sil-writes-fiction-too

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

okay but nsfw thought

do you think Stan would be way too eager to humiliate your ex? like imagine you’re fucking, and your phone starts ringing. you glance over and it’s him, that miserable bastard who finally grew enough balls to call and cry into your phone thinking you’d take him back.

so you try to pull away. “ignore it, Stan, please“

but Stan just grabs your wrist, still buried deep inside you “nah, sugar, let’s answer. need to show that sorry son of a bitch what he lost.” so he picks up anndd “yeah? you wanted to talk? go ahead. oh wait you hear that? that’s my cock splitting her open, you worthless fuck. shes is full of me right now, crying so pretty for it. bet you never got her this soaked, huh?” + he starts fucking you harder and deeper just to make sure your pretty little moans and whimpers are loud and clear on the line, every wet slap echoing behind his words. “go ahead and keep listening, pal. you’re never getting this pussy back.”

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

TO MAKE A FATHER

he’s been gone for months, and the only thing that got you through was the thought of him coming home and putting a baby in you

tags: nsfw, smut, birthday sex, breeding kink, vaginal sex & fingering, praise kink, pet names, established relationship, soft dom Stan but he’s losing his mind so it turns into rough sex, mating press, post sailing Stan, pussy drunk, father’s day got a little too literal, ovulation mentioned, pregnancy kink... i guess... idk...

comments or reblogs are highly appreciated, ty!

it was Stan’s birthday. and he was supposed to come back from sea only in a week, but god, you already missed him so fucking bad you felt feral with it. he’d been away for three months, just three, not a year like the last time, because Ford had promised this expedition wouldn’t be long. they needed to retrieve one last thing, map one last trench, and then they'd be home. a short voyage. no big deal. thank fucking god for that. because when Stan left for nearly a whole year last time, you honestly thought you might die of sheer fucking loneliness.

it was summer now. Mabel and Dipper were due back next week, just in time for the full Pines family reunion. the party was already planned, you just had to wait. one more week. that’s what you kept telling yourself, just one more week.

but even then, you couldn’t. everything inside you was missing him too much.

the postcards he’d been sending weren’t enough anymore, not when you couldn’t hug him, kiss him, bury your face in that stupid oversized chest.

and worse was that your period had ended, so you checked your ovulation tracker this morning, and like clockwork, your hormones were in open revolt. your body was aching, flushed and need-starved, and you hadn’t even touched yourself these past few days, because nothing, not your fingers, not some pathetic silicone toy, could replace that bastard’s cock.

his mouth, the filthy shit he always moaned right into your ear when he had you trembling under him.

and you were starving for it. for him.

too tired to be awake and too restless to sleep. the sheets felt too cold in places, too hot in others, and your body refused to listen, so you gave up and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

mug cake, maybe? you didn’t even know what your hands were doing. chocolate powder, milk. . . the smell was soft, but your brain was far, far away.

wait. was that. . . you froze, looking toward the window. was that really. . .?

no. it couldn’t be.

but you knew the sound of that beat-up car like the back of your hand.

your heart slammed stupidly in your chest and you barely made it to the front door before it opened, and there he stood, there he fucking stood.

Stanley.

still as tall and as broad-shouldered as ever.

his duffel slung over one shoulder, a soldier returning from war. his boots were caked with old salt and dirt, looking like he’d come straight from the docks to you. his red beanie sat over that growing-back mullet. and fuck, he still had that smile. that stupid fucking smile.

“what. . . but you weren’t supposed to be back for another seven days, Stanley! what the fuck. . .�� you stammered, half-laughing, in utter disbelief. “what the hell is this— some birthday prank?”

Stan dropped the duffel to the floor with a meaty thud and was on you in two strides flat, arms cinching around your waist so fast it knocked the breath out of your lungs. god, you almost forgot what it felt like to be held like this. how his arms didn’t hug so much as claim. how his palms were incapable of staying above your waist for longer than thirty seconds without twitching down like they had a mind of their own, creeping toward the curve of your ass.

“i couldn’t wait,” he mumbled against your neck, already kissing the skin there, scratchy with stubble and breathless from the drive. “i tried. told myself i could stick it out, but c’mon, doll, a week? i nearly jumped ship. told Ford id lose my goddamn mind if i spent another week on that boat without my girl.

“but— wait, where’s Ford? weren’t you two supposed to come back together?”

“we did, we docked one hour ago. Ford said he wanted to jump off early, head to Fiddleford’s place and stay the night. said somethin’ about picking up that weird magnetic equipment thing they were rambling about for the past six months. . . oh, don't look at me like that, sweetie. he’ll be fine. i had more important things to get home to.”

you snorted. “god. nerds.”

“that’s what i said,” Stan chuckled, finally pulling back to look at you, hands still curled heavy around your waist, thumbs grazing over your skin because he couldn’t stop touching you if he tried. “two genius freaks, holed up together for the night. who knows what the hell they’ll get up to. maybe Ford’ll finally confess he’s in love with the guy and they’ll be makin’ out over a microscope.”

you rolled your eyes, heart still hammering. “god, Stan, if you got yourself arrested for speeding just to get laid—“

“wasn’t just for gettin’ laid,” he grinned, and pulled you closer. “missed you like hell, sweet thing. had to see my girl before i lost my mind. swear, if i spent one more night with my brother muttering about magnetic ley lines i was gonna walk off the edge of the damn boat.”

you hated how warm your chest felt. hated how much you loved this stupid, salt-crusted, grinning bastard.

“counted down every day, every minute. told myself i’d wait ‘til the birthday party, make it a surprise, but fuck, this’s better. you’re the only gift i wanted anyway.”

and then, just like that, your feet weren’t on the floor anymore, his hands were already full of you, lifting you into his arms with practiced ease. your reaction kicked in before sense could catch up as your legs wrapped around his hips in one motion.

“what the f— Stan! i’m heavy, put me down—“ you choked out through a half-laugh, face buried into his neck as you held on like the ocean might come crashing through the walls.

“sweetheart,” he groaned, one large hand landing on your ass with a sharp, adoring smack, “ive had safes and debts much heavier than you, so be a good girl and don’t insult yourself.”

you clung tighter, because what else could you do? this strong man always made you feel like gravity was optional. those broad arms, roped with age-earned strength, held you steady as he walked to the bedroom.

Stanley dropped you to the bed but never let go, not really. you fell together, a clumsy landing softened by kisses and clenched thighs. you hadn’t even realized your mouth had found his until you tasted sea salt.

“missed you,” he growled against your lips, voice almost trembling now, body taut with restraint. “missed you so goddamn much. couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you, sweetheart, i need you, i need you right now—“

Stanley hadn’t even bothered to undress all the way, too impatient to take everything off. besides, sex with clothes on had always felt hotter to him, more desperate and fucked-up, something about two people so worked up they couldn’t even get their damn pants off properly.

you heard the sound of his belt unfastening, and already saw his trousers halfway down his hips. you couldn’t help but laugh when you noticed how badly his hands were trembling.

“you really missed me, huh?” Stan mumbled into your neck, lowering his lips to your collarbone, leaving scorching kisses against your skin. “fuck, baby, wanna be inside you so so bad.”

what a rhetorical question, you barely had time to think, before he yanked your oversized shirt up, groaning at the sight of your tits, then dove in.

“yeah, Stan, fuck, yes, baby, missed you so bad—“ you gasped, feeling his wet tongue dragging over your nipple as he sucked it deep into his mouth.

it was so unfair, how you were already nearly naked and he was still fully dressed. unfair, unfair, unfair. you wanted to touch him too, wanted to place your palms over his belly, feel the hair on his chest, moan into his warm neck and scratch down his back, knowing how smug he’d walk around later, pausing in front of every mirror just to admire the marks you left him.

your back arched the second you felt his fingers on your clothed clit. Stan was still hungrily mouthing at your tits as if expecting milk to come out, and you twitched when the pad of his finger pressed against your swollen bundle of nerves. god. god. god. that was it. yes, yes, yes. you didn’t dare close your legs, though your whole body begged for it. it was just too much. too good and sensitive. especially after not being fucked for three whole months. when normally you couldn’t even last two days without him.

Stan finally pulled off your nipple, leaving behind a flushed, wet mark. for a second or two, he just stared at you, his girl, all flushed and needy, and then finally, finally, he tore your panties off with such roughness it made your stomach tighten.

you were soaked. not a word left your lips, but words weren’t even needed. Stanley stilled and didn’t dare move, only stared. stared like it was the first time again, as if he’d never seen anything more more beautiful in his life.

“oh holy moses,” his big hands slid under your thighs and spread you open, his sweet baby, the best damn gift he could’ve asked for on his fucking birthday. “you look so fucking good, princess. swear to god, i could die right here.”

his cock twitched visibly against his stomach, but he didn’t even touch himself. “been thinkin’ about this pussy, fuck. . . been dreamin’ about seeing it again,” he muttered, running two thick fingers through your soaked folds, gently spreading them apart. and then, because of course he did, he brought those fingers up to your lips, grinning. “come on, sweetheart.”

honestly, Stanley didn’t know how he didn’t cum right then and there, watching you sluttily suck his fingers in, licking every inch of them while your eyes got glassy from how badly you needed him inside you.

“atta girl. my good fuckin’ girl.” just from those words alone, you nearly whined out loud, and Stan noticed, the bastard, so he said it again, softer this time, “yes? you like it when i call you that? of course you do. such a good girl. my sweet baby.”

and those same wet fingers were between your legs again before you could ask, slowly sliding inside, curving so good that you moaned louder, remembering every god you knew from every religion, thanking them that Ford was still with Fidds and the kids wouldn’t be back for another week.

Stanley left kisses, if they could even be called that, greedy, open-mouthed sucks along your stomach, thighs and the inside of your thighs while he fingered your pussy.

your own fingers tangled into his grown-out mullet, slightly damp at the roots, and you pulled him up, trembling, eyes filled with tears you could barely hold back. “i need you,” you begged. “please. just— fuck, please! need your cock, i can’t— can’t wait anymore.”

in response, Stan leaned over, placing his palm on your thigh, pinning you down against the bed.

