—another finger. Zayne slipped it in beside the first, curling both upward toward the swell inside you, and your entire body responded at once. Your jaw fell open, your breath hitched, your back arched off the table once more as a jolt of pleasure shot through your spine. His fingers moved expertly, massaging the sensitive spot with slow, circling pressure. His lips alternated, suctioning and releasing over your clit, applying firm, steady attention that made your thighs twitch and shake for him.

The air filled with the wet, obscene sound of your arousal, each squelch of his fingers met by the deliberate drag of his tongue. And Zayne—he was completely immersed. Eyes half-lidded, brow furrowed, breath pouring through his nose as he lapped at you with devotion so intense it felt like the rest of the world had gone still. A cry tore out of you as the pleasure surged, hot and blinding, flooding your body with electricity. Your hands gripped him tighter, buried in his hair as your voice pitched higher with each movement of his hand and mouth.

“Yes!” You gasped, “Zayne, I’m already so close…!”

He’d suspected as much. From the dew of your skin. From the tension in your thighs. From the wine earlier and how hydrated he knew you were, how your body was primed to burst for him. He took the cue immediately, adjusting your position with practiced ease—his arm curling around your thigh to tug you slightly closer to the edge, tilting you downward just enough. Your breath caught in your throat at the realization, that weightless moment just before impact, like the pause at the top of a rollercoaster.

Then—he began punching his fingertips into that swollen sensitive spot inside of you that sent your mind spinning. His wrist tensed, his grip locking around your thigh as his brows knit deeper with an intense need. His lips parted from you with a ragged, husky breath, and the next thing you knew—he was lapping at your clit in the open, expecting how much you would start to jolt and writhe soon enough. The rhythm of his fingers, the wet slap of his tongue—it was relentless. Your voice shattered into pieces, echoing through the dining room as fire rushed through your veins faster than you could ever hope to keep up with, voice rising in time with the furious pace of his movements.

“I’m gonna cum!” You cried out, helpless, frantic, your limbs trembling under the intensity of his effort, under that relentlessly building pressure each punch of his fingers threatened to burst, “oh my God, Zayne, don’t stop! Keep going, baby! Keep going! I’m-! I’m-…!”

Your whole body seized with an unbearable tension possessing your every limb, your spine locking up off the table as your pelvis tilted, your mind dissolving into blinding white. A scream tore through your throat, mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut as your vision exploded in color behind your lids. You gushed. It hit hard. Sharp. Immediate. A hot burst of liquid spilled from you, splashing over Zayne’s chin, his wrist, all over him, soaking his arm as he kept going, his tongue still lapping at you ceaselessly, riding you through every wave of euphoria. Your body convulsed under the weight of it, every muscle spasming as he held you down, unshaken, committed.

You writhed beneath him, knuckles shaking between fistfuls of his hair, your scream still echoing, breath stuttering between sobs of his name, “Zayne! Zayne! Oh God, Zayne!”

And still—his mouth didn’t stop. His fingers only slowed. He worshipped you through the aftershocks like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. And God, in that moment, to him—you were. For you, it was like falling from heaven—but instead of crashing, you were caught. Caught by the man you loved more than anyone, held in his reverence and blanketed in that tingling warmth that only Zayne ever made you feel. The kind of warmth that slowed your heart and sped it up all at once, that wrapped around you like soft light and pulled you gently, reverently, back down to earth. You were shaking. Gasping for breath. A wreck of breathless giggles as you melted beneath him, your fingers relaxing with a trembling tenderness into the roots of his damp hair. His mouth hadn’t left you—not really. Now, he was kissing you gently, lovingly, dotting slow smooches along your inner thigh, his tongue licking up the dripping aftermath of your euphoria, savoring the mess he’d made of you.

The ceiling spun above you as your eyes finally blinked open, lashes heavy, breath slowly catching up with you. You inhaled deep and let out a weak laugh, light and giddy, filled with a joy too big for words. Zayne didn’t move until you did—he never did. His devotion lived in the way he waited, the way he let you set your own pace, the way he respected that. But when you shifted, when you lifted just slightly onto one elbow, he stood. He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, pushing it back with a scrape of wood against wood. And that’s when you saw it—really saw him. His sweats were tenting, stretched and darkened where your orgasm had flowed off the table across the front, the wet patches blooming low on his abdomen. You watched, transfixed, as he curled his thumbs beneath the waistband, and in one swift, fluid movement, yanked them down his pale hips, letting them fall to the floor in a heap.

You forgot to breathe. The lean muscles along his torso shifted as he stood tall again before he brought a fist to his mouth and gave his chin a single, efficient wipe—cleaning the remnants of you from his lips. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing; but seeing Zayne absolutely drenched from you? It was everything. Your breath hitched again as your gaze dropped between his legs, heat sweeping over you in another full-body wave. His cock stood hard and flushed, the tip glistening with a bead of precum that gleamed in the soft, golden light.

He gripped himself, fngers curling tightly around his girth, giving himself a slow, needy squeeze like he had to. Like the intensity of his desire was too much to bear. Like he needed to hold on to something and ground himself before he could give himself to you. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, couldn’t stop the way your lips curled up in that blissed out, dazed expression you always wore when he looked like that.