“easy, easy, slow down, doll,” he laughed, and if you weren’t so turned on and weak in the knees, you’d have socked him in the jaw right then for being such a tease. “lemme take my fuckin’ time with you. haven’t touched you in three months, m’gonna memorize you again.”

not even a second passed before his fingers started moving. again. slowly stroking, curling deep inside your cunt while his thumb traced slow circles around your throbbing clit, and all you could feel was yourself dripping right down onto the sheets.

it wasn’t even embarrassing to realize you’d nearly come in under two minutes. god, yes yes yes, you wanted to finish all over his fingers, while he massaged your clit just like that. Stanley, please, your brain was practically crying out, just let me have this one, please, and yet—

Stan knew you far too well.

he saw how your body writhed and how your moans morphed into choked gasps, that helpless thing of breathing that only came when you were so close you couldn’t think anymore. he saw how your pussy was sucking his fingers in, refusing to let go, clenching like it wanted to trap him inside forever.

yeah, he thought, smug bastard that he was, my sweet little thing’s about to come.

but wouldn’t it feel better if you came clenching around his cock instead?

and just like that, his fingers slipped out of you, so sudden and cruel, that the lack of sensation made your whole body jolt. left you achingly empty, so empty it brought tears to your eyes.

your head shot up. eyes red, lips parted as you grabbed him by the wrist with shaking fingers. “you asshole,” you sobbed, voice trembling. “fuck you, Stan—“ in your head, you were already planning revenge. next time he begged for a five-minute blowjob in between tours, you’d stop right before he could cum and pull the exact same stunt. let’s see how he fucking likes it.

but of course, Stan just chuckled. “what? i can’t tease my own birthday present a little?” he grinned, clearly pleased with himself, rubbing your thigh as if to soothe the betrayal, while doing absolutely nothing to fix it.

oh. right. his birthday. a date marked in red on the kitchen calendar. the day you’d spent months planning for, and somehow you still forgot, completely lost in the haze of arousal.

and then, it hit you. the second realization. father’s day. it wasn’t a joke. it really did fall on the same goddamn day this year.

you looked up at him with a lazy grin, rolling your hips upward toward where he was palming his cock now, his hand moving with long strokes to draw more blood to the shaft.

“you know your birthday falls on father’s day this year, right?”

Stan paused mid-stroke. “does it now?” he asked, oh, that voice. not playful anymore. your nod was enough, though, a line had been crossed.

“sweet fucking saints, don’t say shit like that unless you want me to knock you up right here, baby.”

you giggled innocently, despite the filthy wetness still dripping down your thighs. “well. . . sounds like you’ve got something to celebrate.”

his grip on his cock tightened. “yeah? you think i should fuck a goddamn baby into you, sweetheart? you want that? you want me to fill you up and let it take?” Stanley was hard now, painfully so. he rubbed the thick head of his cock up and down your folds, not entering yet, but enough for your pussy to flutter open around the tip, clenching at nothing, desperate to take him deeper.

you gasped when Stan's free hand pressed down gently on your lower belly. “wanna feel this tummy swell up, right here, sweetie. make you mine for real.”

your legs trembled as your hips jerked upward, chasing him. but you both knew the stakes.

the room spun slightly. god, he was hot teasing your pussy like this, but there was still enough sense left in your brain to mutter. “you gonna. . . use a condom?” your voice sounded disappointed.

“condom?” Stan paused, letting his cock rest there, brushing maddeningly against your wetness. then, he snorted, gliding his tip over your needy entrance, pretending he was deciding. “hmm, depends,” a lie. ”you ovulating?” he asked casually, voice too calm for someone who’d just threatened to breed you like a bitch in heat.

“yeah,” you swallowed thickly.

Stan grunted. “fuck. fuck.” he pulled back for a second and slapped the head of his cock against your pussy again, watching the way it jumped. “we could grab one,” he said, but made no movement to do so. “they’re in the drawer. second one down.” his hand stayed on his shaft, lazily rubbing it to keep himself hard.

hot belgian waffles, the idea of you, wet, flushed and begging under him, was almost too much already.

but you didn’t move either.

you just looked at him.

“you really gonna pull out on your birthday? c'mon. didn't you want to be a daddy?“

Stanley had no idea how he was supposed to not come just from that, it wasn’t even a question now. “you are evil, you know that? trying to get me to cum in you.”

your smile widened. “is it working?”

Stan knew he was playing with fire. the way he kept teasing himself too, hovering just outside of you, not sliding in, not yet, was pure torture. for both of you. because once that thick, leaking cock finally split you open, there was no going slow.

and god, he knew what he was working with. he knew his size and how often he lost control with you, how your tight little pussy made him feral. Stanley didn’t want to hurt you, he never did, but he also couldn’t stop this thing that rose in him every time you pulled him in like that, wet and trembling.

precum dripped from his tip like sap, and the way your slick coated the length of his cock only made it worse.

you looked down with dazed eyes and saw the moment he brought his hand to his mouth, dragging his tongue over his palm. “Stan, please,” your voice trembled like your thighs. and then he spat right into his hand, rubbed it down his shaft like he wanted to drown his cock in it, mixing his own saliva, precum and your wetness.

your mouth fell open. holy shit, why was that so damn hot?

“you gonna fuck me or marry me?” you teased, trying to keep your voice light, even as your body ached for him.

Stan groaned low in his chest, hand tightening around himself. “gonna do more than that, baby,” he nudged the head right against your entrance, slowly slipping inside. “gonna make sure you’re round next time i leave. gonna fuck a baby into you, princess.”

the second the word leave left his mouth, you flinched. a shadow passing through your face. obviously, you didn't like his words about leaving. but you didn’t get the chance to reply, because Stan pushed in.

a slow, thick slide, inch by inch as he pressed your hips down to stop you from wriggling away. your back arched violently and a cry ripped from your throat what made Stan cup your face as he kissed your jaw, whispering against your skin.

“shh, i got you. takin’ me so good, princess, so brave f’me. good girl, makin’ me feel like a man again.”

you gasped for air, fingers clawing at the sheets. god, you’d forgotten how big he was, forgotten how it felt, to be stretched and filled like this.

his cock pulsed inside you, and you could feel every damn vein, them throbbing against your walls as your pussy clenched in response, sucking him even deeper.

your brain turned to white noise. Stan said something about how tight you were, perfect and made for him, but all you could do was breathe like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing with no sound.

god. god.

you wanted to say, no, you’re just so big, Stan, but your lungs couldn’t form a single word. only shivers and tears.

and he hadn’t even moved normally yet.

Stanley's cock felt so good inside you, so thick, hard and pulsing, what made you dizzy. the ridges, the curve, the stretch, fuck, this man was perfect. you moaned right into his mouth. “mmghh, Stan. . . gosh, you feel so good”

“baby— fu-fuck, missed this pussy. m-missed how good she feels. holy shit. . .” you whispered something like ”don’t pull out, don’t ever pull out” and Stanley groaned right into you, pressing his forehead to yours, about to lose his goddamn mind.

it was logical that he would start moving but for some reason you weren't ready for it, so when Stanley started to slowly push into your body with heavy thrusts, then reaching deeper. faster. harder, your mouth dropped open in a perfect “o”. especially when his tip slammed into your cervix. again. again. again.

fortunately or unfortunately, Stanley was aware of this too, felt the way you clenched immediately and the way your pussy grabbed at him, and he barely held himself back from pounding into you like a goddamn animal.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” he choked. “im that deep inside you, princess, huh.” and god help him, he hadn’t known he could get this damn feral just knowing his baby wanted to be bred.

unable to contain himself, Stan slammed into you much harder than before, changing the languid and gentle rhythm to a rougher one. sweat dripped from his jaw onto your chest as he pinned you open, driving his throbbing cock in and out, groaning at how good your starved pussy felt, fluttering and gripping him so hard it made his eyes roll back.

his tip kissed your cervix again and again until you were crying, sobbing loudly into his mouth with every slam. and these sounds only increased in volume when his hand found your clit and rubbed fast.

“come on, baby,” Stan growled. “milk my cock. wanna feel this sweet little pussy squeeze the fuck out of me.”

you whined, closing your eyes tightly and starting to wiggle your hips, feeling a shiver run through your body. “go-gonna cum, gonna cum. . .hnnghn, Stan, im cumming“

“yeah, do it. good. cum for me, sweetheart.”

cumming on his cock was fucking divine.

so good it almost scared you. you’d forgotten how good it could feel, to twitch and clench and gush around that thick, perfect length, after three months without him. three months of empty nights, cold sheets, and fingers that never got you even halfway there.

Stanley knew you like the back of his bruised hand, and it was almost insulting how quickly he adjusted. so when he felt you pulse around him like that, that telltale flutter of your cunt trying to milk him dry, he slowed down enough to draw it out.

and honestly, he was almost shocked he could do it, shocked he could resist.

but he did, and he started to move in slow, deliberate thrusts, rolling his hips in smooth, sensual circles. not thrusting anymore, but massaging, pressing that cock into every inch of you with agonizing control.

from Stan's lips fell those guttural, low moans, perfect gravelly sound you always loved, as he was watching your body seize and flutter from the inside, feeling your pussy contract around him. in response, you clawed at his wide shoulders, gasping, moaning and sobbing his name. back bent so sharply that any gymnast would’ve gasped in awe. and your whole body shuddered like you’d been struck by lightning.

Stan waited, patiently, such a good man, until the full-body spasm of your climax ebbed, before he leaned in and kissed you sloppily, shoving his tongue into your mouth, claiming every inch of you inside and out. his tongue dragged over every soft corner of your mouth, so deep and thorough you started moaning again straight into his lips, barely able to breathe.

the bastard. he knew you needed a second to catch your breath. knew your lungs were still struggling from how hard you’d just come. and yet here he was, already fucking your mouth with his tongue like it was another hole for him to use.

god. what a man. what a sick, dirty, perfect man.

he treated you like a princess even when he was buried balls deep inside you. knew when to fuck you stupid and when to stop. knew when to rub your clit and when to grind that thick cock against your spot until you saw stars.

you’d never felt more adored.