He stepped closer and you welcomed him, lifting up your calf with a soft sigh, curling it over his shoulder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched him. Studied him. His face, his body, the way he watched you with the same kind of reverence. Your gazes fell in unison to the shrinking space between you, to the slow inevitability of your bodies joining again. He hugged your thigh tighter, leaned down, and pressed a kiss into the soft flesh like it was his way of thanking you for being there; for choosing him. For letting him in.

Then—he pushed. A slow, deliberate thrust, not rushed, not frantic. Just deep and purposeful. You watched, helpless, awestruck, as your body gave for him, your folds stretching open to accommodate the thick, perfect shape of him. The way the plush head of his cock parted you was almost too much, too intimate, too breathtaking. Your breath caught, eyes wide, and his did too. His brows furrowed, lashes fluttering down, cheeks flushed as his mouth fell open with a gasp. That first flutter of you wrapped around him, and it wrecked him. He held still, gripping your thigh like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You reached for him, hand finding his waist, pulling. And he obeyed. He pressed in deeper, both of you sighing in perfect sync, the stretch, the heat, the pressure between you winding so tight it was impossible to tell where your pleasure ended and his began. Your fingertips dug into each other’s skin, your bodies locking together in a silence so charged, so intimate, it made your eyes burn. You were his. And Zayne—God help him—was utterly, completely yours.

He moved slow, each thrust deep and drawn out with the kind of indulgent patience that only made the tension worse. Worse, because every motion of his body said he wasn’t done worshiping you, not even close. Every time he pulled back, your body mourned the absence, your skin squelching quietly from the contact of his groin to your lips, the sticky sound echoing between you with every retreat of his chiseled hips. And then, he’d return again, sinking back into you with a thick, solid push that buried him so deep you swore you felt it in your lungs.

Each time Zayne filled you, you clenched down helplessly, your body holding him like it was terrified of letting him go. Like you needed to keep him inside you just to feel whole. You were already undone—tipsy on wine and him, already floating in the hazy pleasure of being so fully, so tightly wrapped around him. But watching him like this? That made it worse. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop your eyes from devouring the sight of him as he moved above you, his face flushed, lashes low, the corners of his mouth slack with open-mouthed pleasure. You traced a droplet of your own slick with your eyes, watching it glisten as it slid slowly down the tense dip of his abs—following the trail up, over his chest, where sweat from earlier still clung to the smooth skin of his throat. Your touch followed. You reached out, brushing that drop as it passed his stomach, and God, the way he shuddered at your touch made heat bloom behind your ribs.

His fingers tightened around the calf he held braced over his shoulder, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself. His other hand spanned wide over your torso, fingers grazing softly along your sternum, sweeping over your breasts—slow, reverent, indulgent. You reached for him as well, trembling fingers curling around his wrist, and with a firm tug, you brought his hand up to your face. You didn’t ask. You didn’t speak. You just parted your lips and took his thumb into your mouth.

The wet sound of the suction made Zayne inhale sharply, a sigh pouring from him, ragged and wanting. His hips reacted before he could rein them in, snapping forward with a gentle, but firm smack of his pelvis against yours. The sound of his groin meeting your splayed folds—wet and intimate—echoed louder in the stillness of the room. You gasped, the surge of heat coursing through you instantaneous, breath catching as your walls fluttered around him. Without thinking, your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers finding your slippery, swollen clit and pressing into a soft, needy rub.

Zayne froze—just for a second. Then his breath shuddered. The sight of you—fingers on yourself, mouth wrapped around his thumb, eyes glazed and locked on him through hooded lashes—snapped something inside him. His hand tightened again around your calf, the grip firm and possessive, his hips rolling harder, the next thrust deeper, more urgent. Your mouth swirled your tongue around his thumb, and he groaned low in his throat, hips flexing with renewed intensity.

“H-harder,” you begged, the word broken and breathless around his thumb.

There was a glimmer of something unhinged in your gaze—lust, love, desperation—and you watched the way it wrecked Zayne. He was torn between watching your face—cheeks flushed and dewy, brows drawn in rapture—and the sight just below, where your own fingertips moved in frantic circles over your glistening clit. Each pass was faster than the last, slick and obscene, the sounds wet and intimate, and God, the sight alone made his pulse thrum in his ears.

“Harder…” You whimpered again, impatient, growing needier by the second, “Zayne, go harder already!”

That did it. He snapped. His hips slammed into you with a force that knocked a gasp straight out of your lungs. Your breasts jolted forcefully with the first thrust, bouncing from the sudden impact, and your body arched off the table like you couldn’t bear the pleasure of his divine zeal as he continued.

“Yes!” You cried out, voice ragged, your hand moving furiously between your legs now, matching his growing intensity, pushing yourself higher with every thrust, “mhmm, just like that! Yes! Just like—ohh!”

Zayne groaned, the sound guttural and strained as your walls fluttered wildly around him, tightening in sharp, uneven pulses. The sensation had his jaw clenching, sweat trickling down his temple, slipping past the tension in his vocal chords as he pistoned his hips faster, harder. He was addicted to this. To stepping out of line. To you. To the way you took him in, gripped him, held him like your body never wanted to let go. His hands were damp with sweat, the skin between your bodies slick and heated, sticking together with every powerful slap of his hips against you.