“you alright, baby?” Stan brushed hair from your face with a tenderness that, honestly, didn’t match the way he was pounding you some minutes ago. “goddamn, you came so hard i thought you’d faint. like last time, huh?”

you laughed, cheeks going hot, and turned your head away, muttering under your breath. “oh no no no, we’re not talking about last time, Stan. i told you that was low blood sugar, okay?” what a good little liar you were.

because yeah, you had fainted. completely blacked out, limp with his cock still buried inside you. and for a full thirty seconds, Stan was convinced he’d fucked you to death.

no one was allowed to mention it ever again.

Stanley snorted softly, clearly still a little too proud of himself.

but now, the fog of climax was finally lifting, and beneath it, a new hunger bloomed, so you pulled Stan in closer, grazing your nails down his back, and gave your hips a teasing little wiggle, slow and bratty. the smile you flashed up at him said everything.

he got the message. oh, he got it.

“round two already?” he muttered, cock twitching back to life inside you.

“mm-hmm,” you purred. “but this time i want it real. wanna feel you cum in me, with me. wanna make a mess. make me yours. on your birthday, on father’s day, gosh, just fill me up already. you said you wanted to be a father so bad. . .”

that flipped something in him. “holy smokes, b-baby,” Stan hissed. “you want that? want me to fill this little cunt up, huh?”

the only reaction was a loud gasp when he pushed in deep until the head of his cock pressed hard against your cervix again, that feeling you missed the most. then he placed his hand on your belly, where a soft bulge had started to form.

“look at that,” he said, mesmerized. “i can see it, see where i am inside you.” his palm pressed down just a little more. “this is where my kid’s gonna grow, right here. right fuckin’ here.”

there was no rhythm anymore, only that frenzied tempo of flesh slamming against flesh. each thrust was so deep and rough it no longer resembled sex so much as it did two animals fucking, returning to instinct. his mating press had long since turned feral, especially with your hips lifted so high.

somewhere beneath the sounds of skin meeting skin, breathy gasps, and the creak of the bed under his weight, Stan's voice broke again. “th-the cervix, feel it,” Stan groaned, not even addressing you directly, “right here. fuck, it’s open, pullin’ me in.”

and indeed, your womb did feel like it was clutching him. suctioned around the thick head of his cock, pulsing as though starving for seed.

his pelvis rolled again, changing the angle. this time, the base of his cock ground hard against your swollen folds, while the tip pushed right up against that slick, trembling ring inside. too deep. so deep your ribs ached. “fuck, baby, fuck, i feel you so deep. you wanna get knocked up so bad, don’t you? my good girl.”

words were impossible as your cries came out strangled and high-pitched. and when your hands clawed at his back, digging in like mad, your fingers tangled in his hair, sliding across sweat-slicked skin, Stanley moaned. loud.

“fuuuck,” he whimpered, yes, whimpered, hoarse and guttural, so loud you were sure birds flew from the trees and every animal near the shack scattered. “baby, your pussy’s so hot, ready for my cum— gonna fill it, fuck, she wants it”

his balls slapped wet and heavy against your ass, tight and full, desperate to unload. while your pussy clenched, opening every time the fat mushroom head of his cock knocked against your cervix, your body knew what was coming, and welcomed it.

“Sta-stan, please, breed me, do it, i’m ovulating, you could do it,” your words came out garbled, barely intelligible even to yourself. “put your baby in me— mark my womb, make it yours. impregnate me.“

“gonna make you a mommy, that's right. you ready to take all of it? every drop? holy fuck, want me to wreck that womb so bad it never forgets me?”

you blink up at him, tears collecting in your lashes before they spill over, tongue half out from how hard you're panting, your jaw’s gone slack from the pace.

“yes, baby, yes. . .you’re gonna cum? you close, baby? oh god, please— please, Stan, do it. it’s your birthday. it’s fa-father’s day. don’t you wanna be a dad tonight?” your pussy is so soaked it’s slurring wet sounds back at him with every thrust, a dirty squelch echoing beneath your cries. thick strings of his pre-cum are already dribbling inside, kissing the opening, teasing the inevitable, marking you inside first.

“so tight. hhngh, sweetheart, the fuck are you doing to me. . .”

“make me a mommy,” you finally exhaled, blinking through the haze. “do it. d’you hear me? make me a mommy, Stan. wanna get pregnant today. on your birthday. you— you should cum inside me. fill me up and keep going.”

“gonna knock you up,” he whimpered against your lips. “fuck you ‘til you’re leaking me. to the last drop”

the moment he spilled inside, it was so messy. the way he came was just. . . thick. the pressure built right behind your cervix, in warm surges, as his cock pushed once, then again, and then started to slowly leak.

Stanley slowed, only marginally, just enough to thrust deeper, harder, driving his hips into you, and a low growl tore from his chest. your limbs tangled around him like ivy, squeezing, clinging, trembling from the mixture of pain and pleasure only sex with that charming bastard could bring.

“fuck, love, that’s what you wanted, yeah? my good girl, takin’ it so well,” whatever composure he had left was long gone. the thought of breeding you, of really making you a mommy, had scrambled something inside his brain, fried it beyond repair.

your head barely managed a nod. words failed, mouth too slack with sensation to form anything coherent. the best you could do was choke out a breathless, slurred chorus of “yes yesyes yes thank you, Stan, thank you for your seed,” broken up by sobs as your hips jerked again and again, trying to ride the wave out.

he was still coming. still. god, he kept spilling in slow hot streams, seeping straight into your needy womb, the tip of his twitching cock pressed to your opening, marking you from the inside out. your body responded on it's own, wet walls fluttering around him in rhythm, coaxing every last drop with shameless intent. good. a dazed, blissed-out smile curved across your lips. good. it was right. you were made for this. your body knew what to do. good.

“sill feelin’ it,” Stan muttered low against your skin, voice disbelieving. “shit, doll, you’re milkin’ me dry, ughh.”

and even as you felt so dangerously full, stretched to the edge of capacity, your arms remained locked around his neck, thighs clamped tight in a futile attempt to trap all that warmth inside, to keep him rooted there for good.

“don’t pull out,” came the urgent plea. “don’t you fucking dare. just keep going. you’re not done. still hard. just— just use me.”

and that was it, Stanley obeyed, rolling his hips into you with that same fierce determination. deeper than deep as he wanted to fuck the thought of anyone else out of your head forever. your womb was already full, and he was still trying to give you more.

starting again, sudden and unrelenting, as if there hadn’t been your sobbing and shaking from being too full. maybe he didn’t hear it, or maybe he just chose not to. it was easier that way, instead of facing the reality of what it meant to stop. who would want to? especially when it's still hot and sticky inside, everything is throbbing from the recent orgasm, and he's still so deep there.

there's something special about Stan still being able to fuck you well, even after he's already finished. it’s simply not enough just to cum inside, no, it has to stay there, warm, heavy, pooling. that was always the point. and god, the sight of that milky ring at the base of his cock only confirmed how determined this man was to impregnate you.

but satisfaction still didn’t come. lips were too swollen to beg, but the slurred plea was still there, pulled straight from some desperate corner of the brain that hadn’t yet given up. “twins, Stan. . .y-yeah, breed me again. . . give me twins, want them to look like you, baby.” the words didn’t stop, even if they sounded more like crying than anything else, a gasping, vowel-heavy mess of wanting.

everything was so sweet it started to burn.

Stan's hands locked hard around your hips and dragged your whole body deeper into the mattress until movement from your side wasn’t even possible anymore. he handled everything, the body beneath him belonged entirely to him.

groaning at your tightness, Stanley also felt how the mess from before had started to leak down already, thick globes of his cum dripping down your thighs and pooling under your ass, too much. there was no containing it anymore.

“look at that,” he murmured, almost to himself, eyes locked on the mess between your thighs. “stuffed you so full it’s leaking out . . . and you’re still clenching like a greedy little thing.”

“y-your greedy girl. . . Stan, i can feel you so deep. right in my tummy, oh.”

oh, Stanley heard you, don't worry. proof of this was his strong arms locking tighter around your thighs, hairy chest crushing into yours as he folded you under him completely, pressed you into the bed without any pity, rutting his cock into a cunt that couldn’t take anymore, yet begged for more all the same.

“i’m gonna get you pregnant, princess. properly, gonna leave you glowing while i rot at sea with my damn brother, right? riiiightt, that's my girl. wanna be bred so bad. . . ill be out there with Ford, and you’ll be here, walking around with my babies, my girl. my sweet girl. shiiiit, need to see you pregnant. yeah. i’ll give you the twins. you deserve them.”

and that’s how it started. your sob came without warning. humiliating sound dragged from somewhere deep enough to hurt. it wasn’t from his roughness, even though that was there too, those things made you sob before. but this time, it wasn’t pleasure.

you didn’t want him to leave. you couldn’t do it again. not like last time. it was panic.

perhaps it was the way your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as they clung to his shoulders, or it was just your shallow fast breath, but whatever it was, Stanley felt it and stopped to look down, meeting your red eyes.

“what? hey, hey, hey,” a voice above you, his fingers coming up to your cheeks. your face is wet, he realizes, soaked. “what is it baby? did i hurt you?”

perhaps it’s humiliating, to be fucked like this, so deep and animalistic, and suddenly fall apart for a reason that has nothing to do with his cock. except, maybe, it does? maybe it has everything to do with how it’s been months. months of no voice. no scent. months of drifting sleep and fake smiles.

“cmon, what’s goin’ on, doll, huh? talk to me.”

you hiccup and cover your face with your forearm because you’re ashamed. it’s pathetic, you think, probably selfish too, but it spills anyway. “its stupid, but i just— fuck. i missed you. so much. and i don’t want you to go. dont leave again, please, Stanley. please don’t leave me again—“

oh, his face said, even before his mouth could form the words. oh. that’s what this is.

“baby, no, no. no, not going anywhere, not again. not without you.” Stanley kissed each tear as it came, warm mouth chasing the salt from your skin.

“promise me you won’t.”

“i promise,” he exhaled into your mouth. “i promise, honey.”

“thank you, thank you . . .oh gosh, don't stop fucking me. i love you s-so much”

somewhere between thrusts, the rhythm stops being his alone. what began as Stan fucking into you becomes a meeting halfway, your hips lifting off the bed, you start working for it. liquid hunger pooling behind your lower belly. pussy pulling him in deeper with each forward roll.

you don’t even feel human, desperate to draw him in again and again until every drop’s drained.

eyes wide, Stanley knows, placing one hand on your belly to feel the outline of his cock rocking against your insides, he watches how your pussy welcomes each brutal slide.

“that’s it,” he growls, thumb dipping to your throbbing clit, rubbing smooth circles just as you move again and take all of him in one shameless motion. “doin’ it yourself now, huh? needy little doll. wanna milk my balls empty?”

your answer comes in loud whimpers and cries. the way his pulsing cock glides through you now, brushing up against that aching, swollen mouth of your cervix with every push, turns language into noise.

“s’it feel good, sweetheart? this birthday cock hittin’ so deep it’s got you dumb, huh?”

you giggled softly and stupidly. there’s cotton where your thoughts used to be. a glazed little smile, lips kiss-bitten and parted, drool glimmering down your chin as you tried to nod and say something clever, although nothing came out but a dizzy laugh and a small, “so deep, Stan. . . ‘s so much”

“fuck. don’t say that,” Stan begged, giving you one more deep, mean thrust just for the wet sound of it. “don’t say that while i’m still inside, or i’ll knock you up again before this one’s even settled.”

your cunt clenched at the threat, involuntarily of course. it was like your body couldn’t help itself, not when the head of his cock kissed your cervix and stayed there. you could still feel his warm cum drooling against it, dripping right where it needs to be.

“‘s your birthday,” you sighed, feeling your clit twitching under the ghost of his thumb. “m’just just your present,” and with a sleepy drag of fingers down your belly, you added, “and it’s father’s day. guess i better give you a baby too. seems fair.”

“fuck, sugar, you even hear yourself?”

you nodded, stupid-happy, still smiling as Stanley laughed breathlessly above you too.

“oh, you’re gone, huh? all fucked dumb off your old man’s cock, sweet little gift box all wrapped up for me. mhmm”

you wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders, curling around him, murmuring nonsense into his chest. “birthday boy deserves to feel my womb wrap around him. deserves to cum inside.” you babbled, slamming your hips down to meet his thrusts like it’s all you were born to do. “you said you would. . . said id get round. my belly’d get all tight with your twins, Stan, please, please— fill me again“

he would. oh, he’d fucking make sure of it. he’d fill you so deep they’d see it in the way you walked. no doubts. he’d breed this sweet hole until it forgot anything else.

his balls drew tight, a hard twitch against your skin, when you felt him finishing, a rush of thick, roping cum flooding past the gate of your womb until you swore you felt it bloom inside you.

you spasmed, pussy fluttering around him, greedily milking, clenching, trying to seal him in. the whole bed gave a tired creak, nearly drowned out by Stan’s guttural groan as he pumped one last wave into you, leaking back around the base.

his chest was damp against yours. cock still buried, twitching faintly inside while you both fought to breathe again. Stan shifted like he meant to move, maybe give you relief, but your thighs snapped shut around his hips, arms looping behind his waist, hands grabbing handfuls of his ass just to keep him there.

“don’t pull out,” your voice was sticky with sleep and bliss. “m’so full. it’s all warm in there.”

Stanley didn’t answer right away. instead, he gave a single slow roll of his hips, just one, and it was enough to wring another broken whimper from your poor throat. he stayed pressed right up against that sore, overfucked spot deep inside, and the pressure made your belly feel swollen, stretched, already struggling to hold everything he’d given you.

“feels like you poured twins in me,” you said, dreamy. “think ill swell up for real this time.”

he huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his hand was already on your stomach. “they’re gonna have your eyes. . .your nose, too. sweet little face just like yours. don’t argue.” a kiss to your cheek, featherlight. “that’s final.”

however, deep down, intuition told him they’d be the spitting image of him. stubborn little things. his blood always did run strong.

you smiled into the crook of his neck, tears prickling again as your overstimulated pussy gave another soft flutter around him. not ready to let go. not yet. not for hours. maybe not ever.

“happy fuckin’ birthday to me,” Stan chuckled against your skin. “now be a good girl and hold it in, huh?”

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Lots of artists draw pointier-eared bg3 races with expressive ears that show their emotions, whether they be elves/half-elves, gnomes, or githyanki. (+expressive tails in the cases of tieflings and dragonborn). What are your thoughts on Gale learning his beloved’s unique mannerisms, over time, or through reading? Perhaps discovering they’d been signaling (intentionally or unintentionally) they were smitten for Gale, long before he confessed/suspected they were interested.

🥹 this is such a cute ask, anon!

You know, I can’t help but think that Gale would already have a wealth of knowledge about many different cultures/races, simply because he is such an enthusiastic scholar. I mean, one of the things I enjoy about having him and Lae’zel adventure together is that he will constantly engage with her about Githyanki culture, asking her questions to confirm or expand on what he already knows!

So, a Tav that he is interested in?? Oh, he’s going to be very attentive! He’ll want to know what they enjoy and what makes them happy, after all. Perhaps he learns their favorite foods by noticing the way their ears perk up when he lists certain ingredients. Or the way their tail begins to swish in excitement after they’ve taken their first bite of the dinner he cooked. Perhaps he acquires books that will give him further insight into their mannerisms, and pores over them each night after retiring to his tent: Tav’s expression had remained neutral while dealing with that stubborn merchant, but their tail had flicked twice—did that indicate annoyance?

Between his books and his attentive observations of Tav, I think, truly, Gale would have a pretty solid understanding Tav’s subtle expressions rather quickly.

…BUT! Here’s the twist: I think Gale would have a difficult time (ridiculously so) realizing that Tav’s happy mannerisms were aimed specifically at him.

Oh, he would definitely notice how their tail would sway contentedly whenever he stood near them, or the way their ears would turn a pleasant pink whenever he greeted them, but he would simply assume it was due to them being such an affable, lovely, kind person to begin with.

And I think, before the weave scene happens and Tav makes it blatantly obvious how much they like him, he would not put two-and-two together.

But afterwards?

…imagine Gale, lying in his tent and trying to calm his pounding heart, replaying in his mind again and again the image of Tav passionately kissing him, wondering why he had never noticed their growing affection? Of course he had thought—had hoped—had wished for it, but he had never noticed anything peculiar! Certainly nothing beyond their usual ear twitches—something that several books had indicated was ‘flirtatious’ behavior, but he’d grown so used to Tav doing it that he knew it was just their natural habit—or the way that they’d gracefully weave their tail between their fingers whenever they would engage him in conversation—again, something that multiple tomes had proclaimed to be ‘courting’ behavior, but Tav had always done it when talking with him, and so-

Only for him to jolt straight up, eyes wide open, and realize that BY THE GODS—-!

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

LaDs: Random Head-Canons

~ these are just random little ideas I have about each love interest, like a previous post I made, most of these have no prior canon lore to back the claim. Just based on vibes.

You and Rafayel plan your arguments. Contrary to popular belief, you two don’t fight often at all. Due to that, you two like to role play arguments for giggles. It usually ends when one of you can’t keep it together and/or the argument turns real. Which usually means it’s time to tap out and do some damage control.

You and Sylus dedicate at least twenty minutes of time before bed to lay together and gossip. It’s like having a sleepover with your bestie. You get settled, face each other, and just go on and on about whoever and whatever until your eyelids are heavy and he can’t stop yawning.

You and Zayne frequently shower together. It’s your favorite way of getting a little quality time in before starting your days. 9/10 times it doesn’t lead to sex either, just soft giggles shared under a warm stream of water while you discuss what your days hold and when to expect the other to arrive home. You even plan out your dinner for the night while shampooing his hair.

You and Xavier garden together. Not that kind of gardening, actual gardening on his balcony with plants you’ve adopted from Jeremiah’s shop. You’ve given them all names, have a detailed care plan hanging on Xavier’s fridge, and the passcode to his apartment if he’s off in a no hunt zone. They’re your babies.

You and Caleb have spa nights. I’m talking mani/pedi, face mask, hair mask, under eye patches, lymphatic massages, the whole nine yards. Caleb shaves your legs for you as a thanks for shaving his stubble since he always cuts his face up. But with your legs? He’s so gentle, so careful, doesn’t miss a single hair. He also rocks the black nail polish you applied to his fingers.

Rafayel takes note of what perfumes you buy, and jots down his thoughts on them. He’s still a little traumatized (heavily turned on) by that one perfume. The one you only have an unlabeled bottle of, the one you use to rile him up. So he takes down the scent notes from your other fragrances to try and compare to the unlabeled bottle but dammit he gets so… distracted that he can only recall one possible note at a time.

Sylus stole one of your trinkets — it was a duplicate figure from a blind box — and keeps it in his pocket whenever he goes out on business. It’s his way of keeping a piece of you with him all the time. The silly little thing makes him smile like a moron when he feels it in his pocket or sets it out on the table before him while he works. He’s named it his “mini kitten” and he’ll send you pictures of it on his travels.

Zayne designed your engagement ring himself one afternoon while listening to a colleague drone on and on about research he already knew by heart. He draws well, steady hands and precise eyes aided him in school when he had to draw out anatomy diagrams. But now? He can doodle for fun and it turns out pretty damn good. So he spent the meeting designing your ring, eager to make it real.

Xavier has a list of baby names saved on his phone. Any time he heard one he liked, he’d open his note app and jot it down. At this point, he has nearly thirty names saved, and has even discussed the topic with you and added some additions. Perhaps he’s too invested now, because all of his recommended items are baby clothes and furniture. It’s giving him baby fever.