Zayne couldn’t look away. You were still sucking on his thumb, your lips flushed and glistening from drool, tongue flicking over the pad with slow, sultry pulls that made his head spin. Your other hand never stopped moving, fingers slick with arousal as you circled your clit faster, chasing release like it was life itself. He was watching you fall apart beneath him—for him—and God, it was too much.

“Say you’ll get used to this,” he panted huskily, voice cracking with the force of his thrusts.

His thumb pressed harder against your tongue, massaging the soft muscle as your eyes fluttered open just barely, gaze hazy and glazed with pleasure. He was staring down at you—starving for you—his expression dark, his pupils wide and burning with hunger. Your moan vibrated against the pad of his thumb, and he felt it in his bones. The rhythm of his hips faltered for a breath, then picked up again, harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the air between you, mixing with your desperate, breathy gasps and the wet squelch of your slick beneath his thrusts.

“Say it for me, Y/n,” he begged, voice sharp and desperate, almost unrecognizable, “I want to hear you say it…!”

God, that did it for you.

“I’ll—I’ll get used to this!” you slurred, voice cracking around the edge of a shout, your words muffled, wet around his thumb until they finally burst free.

Your chest heaved with ragged gasps, each breath sharper than the last as the pounding in your ears merged with the pulse of blazing heat curling tight in the pit of your stomach. It wasn’t just the feel of him—though heavens, that alone would’ve undone you. It wasn’t just the way he slammed into you with feverish, unrelenting rhythm, hips snapping against you in greedy, hungry thrusts that shook the table beneath your back. It wasn’t just the slap of skin meeting skin or the heat soaking every inch of your body. It was him. It was the way Zayne looked at you. The way his eyes, half-lidded and dark with awe, stared down at you like you were something holy, something sacred. The way his desire wasn’t just in his body—it was carved into his face, written in every shudder of his breath, in every twitch of his jaw, in the tension of his muscles as he tried, and failed, to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’ll get—so, so used to—God!!” You screamed, the words spilling from your lips in a flood of pure, unfiltered ecstasy as your hand flew to his forearm, gripping him, your fingers digging into his scars as if it was the only thing anchoring you to earth, to reality. His thumb slipped free from your mouth, and suddenly your words echoed—unmuffled, raw, every syllable ringing through the air between you, searing into his skin like brand marks, “I’ll get damn used to you pounding me completely senseless on every last surface of this—ahh! I’m cumming! Zayne, I’m—!”

“—Cum with me!” He broke, voice splintered, a ragged plea full of breathless desperation.

He grabbed your hand—found it, gripped it—his fingers interlacing with yours just as your bodies reached the edge together. Your eyes locked in the chaos, and there was nothing else. Just him. Just you. And the fire you were about to fall into, hand in hand. You both came undone in the same blinding moment. It was loud, helpless, a raw, visceral surrender to the tidal wave of euphoria that overtook you both, so all-consuming it rattled through your bones. Your bodies trembled, shook, legs trembling and hands gripping, desperate for something to hold onto as the euphoria hit, slamming through you in white-hot pulses that made your thoughts fracture apart like glass. Heat rushed through your veins, singing through your limbs as the final snap of tension detonated inside you. You cried out, hips twitching as you drenched him, your core slick and pulsing beneath your own touch while he bucked deep into your heat, his thrusts erratic, wrecked. Zayne spilled rope after thick rope deep inside you, your walls fluttering, sucking every drop from him with a hunger neither of you could ever seem to satisfy. It was earth-shattering. Soul-stripping. Blinding. There were no thoughts. Only him. Only this.

When the crashing waves of pleasure finally began to pull back, you both stilled, dazed and silent, as if you’d fallen from some celestial place, breathless from touching something beyond human. Zayne’s chest was flushed and heaving, glistening under the warm light, the air burning in his lungs as he slowly came down with you, his hand still gripping your thigh, trembling as he guided your calf down gently from his shoulder. You were jelly, twitching with leftover pulses of pleasure. He was soft and spent, the strength drained from him, every movement labored and delicate.

Zayne pulled out with a broken whimper, his jaw tightening as the friction of parting from your overstimulated body sent a final, shivery wave through him. The slick, heady mess between your thighs clung to him, but he didn’t look away—not from your body, not from your face. He leaned over you, folding down, and you wrapped your arms around him immediately. He pressed into you—hot, sweaty, real—his body collapsing over yours with a soft exhale against your neck. You held him there, lips meeting his before he even had the strength to find you first.

He kissed you like he needed to. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. And you returned it just as hungrily, your lips sticking to his with every breathless press. Again. And again. You could taste the faint salt of sweat on his upper lip. Feel the radiating heat of his skin against yours. Hear the ragged breaths that still shook in his chest as you clung to each other. You broke apart only when your eyes met—his half-lidded and heavy, yours glazed with affection—and the two of you laughed, soft and dizzy, over a few more lazy kisses. The laughter was quiet and intimate, like you’d just shared some sacred secret between your bodies.

Your legs gave a wobble the moment you tried to push yourself up, arms threatening to buckle under the aftershocks still humming in your limbs. The table had long since cooled beneath your thighs, but your body remained too warm, too loose, too thoroughly unraveled to stand on its own just yet. But Zayne was already there—of course he was. Ever the insistent gentleman, ever the protector even after wrecking you beyond coherence. He caught you before you could do more than shift, arms scooping around your waist as if it were nothing, as if you hadn’t just barely survived the way he’d loved you.

After cleaning you and himself off with his discarded sweater and fetching the one you donned earlier, he carried you with careful steps into the kitchen, his grip gentle but unyielding, before setting you down with all the delicacy of something fragile onto the cool surface of the counter. The cold marble met your thighs and made you shiver, and within seconds, he was pressing a chilled glass of water into your hand. You held it like an anchor, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass as you brought it to your lips with his help. He made you drink it all, giving you a moment before you nodded that you were done and set the glass aside.

“Here, you’ll catch a cold if you’re naked for long,” Zayne murmured, already moving to tug the sweater he fetched over your head.

You let him. You always did. He was so quietly stubborn in moments like this, so unshakably him. He guided your arms through the long sleeves with patient care, flipping your hair out from the collar and fixing it back, his fingers grazing along your nape like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.

“Just stay put, alright?” He said, voice soft but edged with that familiar firmness that made your chest flutter, “don’t exhaust yourself any further. Save your energy for a shower with me before we test out the new game console.”

Your breath caught a little on the laugh that followed, light and breathless, “okay, okay, fine…Thank you.”

Zayne only shook his head with that quiet, affectionate chuckle of his, lips twitching at the corners as he stepped back from you. You watched him as he strolled toward the fridge, the slow, grounded pace of his walk so casual, so domestic, it made your chest ache in a different way. He paused in front of the magnetic whiteboard, eyes scanning the surface before lifting a hand to thoughtfully rub his smooth-shaven chin. There were your seal doodles, drawn in a sleepy haze the night before. Silly, lopsided, you. Right beside them, the short list of reminders he’d left himself for next week—smog check, order contacts, change out air filter. He stared at the board for a moment longer, then grabbed a black marker and uncapped it with a soft click.

You tilted your head as you fixed your hair as much as you could, your curiosity rising slowly as you watched Zayne begin to jot down something new beneath his reminders. He was writing…Numbers?

Then he added words next to each.

1. Bed

2. Couch

3. Bathtub

4. Desk

5. Dining table

And without hesitation, he began to check them off. The marker squeaked slightly as it pressed into the surface, but your breath was louder—shallow, caught between a stunned laugh and the rush of warmth that spread down your spine. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. You just paused at a twirl of your messy hair and let the moment hang there, undeniably his.

“…Uh, Zayne?” You giggled, your voice soft and breathy as it broke the quiet hum of the fridge.There was still a slight rasp in your throat, a rawness from how loudly you’d screamed his name not long ago.

You caught the curl of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—subtle, mischievous, utterly him—as he kept writing, pretending he didn’t hear the way you laced your words with curiosity. He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept his eyes on the board as he scribbled one last word with casual precision, the black ink catching under the warm lighting.

“What are you doing?” You finally asked.

“Making a list,” he replied simply, still so composed, so calm, as if he hadn’t just torn you apart on the dining table minutes earlier.

You tilted your head again, the arch of your brow quirking as your gaze flicked down to the last thing he’d written.

6. Kitchen counter

And it was…Unchecked.

“Of?” You prompted that cleverly humorous man you called yours, crossing your arms as the smirk tugged at your lips.

“Surfaces,” he turned his head then, giving you his full gaze. Calm. Steady. Smiling with just enough self-satisfaction to make your heart flutter and your stomach knot all over again. He capped the marker with a soft click, “you know,” he added, his tone smooth, his words so effortlessly dry it made your cheeks flush, “to help you get used to us living together.”

Heat tinged your face instantly. It rose up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks as you burst into another giggle, smacking your own forehead in disbelief at the audacity of this man—your man—and the deadpan honesty in the way he said things that left you breathless. Still floating, still only half-dressed in his oversized sweater, you carefully slid off the counter and slowly padded toward him, your bare feet nearly silent against the cool tile. Zayne didn’t move. He just watched you come closer with that infuriatingly calm composure of his, like he already knew you were going to meet him there. You reached for the marker in his hand, plucking it from his elegant fingers with a smirk that mirrored the one he tried—and failed—to hide from you.

“To the point that one day…” You began quoting him, lifting the marker to the board, uncapping it with a dramatic little flourish, “I’ll find myself in the middle of the vegetable aisle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew…”

Zayne laughed. Really laughed—the low, quiet, genuine kind that warmed your chest. His gaze dropped to the little side-note you added beneath his unchecked “kitchen counter.”

While dinner’s cooking ;)

“Precisely,” he chuckled, pulling you into his bare chest with one easy motion, like your place was always meant to be there.

He kissed the top of your head, and you let yourself melt fully into him, breathing him in deep. You stood there for a long, peacefully silent moment, swaying gently together in the quiet hum of the kitchen. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, your fingertips affectionate as they mapped the breadth of his sweat-damp shoulders. Your mind drifted into unobstructed vulnerability, then, pleasantly tumbling into the sweetest, unguarded warmth. It was a feeling that reminded you of when you and Zayne were children, him the quiet boy who could always be found nose-deep in a book, you the lively girl who laughed the loudest and spun in your light up sneakers too fast—When you’d go knocking on his parents’ front door after school, asking if he was done with his homework so you could drag him out to play with you, to roll down that little hill behind his childhood home together, the one hidden just past a field of jasmines—until the sun would set and he’d insist on walking you back to your porch.