Caleb wants to get tattoos but the DAA and the Farspace Fleet have strict policies on them. He still snuck one, a matching one he got with you shortly after you graduated high school. It’s hidden on the inside of his bicep, as is yours, and it’s another little secret the two of you share together.

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Ways in which You, the MC, raise the Characters Blood Pressure

All characters, except Luke

Cw: suggestive, spoilers and lesson 16 mentions.

Lucifer

You arranged the bottles of liquor in his study. It is order, you claim. in height and color, but for Lucifer it is a mess. It is a mess, he declares, his hands having to re-route every time they search for the intended bottle.

You do not wear weather-appropriate clothing. Look at the waistcoat on him, MC, with gloves and a dramatic flair which mimics a peacock. It is about to snow, and you do not have a jacket on. You're not cold, you affirm, but the goosebumps on your skin say otherwise. What a pity, here, have his coat.

You send him those god-awful, brainrot reels on Devilgram and expect him to watch every single one. Not his feed, not his brick, but it is there thanks to you.

You decide to climb the shelves to reach for the jar of choco-chip cookies. Yes, demons are taller, but please just use a stepping stool or ask for assistance. Imagine his plight when he walks into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion and sees you scaling the shelves like a monkey, feet and hands gripping the wood for dear life.

You act flamboyant. Not too much, but with your head held high and that smirk on your face, fully aware of your capability and achievements, throwing him a sly glance as he takes the coat off your shoulders at a ball in the Demon Lord's castle. It gets him weak.

You participate in his brothers tomfoolery. They decided it would be a great idea to rearrange the dining room's furniture. Everyone is bickering about the ideal placement, there are streaks on the floor, and is that fire???!!! Mammon he can string up in the living room, Satan and Belphegor can be on bathroom cleaning duty, but you—what does he even do with you?? When you sheepishly apologise and give that godforsaken smile, he has no choice but to relent.

You get a little too buddy-buddy with Solomon. He's from the human world, sure, it is natural to bond with one of your kind, but when he sees you two together with almost identical smirks on your faces his brows furrow. In resignation. And a little bit of trepidation. What are you planning, MC?

Mammon

You threatened to take away Goldie when he did not listen to you. Stack it away nicely in a place where he can't reach it. Maybe the freezer. Maybe the toaster. He doesn't know.

You run headfirst into danger. Listen, Mammon knows you are very strong. Capable and headstrong. But please, please, MC, thats an Abyss Snake! Those creatures have venom so potent it can obliterate demons, and you are a human! Blessed, even though, but still, have some consideration for his heart before he runs after you, who is insistent on petting it.

You get a little too close to others. Nothing wrong with that, but his brain can't stop but cry out in protest. Biology deems it so. He's your first man! Don't you forget it! Lesser demons don't get too close though, because his scowl is enough of a warning. And he's not just all bark. Second-oldest, don't you forget.

You own him. Others demons trying to get close to him, subtly trying to slot their bodies against him at a club, or even in public. You glare and with ease tug Mammon towards you, until your lips nearly touch, intent on showing them that he's not available. Only for you.

You ate his noodles, leaving none for him.

You don't pick up his calls when you're in the human world. Crows he can send in every corner of the Devildom to look for you, assured of your safety and wellbeing. But in the human world, he can't. Six missed calls, MC, better pick up the seventh, before he decides to conjure a portal and come down there,

Leviathan

You criticised the figurine in his room. It looks weird, you say, like a blob of soup. It's magic munchkin from Igotreincarnatedinto soupduringtheTangdynasty, he says. Normies don't appreciate art. Hmpgh.

You cosplayed as Henry 2.0. and crept into his room at 3 am. Imagine his plight when he opens his eyes because he feels as if someone is watching him, only to see you decked out in full fish, contacts and all. He woke up the whole house with that scream.

You don't react to every single Devilgram reel he sends you. Friends send each other reels, sure, but these are fifty reels in a span of an hour. Just an hour.

You denied sleeping in the bathtub with him when you came over to his room for movie night, choosing to sleep in your bed instead. You claim its because the bathtub is uncomfortable. He assumes its because you hate his presence. Please just bring a mattress next time, MC, our Envy Avatar is in low spirits.

You take control. Shoving him against his chair, sitting on top of him as if you own him. Your smile is just a tad cruel, hands finding their way to the spots where he reacts the most. It makes him go blank. Please don't stop please please please

You stare at another demon too long. His envy can't help but take over. What is it that the demon have that he does not? What is it that enchants you so? Self-loathing follows after.

You forget to send him AP and receive it from your daily in-game logins. Sin.

Satan

You took the liberty of arranging the pile of books in his room. Like Lucifer, he has a natural order for them in mind, which you disrupted. Physics on the left, biology on the right and astronomy in the middle. Now its alll goneeee. No order. Chaos, however orderly they make appear.

You pet a cat and did not send him a picture. He knows from the cat fur on your clothes and the happiness on your face. Where is the kitty, MC, send him a pic now. He needs to meet the feline.

You asked Solomon for help with your studies. Sure, he's a very, very renowned sorcerer with whom even the demon likes to debate with, but study sessions are you and Satan's thing. Not with Solomon. Now you have got two intellectuals helping you study, as Satan acts passive-aggressive towards the sorcerer.

You two throw debates on random topics head to head. Intelligence is sexy, and that smile when you've outwitted him? Satan is about to swoon like a Victorian woman.

You don't walk alongside him. MC has the habit of frolicking along the path like a sheep. Cute. Maybe they have a faster pace than him. But he can't help but feel as if you are trying to avoid walking alongside him, unintentional that may be.

You add irrelevant items to the shopping cart when you both are out. Stick to the budget MC, stick to the budget, Satan chides, as he slips in a pack of the chocolate you prefer into the cart.

Asmodeus

You used a beauty product which he hates. Yes, that chaos snail cream is trending right now, but it gave him breakouts! Stop that, MC, here, use this instead!

You don't comment on his latest post/story/reel. You've been too busy with studies and Sorcerer society, we know. But you know he anticipates your comments the most! He wants YOU to look at him!!! Admire him!! You better add some heart emojis next time, MC.

You insist on cleaning together. He denies. At first. Complains all throughout, then insists on taking a bath together to get cleaned off.

You go out in public wearing an outfit that would have been put together by the enemy of fashion themselves. No, MC, you're so sexy haha please don't go out like that, when you've got Asmodeus right here to style you! He's already taking off your jacket and shoes, ready to drape you in finery. Always looking like a snack, his MC.

You see him for him, not for Asmodeus, Jewel of the Heavens. Your Asmodeus. Not the public image of him, not the impression he's curated of himself, but just the the person you see at home. At his most vulnerable. This sets him on fire like nothing else. Also when you match his freak

You insist on doing his nails. He's sweating for his life as you work on his fingernails. A very interesting choice of color there, MC, and oh, this nail buffer, seems a bit too.....rough.

Beelzebub

You don't look both ways before crossing the street. Sure, you are an accomplished sorcerer, but the inhabitants of the Devildom are still getting used to the law and order declared by Prince. That includes speed limits. His heart nearly jumps into his mouth during those moments.

You surprise him after his Fangol match. Him, all sweaty and red in the face. You, electrolyte in hand and that saccharine-sweet smile on your face that makes him weak. You could shove him against the wall and he would crumble.

You don't think before taking risks. Nothing peeves Beelzebub more than when you disregard your own safety. Please think twice before making hasty decisions that involve potential injury. For his sake, please, and the integrity of your physical body. Let him fuss over you.

You don't try your hair after you bathe/shower. You'll get a cold, he says, and a hairdryer is already in his hand. Sit down MC, and let Beel dry your hair. It will be quick.

You go out without him to eat. Eating together is love for Beel, nothing better than sharing a meal with your partner. So please don't deprive him of your company, MC, food tastes better when you are there with him.

You kill a fly. That was his friend, MC. His pal.

Belphegor

You downplay your injuries. Anyone who saw you fall down the stairs in the library knows that it would have hurt. You laughed and walked it off. He noticed the way your pace faltered, the hiss of pain when no one was looking. Please, take care of yourself, MC.

You leave hair ties around the house. Belphegor woke up to one next to his pillow, another on the RAD bench. One on top of the cabinet. And it drives him crazy. You're wondering how your supply of hair ties is running out fast, meanwhile, his supply is full, ready to be given when desired.

You put him in his place. He knows he's bratty at times, being the youngest comes with its own traits. When you bite back at him, grabbing him by the hair, showing him how brats are treated, he's gone. A demon deceased. At your mercy.

You make cow puns. Yes, he can talk to cows, yes, his clothes have a similar pattern. But enough with the jokes now, MC, go along and get mooooving—

You take his favourite pillow to be washed. It is dirty indeed, but Belphegor cannot sleep without it. He's sit by the washing machine and wait. Until its ready to be used again.

You crack your fingers. The sound can't help but remind him of that time when you fell down the stairs, and he watched from above in damned glee—until he saw the expression on his brothers faces and the way you gasped in pain. Please do not do it in front of him.

Diavolo

You decide to serve him pickles. It's good to try new things, you say, content on eating your own serving of pickles. Diavolo stares at the offending item as if it has committed regicide.

You make him finish his work. Yes, there is a pile of reports waiting to be signed, but its only a ten minute break, MC, what harm can it do? You're like Barbatos sometimes, hovering over him. Maybe if he jumped out the window to make an escape it might work.

You challenge his authority. Diavolo has been questioned plenty of times in the past, when he was still new to governance without his father overseeing affairs. The House of Lords opposed many of his orders. But you, you are different. Standing in front of him, challenging his opinion, so bold in stating your opinion and your claim. On him. Only him. Excuse his meetings for an hour, minimum, there is a very urgent matter right in front of him, one whose wishes he's willing to bend to eagerly.

You team up with Solomon. Diavolo cannot tell what you two are planning. Nothing but chaos is guaranteed. He's already bracing himself for a surprise.

You refuse to accept his gifts. You deserve the best of the best. What do you mean, MC, that this hundred thousand jewellery set is too much? that the piles of gifts outside your room is too much? None of that now, none of that.

You wear a strong perfume. His nose is sensitive, and the scent is so harsh that it makes him nauseous. Too polite to comment, he silently bears it while you wonder as to why he keeps leaning out of the window. Maybe there's something going on outside.

Barbatos

You don't tie your hair up while cooking. It gives him the ick like nothing else can, and before you can even start on chopping up the potatoes he's already working on tying your hair, clips and a headband magically appearing.

You showed him Ratatouille. Barbatos dropped the item he was holding. You thought he had gone catatonic after.

You serve him instead. He's accustomed to being the one assisting others, but when you do it it's different. When you straighten out his tie in the way you deem satisfactory, hands running down his chest for a brief moment, he's a demon gone.

You decide to make tea incorrectly, or incorrect in his eyes. The temperature has to be a perfect 40 degree celsius, MC. Ginger has to be shredded, not cut. Milk has to be warm, not straight from the fridge. MC—just let him—he'll do it. Just sit down and he'll make you a cup. With a bloody strawberry pastry.

You went inside his room, and ten different versions of you came out. He had to spend an hour trying to ensure all your versions did not meet each other, with Diavolo asking for him every fifteen minutes.

You go to the port market without him. Sacrilege. When he sees you with fresh groceries in hand, Barbatos feels betrayed. Without him?! He'll subtly make quips at you, and the next outing will be at the port, and you're going to be besides him. For safety, he says.

Simeon

You decided to stay at Purgatory Hall for the night, but not in his room. See, MC, he has a bed right here for you! And cookies!! Four pillows!! Please don't deprive him of your company.

You fold clothes incorrectly. The sleeve is hanging out, wrinkles already forming on a pair of trousers. The handkerchief is crumbled up into a ball. Simeon just sighs. Takes the clothes from your hands, gently sets it aside.

You act as the knight in shining armour. Sweeping in with just what he needs. He gazes at you in longing, perhaps one of a thousand years. Just kiss him MC, he'll be so good. He promises.

You text him in lingo he does not understand. "So true, bestie." ??? "Not very sigma of them." ???? "I've got major tea about the two demons who made a ruckus during curses and hexes." Tea???? Send him some reels, MC, maybe then he will get it.

You chew on a pen. People do it when they're in deep thought. Sure. But Simeon can't help it when he sees the indentations left on the body and the head. That poor pen. Crime committed.

You decided to teach Luke slang. Now he's cursing like a sailor. What will he do now, MC? Look at that sweet boy, now yapping. You've spoiled him with bad influences. How will he undo this?

Solomon

You don't sit on his lap. Never mind that there are plenty of seats around. His lap is the best seat. The chair on which you are currently sitting on feels like nettles. The sofa is too hot. His lap is the only option left.

You get a little too close to Asmodeus for his comfort. Solomon can't help but feel a pang of jealousy in his heart when you warm up to him. He's not so subtly interrupting you both, and acts as if everything is alright. Yeah, just apply that facemask on him too, he'll eat the cucumber.

You shove him into a nearby closet or an empty classroom. He barely has time to breathe before you are on him, hands fisting in his shirt, all his senses occupied by you. It drives him mad like nothing other.

You wake him up in the morning. He's catatonic at that hour. Any attempts to wake him up will be met with groans and grunts. Shaking him awake does not work. Mandatorily kisses are prescribed to wake him right up. Doctor, he needs them to wake up!

You deny his help. He knows you're a capable sorcerer, your power immeasurable. But let yourself rely on him sometimes, he's more than happy to help you. He'll drop everything to come to the aid of his beloved apprentice.

You dress up to go outside, expectedly staring at him. Solomon's sweating bullets internally, wondering if he missed a date. A special event. His book lies abandoned while he racks his brain. Was it today? Or tomorrow? Oh no no no no

Thirteen

You brought a bug in the house once. Claimed it cute and adorable. Thirteen climbed on top of the closet, did not come down till you let it outside. Banned, she tells you, from bringing them inside.

You didn't admire her latest creation well enough. She spent such a long time on it, MC! The giant bazooka!! And you gave it a glance and nodded!! Her heart!!

You get too chummy with Solomon. She declares it a crime. His cooking made her see stars during the day, and she woke up a whole day later on top of a bridge. Why do you have to hang out with that loathed sorcerer, MC?

You give her that smug smirk of yours, and she feels weak in the knees. Getting too close to her, acting so nonchalant. Her heart is doing cartwheels in her chest.

Mephistopheles

You forget titles while referring to Lord Diavolo. It's "Your Majesty," and "Lord Diavolo," MC. Don't be so rude towards his sovereign. He'll spend the whole day correcting you.

You ruffle his hair. Such an innocent gesture, but Mephistopheles can't help but stutter when you do it so casually. He's stuttering. Face hot.

You don't read the latest edition of the R.A.D. newspaper. He spent so long proofreading and collecting information, MC. And you still haven't read it. The demon is hurt. Better read it now, MC.

You bring out a chihuahua from your bag and place it on the desk. During a meeting. The tiny thing trembles. He sighs.

Raphael

You sew hastily. He can see the haphazardly put together stitches. Raphael is already gesturing you over, needle in hand. Sit down and let him fix it.

You find yourself in trouble due to the brothers shenanigans. He walks out of Purgatory Hall and sees you upside down on a tree. He sighs. Takes his spear and removes the branch, catches you in his arms.

You manhandle him. Something about the way in which you effectively guide him away from your path by grabbing his hips, or even pulling him closer gets him going.

You stop him from sampling Solomon's cooking. Its a culinary delight, he says. It is assault on the tastebuds, you claim. He's offended, already grabbing a spoonful of his food. Heaven, he sighs.

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Something for the weekend

My absolutely beloved @halixius sent a kiss prompt request to my inbox for 35. a kiss in the space between the shoulder blades. I had a couple of ideas come to mind for this prompt and this was the first. It turned into a short Lyra and Harvey fic, in which our anxious doctor realises he has a very real case of very real feelings. Lyra helps him to feel better. Here's a little snippet:

A leisurely smile rose to his face, thankful that tomorrow was Sunday and he could spend another day with her.

Wait…

His eyes flicked open, and he groaned, lids fluttering shut once more as he swept a hand across his forehead at the realisation. Tomorrow was Monday.

But then that would mean…

A small pinch of anxiety gripped his stomach, worry sneaking in at the edges of his brain, slowly consuming the serenity he’d felt as he strolled through his memories of the week past and his plans for the days to come. Every thought sharpened, focusing on one single concern. He stared at the ceiling above, tucking an arm under his head as he tried to force himself back into the relaxed state of a few moments ago, huffing lightly as tension began to grasp his neck.

'Sweetheart, I feel a little guilty. I've stayed the last two nights… this makes three.' Harvey announced to the empty bedroom. 'Are you sure you don't want some time to yourself, or a break from me... not that I don't want to be here. Quite the opposite, in fact...' He sat up, looking in the direction of the bathroom.

'Harvey... who asked you if you'd like to stay?' Her calm voice carried from the next room.

A bashful smile tugged at his lips. 'Well, I think I asked you if I could stay on Friday night and just… never left. And now it's Sunday.' He looked down, fingertips fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

Lyra appeared at the bathroom door, hand on her hip as she leaned against the doorframe. 'But I didn't ask you to leave, did I?' She smiled affectionately.

You can read Something for the Weekend on AO3 here.

Thank you @saradika-graphics for the pretty dividers.

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Okay, I can do an addition to 🫶 anon?

We've all seen Stan's little doodles here and there, plus the fact that he wanted to draw as a kid. Now imagine if he wanted to train at drawing/painting? Like he take you as a model, he make you pose for hours (naked or not I don't know) and firstly he can take his time appreciating your body, plus it make tension build up? I just like the idea of him drawing with paper he found in the printer and some cheap pencil.

-🎩 anon

oh my god anon you don’t even know what you’ve done by saying that!!

i got a little carried away. btw warning nsfw themes but not too much

Stan once dreamt of drawing comics, you know. just said it offhandedly one night, over a gas station hot dog and a beer stolen from the back of a tourist’s cooler. “used to wanna be a comic artist. made a whole strip once, you know, uh . . . lil’ Stanley. yeahh that's the name.” as if it wasn’t the softest fucking thing you ever heard?

so what do you do when you learn your lover once wanted to become some kind of an artist? when you find out that he often stayed up late while Ford was sleeping, scratching out little heroes on sheets of paper, dreaming of newsprint and panels? you ask to see his drawings! of course you do. you say, show me, and he shrugs “nahh baby, c'monnn, it’s silly” but inside he’s so thrilled. embarrassed as hell, sure, but thrilled. because who asks to see his art? when was the last time he even heard that a person was interested in his hobby?

one day though, without ceremony, Stanley says “c’mere. wanna try something”

it’s printer paper, maybe even a few recycled flyers from the mystery shack gift shop. a mechanical pencil he probably swiped from Dipper’s backpack. but his hands are steady, just like when he was ten, brow furrows in concentration.

he’s pretending it’s no big deal. “nah, just practicing,” he’ll say, trying to make a look like he’s just killing time and you just so happen to be there. but you’re smart, you catch how he keeps stopping and just looking, pencil paused mid-air. Stanley's throat bobs when your robe slips a little lower on your shoulder. how he mumbles to himself, “shit, that’s sexy, yeah. goddamn, okay, hold still, sweetheart.”

it's so rare though, id say Stan actually. . . never asks you to pose after that. not properly, at least. he just watches you doing your every day things. sprawled on the couch reading. curled up in bed stretching your legs. sitting at the counter, elbows tucked in, licking raspberry jam from your thumb. that’s the moment yes, Stanley reaches for that scrap paper and suddenly the world narrows into the curve of your neck, or the dip of your hip under a too-thin shirt, or the slope of your spine as you bend forward to pull your hair back into a ponytail.