Maybe I’ll get used to a lot of things. Sharing a fridge. Filling his dresser drawers. Slow dancing in the middle of meal prep. Maybe I’ll even get used to the idea of marrying him one day. Maybe it wouldn’t be too crazy to be real. Maybe it’d be just perfect. Maybe I even deserve it. Maybe I’ll really marry him. Maybe he’d be the best girl dad. Maybe I’ll proudly brag to Tara and Jenna that my husband would never force our child to play an instrument or go to med school.

Yeah.

I think I’d like that.

I could get used to this.

I want to marry him. I want to marry Zayne.

You didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But as you smiled peacefully into his chest, it was already there, warm and certain, tucked somewhere deep between your ribs where all the important truths liked to live.

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averycutesalamander · 7 months ago

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pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)

#sal.txt #this one was a toughie but it was fun!! (and way longer than i thought... oops lol) hope my answer was satisfying haha #goddddd you just know he looks so hot when he's so furious that it consumes every drop of his reasoning. guard dog privilege and whatnot #also i had a dream a few nights ago where i got kidnapped by boothill #was that a cosmic coincidence or did you hex me #boothill x reader #boothill #x reader #reader insert #gn reader #yandere #hsr #honkai star rail #yandere hsr #angst

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btsvt-bar · 1 year ago

Text

crazy over you

pairing ꩜ vampire dom!seungcheol x bunny hybrid shy sub!female reader x vampire dom!jeonghan

synopsis ꩜ one night, you decide to ignore your masters’ rules and sneak out to see your friends. however, the results of being caught aren’t exactly nice.

content/genre ꩜ yandere, hybrid oc, threesome, afab!reader, smut (18+ mdni)

author's note ꩜ not proofread.

sorry if something is a bit weird! it’s my first time writing an au like this so it took me a while to get used to the characters and i also read a bit of other people’s works to try to create my own universe 🥺

comments are appreciated! lmk what you think ♡

warnings under the cut!

warnings ꩜ smut, threesome, hybrid, vampirism, oral (f. receiving), masturbation (f. receiving), dacryphilia, overstimulation, edging, pet names (hers: princess, sweetheart, baby, little bunny | his: master - seungcheol, sir - jeonghan), ears sensivity, punishment sex, yandere seungcheol and jeonghan, biting. lmk if i forgot something important.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

It was a cold November night when you first met Seungcheol and Jeonghan. You were walking home from work, all by yourself. For a few weeks, you had been having a feeling you're being followed, your bunny senses alerting you danger was near. But, every time you looked back, the streets were empty.

Initially, you thought you were being paranoid. Except you weren’t. That night, when you were hours away from your heat striking, the vampires presented themselves and offered to help you. And you, with a fuzzy mind clouded by lust, accepted their help.

They had the energy to bang you hard for as long as you needed. The next two days were dedicated to satiating all of your carnal desires. The vampire duo fucked you into unconsciousness, you slept for a few hours and woke up to do it all over again. In the few moments you weren't sleeping or getting railed, they fed and showered you. When you came back to your senses, you thought it was cute of them, and saw their actions as caring.

You started to learn more about them. Seungcheol's the oldest one, the master. He turned Jeonghan a long time ago, at his request, and they've been friends ever since. They got along really well, one being almost an extension of the other.

They were nice to you, showered you with gifts and attention. That's how they caught you in their web. You were so blinded by the things that shine, you didn't see the warning signs until it was too late. It was when you first disobeyed them that you saw them for what they are: dangerous predators.

To your shock, you found out they had been stalking you for a long time, and how deeply obsessed they were. You found a box full of objects you deemed as lost, from hair clips, to pajamas, unfinished books and even used underwear. It scared you, but it also mesmerized you in the same proportion.

Jeonghan caught you going through their—well, your—stuff and things got ugly. Him and Seungcheol punished you that night, overworking your body like never before, but not before scaring the living shit out of you. The following day, after you woke up, they acted like it never happened, except from one snarky remark from Seungcheol: "If you ever disobey us again, we won't be so forgiving".

You did your best to be a good girl, partially because you liked them and the perks of them taking care of you, partially because you were scared of what they could do. As time passed, they became increasingly more possessive. Seungcheol more than Jeonghan, and you assumed it has something to do with their creator-creature dynamic.

Seungcheol acted like he was more entitled to you. Like you were his first, and Jeonghan's second. He bossed both of you around any chance he got. The youngest vampire didn't seem to mind, unless it had to do with you. You swear you've seen him rolling his eyes when the other made some possessive remark.

Even with all the issues, you became attached. On the days they were in an exceptionally good mood, you were allowed to call them Cheol and Hannie, like they referred to the other. You tried your best to earn the right, aiming to please them as much as you could.

Now, you've been living with them for over a year. You're used to their house rules, to their moody humor.

This morning, you opened your eyes to Seungcheol waking you up for college. He allowed you to keep attending, and one of them always followed you around, hidden in the shadows. As soon as your brain started functioning again, you remembered you wanted to ask him something.

You have this friend, Minghao, who's a bunny hybrid like you. You don't have many bunny hybrid friends, your species being a rare one. Obviously, you want to be close to him. But Cheol and Hannie don't like him, and told you to stay away.

You decided to ask one more time if you could go to Minghao's birthday party. As soon as the words came out of your mouth, Seungcheol broke a mug with his bare hands.

"I told you, you can't. Don't push me, princess" he barked as he shot you a glacial look. His dark red eyes glistened with anger, so you apologized and left for college at once.

Jeonghan's the one following you around, but he usually keeps his distance. You know he's there somewhere, but you also feel like he gives you a little bit more privacy than Seungcheol does.

You try your best not to pout sadly when your friends start talking about their plans for the night.

"Why the sad face, Y/N?" Jun, a cat hybrid, asks when he notices you went quiet.

"It's sad I'm not able to go."

"Why don't you sneak out?" Minnie suggests. "We can pick you up and drop you off after."

"They'll be in the house, it's impossible." You explain, kind of wishing that Cheol and Hannie had some vampire meeting or whatever to attend to.

"It's ok, we can have lunch to celebrate tomorrow." Minghao reassures you with a kind smile and you try your best to return the gesture, but you're sure you just made a weird face.

You spot Jeonghan waiting by a tree, so you say your goodbyes and go home.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

It seemed some higher being decided to make your wish come true. A few hours later, Seungcheol told you him and Jeonghan had to go out. He didn't give a reason, and you didn't ask.

You decided to give voice to your insanity and that's the reason why you sneaked out when the clock hit 7pm. You know Seungcheol said no to your request, but you decided to ignore him and go to Minghao's birthday party anyway.

You were excited to see Minghao. He's the first bunny hybrid you're able to be friends with, and you wanted to be close to him all the time.

So, to make sure you wouldn't get caught by your vampire owners, you decided to be back by 10pm. Whenever they went out, they'd stay out until dawn. If they never caught you, you'd be fine.

Obviously, that's not what happens.

You close the window shut with a quiet thud, thinking you succeeded in your scapade. But then, much to your horror, your bedlight flickers on.

Seungcheol sports a calm expression. Which, by experience, is much worse than him looking angry. A hundred times worse. Jeonghan is nowhere to be seen, and that's also bad news.

"Had fun?" His voice comes out in a controlled tone. He stands up from the corner chair he was sitting on, and you unconsciously take a step back, hitting the closed window. "Did he enjoy seeing you?"

You stay silent, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"What's his name again?" Seungcheol muses, his head pending to the side as he analyses your outfit. You put on a cute pink dress, one that highlighted your boobs. Also, you curled your hair a bit and it looked really angelic framing your face and black bunny ears.

"I think it's Minghao." You're startled by Jeonghan's voice. He entered the room so silently, you didn't even notice him leaning against the doorframe. "He smells horrid, if you ask me".

You see Seungcheol's nose flaring a bit, his vampire sense scenting the funky smell on you from the distance. He wrinkled his nose, disgusted by it. "Did you let him touch you, princess?"

You shake your head. Minghao did try to kiss you when you bid him goodbye, but you dodged him. This voice inside your head—one you were sure wasn't actually yours—reprimanded you by saying your master would be pissed off.

"Bunny got your tongue?" Jeonghan's venous voice reaches you. "Answer us when we ask you something".

"I didn't". You answer while looking down, too scared to face them. "I just gave him a birthday hug, nothing more. I swear." Your whole body trembles so much, it's amazing how your quiet voice didn't come out shaky as well.

Seungcheol approaches you. You see his toes in front of you, and keep still, waiting for his next move. Both vampires can clearly scent your fear and Jeonghan—who's usually the cruelest one when annoyed—let's out an amused laugh.

"It's her clothes that reek" the older vampire says while looking at his friend.

"Make her take them off, then." Jeonghan suggests. "She looks better naked, anyways".

Seungcheol rips the dress off of your body and you let out a surprised squeal. The vampire discards the destroyed clothing to the side. You're trembling harder, so he pets your bunny ears to calm you down.

"Or you could do that." Jeonghan comments and licks his lips at the sight of your exposed breasts. "I think you should punish her".

Mentally, you curse Jeonghan. Him and his damned sharp tongue. You would never dare to say it out loud, but sometimes you really hated the youngest vampire in the room. Being the oldest of them, Cheol was always the one to call the shots. Although, Jeonghan usually made sure to bring his input to every situation.

"I think so too. After all, she did go against my orders, didn't she?"

You muster courage to shoot a dirty look at Jeonghan. His wicked smile gets bigger, finding your reaction amusing.

"You know what's coming, don't you princess?" Cheol pulls the waistband of your panties and let it snap back on your skin. You let out a whine that makes both vampires laugh quietly.

"I know, master." You easily fall into your submission role, feeling his power irradiating towards you. Seungcheol hums in a satisfied way.

"Get in position, sweetheart." He commands and you scramble around to lay down on your back on your shared bed. You slide your panties off, stripping completely. You spread your legs a bit, inviting Seungcheol over.

"Did you get it?" The older vampire glances at his friend. Jeonghan nods and reveals the black vibrator he’d went to fetch before your arrival.