eventually Stan does ask you to pose but goddamn he's so shy and desperate “hey, uh so don’t think im bein’ weird, but could you— stand over by the window for a sec? no reason. jus’ y’look nice with the light behind you. fuck. never mind. or wait, actually, would you mind stayin’ there?” his voice gets a little strangled when he asks you to hold a pose. especially when you’re not dressed. or when the hem of your nightshirt is riding high on your thighs. his gaze flickers from the page to your skin, back and forth, trying to memorize every shadow your body casts.

he gets frustrated, too. growls a little. mutters that he’s “never been good at hands” or “can’t get your eyes right” and when you tilt your head, teasing, “oh yeah? show me what’s wrong” Stan awkwardly flips the paper around. too shy. sweating over it like it’s the mona lisa. for him it is though.

ohh yes the tension you are so right anon. it builds with every time he pauses and squints, then clears his throat and tells you to hold still, please, you’re shifting too much. you tease him for how serious he’s being. “you gonna sell this one?” Stan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling like a kid, his knee keeps bouncing, trying not to crawl onto your lap and kiss your gorgeous face raw.

he literally stares at your chest for a full minute under the guise of “sketching” but ugh then he awkwardly moves in his chair and. . . then has to loosen his belt because wow! it’s too hot in here all of a sudden. and god help him if you’re naked. his baby, you, trusting him like that? he’s dying the whole time, cock twitching in his boxers. Stan is trying to stay composed because he really wants to finish the drawing, but his pencil keeps slipping, eyes keep trailing lower. and then fortunately for you you hear, “sweetheart, if you keep lookin’ at me like that i aint gonna be able to finish this picture without makin’ a fuckin’ mess of myself”

“aw, fuck,” eventually leaves his mouth because Stan can’t keep going. you’re too pretty. too much. every time he tries to draw the curve of your belly or the arch of your spine, he has to pause, squeeze his eyes shut, and take a deep breath, because the urge to reach out and touch you is consuming him from the inside out.

so yeah. . . practice can wait. sometimes.

the drawing stays half-finished on the counter, and you end up pressed between his chest and the bed pillows, breathless and smiling into his shoulder. later, he’ll pretend he was never that into it, toss the sketch aside grumbling ”it doesn’t matter, sweetie, i’m literally talentless” but you’ll find it weeks later, folded in a drawer with your silhouette scrawled in clumsy lines and his handwriting in the corner “my pretty baby”

because you’re his muse

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Guys go read this fic. It's so good

It Never Was About the Soup, Chapter 3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66047659/chapters/170592631 <3

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Hello! :) I wanted to make a request for Stanley x Wife reader or younger Stan x gf reader (Idc you can choose)

My cat ran away a day ago, and I can't find him anywhere. I've been feeling really sad about it, and i'm so worried and anxious cuz my cat is a lil scaredy-cat and a picky eater, SO HES NOT MADE FOR THE OUTSIDE WORLD😭

Could you perhaps write some comfort, please? If not, please feel free to ignore this! THANKS

a/n: hi! i'm so sorry you're going through that. here's some younger stan x gf comfort coming up for you, hope you enjoy it and i hope your little guy comes home safely!

---

it had been a rough week.

internally, you were exhausted and just wanted to crawl into bed and hide, but externally, you put on a smile, keeping up the same energy you normally did.

little did you know there was a certain someone saw through the facade.

you were just about to slide under the covers, ready to call it a night early after a tiring day of putting on a brave face.

plink.

you blink in confusion, turning your head towards the window. you thought you heard something, but once the noise quickly dissipated, you assumed it might have been one of the branches of the tree next to your window hitting the glass from the strong winds that were howling. your back faces away from the window once again.

plink.

putting your blanket back into place, you begin to make your way to the window. your eyes widen at the small rock that clinks against the glass, the source of the sound. your eyebrows are furrowed in annoyance, ready to yell at what you assumed was some kids in the neighborhood trying to cause some trouble.

"hey, knock it off!" you yell, cracking your window open in frustration.

it catches you off guard to be greeted by your boyfriend of a few months, stanley pines, grinning back at you. a rock in his hand, the other tucked into the brown leather jacket over his broad shoulders.

"took ya long enough! was getting worried you already fell asleep, toots." stan snickered, discarding the rock onto the ground.

"stan, what're you doing here?" you say with alarm.

"can't a guy come and surprise his girl? i didn't realize i had to schedule an appointment to see ya." stan replies with a playful grin, "come join me for a joy ride, got the old man's keys for the night."

"meaning you stole those keys." you point out with a playful roll of your eyes.

stan simply shrugs, "tomato, toe-mato. same thing."

you glance down at your attire, having already changed into your pajamas. you bite down on your lip, "i'm already in my PJs, stan..."

stan brushes off your concern, "no need to get all dolled up, ya look great. just grab a jacket and come on down. your chariot awaits ya." he grins, gesturing to the red el diablo parked on the curb in front of your house.

you let out a sigh, a genuine smile creeping across your tired features. what the hell? you probably weren't gonna feel any better laying bed.

you walk away from the window, shutting it and grab the jacket on top of the pile of clothing that was growing in the corner of your room. sneaking down the stairs, you quietly close the door behind you, running into stan's embrace as he hugs you tight. inhaling the scent of his woodsy aftershave, you glance up at him.

"the old throwing rocks at your window? kinda cliche, pines." you tease. stan stammers over his words, trying to defend himself as he walks you to the car.

"so where are we going anyways?" you ask, slipping into the passenger side.

"that's surprise." stan grins, closing your door, leaving you confused.

-

the two of you walk along the empty pier of glass shard beach, most of the stalls closing up for the evening.

"thanks for taking me out, stan." you say with soft smile, figuring you were at the end of the adventure with the end of pier leading to the sand in sight. leaving the house actually did help a bit in clearing your head.

"the night's still young, toots. besides we haven't even gotten to the surprise." stan grins, tugging your hand towards the stairs leading down to the sandy beach. you chuckle at his eagerness, following behind him before he suddenly stops, covering your eyes.

"stan, what are you doing?" you giggle, your hands covering his large palms that completely block your vision. "we're almost there, don't wanna ruin the surprise." stan replies, guiding you carefully down the stairs onto the sand.

you take a few more steps before he removes his hands to unveil the surprise.

"ta-da!"

three beach towels that stan dug up from his mom's linen closet made a makeshift blanket in front of the water, a cooler next to it stocked with pitt cola and your favorite snacks, and a bouquet of flowers laying on top of it.

"stan, this is... amazing, but what's the occasion?" you say in confusion and awe, walking towards the set-up.

"seeing you down in the dumps is enough of an occasion for me." stan says, crossing his arms over his chest with pride at your reaction, "know it's been a tough week for ya, figured it's the least i could do."

you glance back at stan in surprise, not realizing he had caught on your low mood. and here you thought you had hidden it so well, trying not to worry him and everyone around you.

the tears finally well up in your eyes, and you give him a tight hug, soaking the fabric of his white tee. "how'd you know?" you sniffle.

he strokes the back of your head and scoffs, almost offended by your question, "you expect me to not know when you're faking it? i'm no genius like ford, but i've got enough sense to know what a real smile of yours looks like." stan presses a kiss on top of your head as you finally let the waterworks loose, rubbing your back soothingly.

"thank you...." you say through your sobs.

"anything for you, doll." he hums against your hair.

-

"you set this up all by yourself?" you ask, taking a sip of the pitt cola stan had just opened for you.

"well... i had a little help."

"... is that why we ran into ford at the beginning of the pier?"

"hey, he owed me a favor!"

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Filtered

good morning everyone, I hope you requested angst with your platter of eggs. (otherwise known as I was hit with the inspo stick after getting home from work and this is what happened--enjoy :3 )

I know I hid a pack here, somewhere. Stanford Pines found himself balanced on an overturned Pitt soda crate; his hand running meticulously along the edge of the porch roof of his home in the early hours of the morning.

Ford had been back in his home dimension for approximately forty-six hours, sleeping for roughly four of them. So many things had changed in his home in the last thirty years while he had been gone. What was once his haven of scientific discovery, had been transformed into some sort of freaky roadside attraction; complete with ludicrous taxidermies, his t-rex skull turned coffee table and last but certainly not least-old man smell. With all of that in mind, he thought at least this secret should still be hidden.

It was a dirty little habit- but Ford had not had a true-blue cigarette in decades, and he needed one badly. He had experimented, out in the wilds of the many dimensions he found during his travels-but nothing could match that nostalgic burning taste he craved. He could see the same old coffee can he had installed as an imitation ashtray; rustier than he remembered, and butt free- but still in the same spot next to the back steps. Logically, that would mean his hidden treasure was hopefully left unnoticed by the passage of time as well. Maybe they’re at the other end of the porch, closer to the door he thought, considering if he should check

The sound of the screen door slamming shut nearly tipped him off the edge of the crate before he righted himself, glaring down at the offending noise. There stood his brother; stained wife beater, undershorts and a mug of coffee in one hand. “What the heck are ya doin’ up there? Some goofy gnome make a nest or somethin’?” Ford rolled his eyes “no, Stanley. I was merely looking for something that I had hidden up here.”

Stanley squinted up towards where Ford’s hand was concealed behind the support beam and a grin slowly formed. “Oh, you’re lookin’ for your stash? Sixer, I found that pack like day three of bein’ here.” His brother’s grin widened “you always did hide those kinds of things high up.” Ford groaned; annoyance clear in his tone. “Of course you did, why would I think something would stay where I put it in my own house.” Stan’s grin quickly faded. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “Is this what every conversation is gonna be like with you? Maybe try not hiding your shit in the same place you would’ve if we were still teenagers.” Stanely balanced his cup on the arm of the worn-out couch that sat next to the back door, throwing a hand through his hair. “Since ya didn’t seem t’ notice, I had t’ replace this roof back in ’96 since some bark covered freak threw a temper tantrum and hit it with a birch tree- so no matter what your precious secret would’ve been either revealed or destroyed. Besides, even if I hadn’t touched them- would ya really wanna smoke thirty-year-old cigarettes, genius? If the paper hadn’t disintegrated, the tobacco would be stale as all hell.”