Your pussy tingles at the sight of it, your body remembering the way the rubber toy made you feel. Some slick comes out of your cunt, and you feel uncomfortable being so exposed. You hadn’t noticed, being too scared to think of anything else, but the whole situation also got you really wet for the vampires in front of you.

Meanwhile, Cheol runs his fingers on your wet folds, and starts to finger you slowly. Wet noises fill the room, and you whimper quietly at the stimulation. He neglects your clit, making you grow frustrated. When he feels he’s stretched you out enough, he turns the vibrator on.

"You know the drill. If you cum, things will get ugly." He states as he slides the toy into you. The buzzing feels good, and you know you’re gonna have a hard time. Seungcheol replaces his hand with yours and you start moving the toy in and out of you. "Have fun, but not too much". With that, him and Jeonghan leave your shared bedroom.

You know they’ll be listening from the room next door, and you can't help but let out a few moans and whimpers. Out of all punishments they came up with, having you play with yourself while using sex toys and not being allowed to cum is the most challenging one. You had to edge yourself for the time they wanted, and if you failed to not cum, they’d be really, really, hard on you.

"Keep playing with yourself, baby" Jeonghan commands from the other room, his voice ringing in your head and reaching you in the middle of your fuzzy thoughts. You search around for the vibrator you let slip off of your hands, and place it on your clit.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, but you’re toeing around the edge for what it feels like the hundredth time and it’s getting harder and harder to resist your orgasm.

A few more minutes pass by and Seungcheol enters the room. Your mind is cloudy and your legs shaking uncontrollably. Your pussy feels swollen and unbearably wet. "Time’s up." He announces and you stop your ministrations on yourself.

Once again, Jeonghan’s leaning against the door frame. The youngest vampire waits for Seungcheol’s instructions.

"You did well for us, princess." Seungcheol praises you and pets your bunny ears again. You already feel spent, your eyes closing happily as he caresses your sensitive ears.

"Thank you, master".

The vampire manhandles you so you’re laying on your stomach. He puts a pillow under you for support, and now your ass is up and exposed.

"Hannie?" The oldest calls for the other. Jeonghan hums. "Do you want to go first?"

Jeonghan practically runs to you. The mattress sinks when he hops on the bed, getting closer. His cold hands grab your ass and you shiver from the temperature difference. "What do you want me to do?"

Seungcheol sits on the corner chair again, choosing to just observe for now. "Punish her any way you want".

Another shiver runs down your spine. Jeonghan is a wild card, he can do literally anything. The vampire takes his time to undress, choosing to stay with his black boxers on.

He starts by running his hand on your back, enjoying how soft and warm your skin feels. "Is my little bunny scared?" He blows the question in your year, making you shiver again. You nod in agreement.

"Don’t be. I’ll punish you, but you’ll like it." His breathy laugh makes your cheeks heat up with the memory of all punishments you enjoyed before.

He spreads your butt cheeks and licks a long stripe from your clit to your entrance, collecting your juices with his tongue. You whine loudly, already feeling so good. His hands grip you so tightly you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow, but it slips out of your mind when Jeonghan’s tongue prods at your entrance.

You clench slightly and he chuckles at the sight, loving how responsive you are. Pulling you up a bit, Jeonghan lays on the bed and positions himself on his back with his face directly under your dripping cunt.

The vampire starts to make out with your pussy, sucking and nibbling and licking at his own pace. You press yourself down on his face, trying to get as much pleasure as you could. He slips two fingers in and you mewl his name.

"Si-ir I’m re-really close" your crying out comes as a stutter, your mind barely registers what you want to say. Jeonghan knows your body well enough to edge you until you’re nearly exploding, only to pull away and leave you frustrated once again.

When he moves from his position, your body falls limp on the mattress. A desperate shriek leaves your lips, tears threatening to fall from your lust hazed eyes.

"Crying already?" Jeonghan coos in a mocking tone. "We haven’t even started yet, baby." He gives your butt a light slap and you feel the vampire move around the bed.

The buzzing of the vibrator reaches your ears again, and you try to brace yourself for what’s coming next.

Jeonghan flips you so you’re on your back again. He starts slowly, moving the toy around on your sensitive skin. He spreads your legs a bit and teases your folds, running it up and down. Then, he lightly rubs it on your clit, sending shockwaves through your body. You can feel your bunny ears twitch with pleasure and Jeonghan notices too, so he reaches out and pets them in an almost loving manner.

"Sir, please" you beg him to do something, anything. You just needed him to put out the fire running through your veins.

"What do we think, Cheollie?"

Suddenly you’re reminded of the presence of the other vampire. You’ve been so consumed by Jeonghan and his ministrations that you literally forgot about him.

"She can take more." His voice is cold and uninterested.

Jeonghan’s wicked smile is painted by your juices. He looks beautiful with your slick all over his mouth and chin, and you can only think about how he’d look covered in blood.

"So come help me then" the youngest one calls. Seungcheol sighs, annoyed at his friend.

"You can never do things on your own, can you?"

You feel the power shift when the oldest vampire approaches. He exudes an energy that’s different from Jeonghan’s. It’s almost suffocating to your senses, but it also turns you on even more. You feel more slick dripping out and running down your ass, wetting the bedsheets.

"Get behind her." Seungcheol instructs and Jeonghan silently positions himself.

You shiver from the contrast of your burning back against his cold chest. The oldest sinks two fingers in and starts to stimulate you. His thumb lightly grazes against your clit, making your legs tremble each time. Jeonghan pinches your nipples and you let out a moan, clenching around Seungcheol’s fingers.

"She likes it, Hannie. Do it again" the vampire chuckles as he rubs the gummy spot inside your cunt. The youngest keeps pinching and pulling on your nipples, the slight pain making you even hornier.

The duo keeps stimulating you until you're on edge again. Pitifully, you think this time they'll let you cum. But they don't, so you cry from overstimulation once again.

"Shhh, don't cry" Seungcheol wipes your tears away and gives you a sweet kiss on the cheek. "Don't complain now. You did this to yourself when you decided to disobey me".

Your whole body tingles with desire, making you feel uncomfortable. You're slumped against Jeonghan, who's running his hands on your sides to soothe you, trying your best to calm down a little. Seungcheol kisses your neck, holding himself back from biting you.

"How do you want her?" Cheol directs his gaze to his friend. Their wine red orbs meet.

"Actually, I wanna watch you two" the youngest flashes a lazy smile.

Seungcheol chuckles, amused by his friend's voyeur nature. "As you wish".

Jeonghan goes to the corner chair and the other vampire takes over. With ease, he folds your legs to your chest and enters you without warning. He slides in easily, his girth stretching your inner walls to a point it burned. But you love every second of the tortuous sliding.

Seungcheol picks up his pace, ramming you fast and hard. The slight pain quickly turns to pleasure, and in no time you're whimpering and crying again. You look to your left and see Jeonghan masturbating, his sleek fingers moving at an inhuman speed.

The youngest's voice rings in your head, commanding you to run your nails on Seungcheol's back. You follow promptly, making the vampire hiss on your ear. Your hands travel down his back and grab his butt. Your nails leave crescent marks on his skin.

Cheol changes his angle a bit and now his pelvic bone hits your clit every time he pushes in. For the hundredth time of the day, you hang on the edge of reaching your high. But you aren't allowed to let go yet.

"Ask him to bite you" that voice you don't recognize as yours whispers. You panic a little, because they never bit you before. However, the idea seems appealing.

"Cheol" your voice comes out hoarse from all the moaning.

"What is it, princess? Are you ready to beg for your release?"

"Bite me, please."

Your words shock him a bit, making his pace falter. You hear Jeonghan cursing with a small laugh.

"Ask again" the voice commands and you obey.

Seungcheol licks your neck, just above your pulsing vein. He allows his fangs to come out and sink them on your skin. It stings, and your body involuntarily shakes and tries to escape. But he's experienced and knows how to lock you in place. He starts to suck on your neck, gulping large amounts of your sweet blood. Meanwhile, his hips keep fucking you, now in a slow, sensual pace.

You didn't think it would be possible, but his actions make everything more erotic. You start to take pleasure from being fed on. He pulls away, some blood smeared on his mouth and chin.

"Come over, Hannie" he calls the other vampire and Jeonghan appears by your side with a blink of an eye.

Jeonghan sucks harshly, drawing more blood out of you. He groans and trembles, feeling a rush of energy given by your blood. After taking another sip, he pulls away and licks your neck to heal you.

The man’s lips are tinted with a copperish red, making him look dangerous. Both his and Seungcheol’s eye glisten, the fresh blood in their veins accenting their red irises.

Reaching out, Jeonghan plays with your clit. "You can cum now, sweetheart" his smile looks devilish tainted with blood.

"Go ahead, princess" Seungcheol also gives you permission. Almost instantly, you let go. Your body shakes and trembles, your mind being lifted from your body. You cum so hard, you nearly pass out. You only see white behind your eyelids, and your blood pressure drops to the ground.

It takes a while for you to get back. When you regain a little of your senses, you feel both your vampires shoot their hot cum on your belly. They’re grunting, finishing themselves off before lying down on your side.

You don’t know how many minutes have passed by before Jeonghan gets up. You hear him turning on the faucet and the water running. He enters the room and picks you up, being careful not to spill all the spunk that’s resting on your belly. The vampire wipes it off before placing you on the bathtub.

The water feels nice against your sore muscles, and you relax against the border. You wait for Seungcheol to appear, but the water goes cold and you decide it’s better to get off.

Jeonghan carries you back to your shared bedroom. The oldest vampire is there, looking fresh out of the shower, so you assume he used the bathroom down the hallway.

You crawl to the middle of the bed, waiting for him to allow you to cuddle him.

"Come here, princess" he calls and you practically jump him. Jeonghan joins you both, and the three of you cuddle.

"You better obey us next time" Seungcheol’s voice comes out venomous, even while he pets your ears. "We won’t be so forgiving".

"Yes, master".

You didn’t know then, but Seungcheol asserted his dominance over you even more when he bit you.

"Sleep well, little bunny" Jeonghan presses a kiss to your forehead and you feel your eyelids heavy.

Like every night, the vampires stay awake, watching you sleep.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・

m.list ♡

#seventeen smut #seungcheol smut #jeonghan smut #seventeen fanfic #seungcheol fanfic #jeonghan fanfic #seventeen scenarios #seventeen hard hours #seungcheol hard hours #jeonghan hard hous #seventeen x reader #anon request #my works

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