The last thing Ford wanted to do was admit that Stanley was right- so he wouldn’t. Before he could say another word though, he watched as his brother unzipped the pillow along the back of the couch cushion- a familiar rectangle appearing out from it. Stanley held it out towards him and Ford frowned. “What’s this?”

Stanley rolled his eyes. “The Hope diamond. What the hell d’ya think it is? I don’t have matches on me, but I’m sure you can figure that part out yourself, brainiac.” Ford rotated the package in his hand; it was the same brand he always preferred. A blue and white box of filtered cigarettes with a sailboat on the cover, the shiny cellophane still intact.

“You never smoked these; you liked menthols” he said after a moment. Stanley groaned as he leaned over to pick up his mug, a loud crack coming from his shoulder as he straightened himself again. “Yeah well, I’ve smoked a lot worse since then- but you’re not wrong. When I had half the chance t’ be picky, that’s what I went with. However when I went to Dusk 2 Dawn after ya know…everything-the old man behind the counter automatically reached for them when I started t’ ask for a pack. So, I figured I might as well. Ya know, t’ keep up appearances.” Ford slowly nodded as if anything that had happened in his absence made any sense for the last thirty years. “Besides” his brother softly continued, not looking at him but past him towards the forest. “…they smelled like you.”

Ford didn’t know what to say. He knew he should say something, anything. He was still so angry; so much had been taken from him over the years. His freedom, his identity, his home-even the kind of cigarettes he smoked. But this was the first time since walking back through the portal that he had talked with Stanley and listened.

A minute ticked by and still he was quiet, unable to say anything in response. What could he say? That he remembers things too? Like how they shared their first cigarette together when they were thirteen on the fire escape, after stealing one from their mother’s purse? That he eventually found the box with his name on it under the pillow on his brother’s bunk two weeks after Stanley was thrown out left. How it contained a lighter with a slightly crooked “S” etched into the metal-and that instead of trashing it, he kept it? That for better or worse, he had missed him?

Stanley picked his mug back up as he turned to leave. “Don’t let the kids catch you. Mabel went into a thirty-minute lecture on the cancerous side effects by just seein’ someone in a movie smoke, and Dip cited some fancy article I’m sure he’s too young t’ read about how the excess tar does some shit t’ your lungs. I don’t know that I can handle what would happen if they saw it in real time.” Ford nodded, still unable to say anything meaningful as he stared at the box in his hands. “Of course, I would never be irresponsible enough to do this in front of the children.” He thought he heard Stanley sigh before he heard the screen door slam shut behind his brother once more.

Stanford Pines reached into the innermost pocket of his coat where there were two items hidden, next to his heart. One, a photograph of two young boys on a dilapidated ship who had their whole lives ahead of them. The other, a relic of a lighter with a barely discernable etching that had seen much better days. He lit his guilty secret up and welcomed the bitter taste as it enveloped his senses, suddenly nostalgic for something entirely different.

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

‧₊ ᵎᵎ BLEEDING FOR IT⋅ ˚✮

tags: nsfw, mullet!Stan x fem!reader, established relationship, kinda angsty at first ig, Stan needs to be praised so badly, blood and injuries, dirty talk ig, crying during sex, fingering, praise kink, “my girl” stuff sometimes used, pet names,

finally it's here.....ugh i hate and love it at the same time. thanks to one wonderful person who helped me with the gif!! ehehe (i hate making em) look at my boyyy ah yeah reminder that english isnt my native language so..

Stanley didn’t drink. well, he did, but not really. it’d been weeks since he’d touched anything stronger than the flat coke you kept in the fridge for when he got home too late and too tired to cook. and yet, standing there in the doorway of your shared apartment, Stanley Pines felt so fucking drunk, absolutely plastered. the room swayed under his boots like the deck of a ship he dreamt of when kid, and he had the sudden, absurd thought that maybe the blood drying in the corner of his mouth wasn’t from someone else’s fist but from biting his own tongue too hard when he laughed.

because he had laughed, he remembered it clearly. he could still feel the echo of it in his ribs.

his knuckles were raw and his lip was split. one of his eyebrows had taken the brunt of something, he couldn’t remember if it was a ring or just the edge of a rusted mailbox, but it throbbed like hell now, felt so hot, swollen and thick beneath the skin. and still, he leaned there with cocky stupid grin slashed crooked under the bruises, feeling he’d done something worth being proud of.

he looked like shit. and he felt, god, he felt glorious.

“hey, doll,” he rasped, pretending he hadn’t been gone four hours past when you expected him, sincerely hoping you wouldn't notice his voice hadn’t gone all hoarse from yelling or adrenaline.

your face, that beautiful face with such gorgeous traits Stanley always adored, lit up the hallway and it wasn't painted with joy, love or even panic. it was worse and he knew he fucked up. that face meant the mixture of worry and fury that only people who actually gave a shit ever managed to look like. it punched the wind out of Stan harder than the guy who’d clocked him in the ribs.

you didn’t speak at first because you didn't have to. your eyes flared, the twitch of your jaw, your hands curling into fists at your sides. it said everything.

“you’re smiling?” you said at last, “Stanley Pines, where the hell have you been?”

Stan blinked, scratched at the side of his neck with a half-split fingernail. “i mean—’m here now.” a pause. “uh, shoulda seen the other guy.”

and that stupid grin. that stupid grin.

you looked at him, and somewhere deep inside appeared stupid feeling of. . . resentment? it felt like he’d torn a piece of you without even realising it, because loving someone like him meant getting carved up a little just from how reckless he was with his own body.

“sit down,” you hissed. “don’t argue, just sit.” mentally you cursed yourself because it felt like you were treating him like a dog.

trying to be a good boy to you, he obeyed. slumped down into the sunken couch cushion, noticing that the adrenaline was finally wearing off, what made his limbs felt thick. the pain was setting in, and so was the guilt.

you disappeared down the hall, the bathroom light flicking on. Stanley stared at his bloody hands while you were gone, flexing his thick fingers, wishing he'd still get the change to hold his sweetheart tonight. you. Stanley wanted to hold you.

you tried, with every ounce of your rational being, to remain calm. to breathe through your nose like your therapist once suggested, to count backwards from ten, to tell yourself that he was here, that he was alive, that the blood hadn’t dried in streaks down his neck for any reason more sinister than his own goddamn stupidity. but that hot rage bloomed in your chest, dragging a new flare of worry behind it, and the longer you looked at him, slouched on the couch looking so fucking proud of himself for cheating death again, the harder it became to ignore.

you inhaled so slow it almost hurt your ribs, and opened that cheap plastic box with cotton balls and antiseptic you kept under the sink, first aid kit. setting each item on the table one by one, you tried to stay calm, hoping your mouth wouldn’t open and start screaming.

because what the fuck, Stanley. he scared you, his state scared you. the blood, how his tank top clung wet to his stomach, the deep red stain crusting around the neckline, and the fact that his damn nose hadn’t even stopped bleeding yet. and yet, that bastard sat there on the couch, legs splayed like always, all man-spread and proud of it, arms thrown along the backrest as if he hadn’t just come home looking like a murder scene.

you stepped between his thighs, your body slotting into the open space just like it had a thousand times before, except now your hands were shaking, your throat was tight and your fucking heart was banging around in your chest.

the first thing you did was grab his chin and tilted his face up toward the light, trying to get a good look at the mess of bruises along his cheekbone. his skin was warm, flushed with blood, heat and leftover adrenaline, and god help you, for one sharp, sick moment, you felt like someone’s mother dabbing her boy’s scraped knees with peroxide. that's how childish his behavior seemed to you.

“you look like hell,” you muttered as you brought the cotton pad to his brow, blotting gently at the swollen purple ridge above his eye.

“tellin’ ya, sweetie, you should see the other guy,” he said again, giving you slow, crooked, lazy smile that made you want to both kiss him and punch him in the jaw.

“don’t start,” you snapped, trying not to think about the fact that despite the bruising, the crooked smirk and the bleeding nose, he still managed to look like the hottest piece of shit you’d ever laid eyes on. “don’t fucking start, Stanley.”

“but baby, he was mouthing off. sayin’ very nasty things bout you. callin’ you a— oh, i dunno, i stopped listenin’ after the first insult. figured his teeth’d look better on the pavement.”

“so you decided to fight him?” you asked through clenched teeth, pressing the cotton a little harder into the cut beneath his eye.

Stanley hissed, a sharp intake of breath that sounded way too much like a moan, and you hated yourself for the way it made your thighs clench. get a grip. fuck, get it together.

“Stan, you could’ve died.”

“wasn’t gonna let him talk about you like that.”

“you idiot,” you whispered, and suddenly the words were tumbling out of you, “you stupid, reckless, self-destructive asshole. you’re already not sleeping. still flinch when someone knocks on the door too loud. you’re barely holding it together after the whole portal thing and now your brother’s gone and you go and get into a fight in the middle of fucking nowhere with a guy who wasn’t worth it!”

your breath stuttered, but you continued, letting emotions control you. “you’re not seventeen anymore! you don’t get to run around beating people up like some feral alley cat just because someone looked at me wrong, are you insane? you— what if he had a knife? what if you didn’t come home, what the fuck would i—“

Stan's hands were on you before you finished the sentence, both of them. big, rough, calloused, still scraped and red across the knuckles. one slid down your hip, the other came up fast, possessive. you gasped when they settled, cupped the backs of your thighs, squeezed your ass greedily.

and you froze for a second. you wanted to push him away. you wanted to kiss him stupid. you wanted to cry into his chest and tell him never to scare you like that again.

but instead you just stood there, cotton ball still soaked in alcohol, his blood under your nails, and his hands full of you like he couldn’t get enough.

his hands were on you, you repeated inside your head. holy fuck. and you'd be lying if you said you didn't want them there. you did want them there, but not like this. not while you were shaking with fury and his blood was still wet under your nails. not while you were halfway through swabbing the gash at his temple with trembling fingers and a heart that wouldn’t stop climbing your throat.

you were scolding him, and yet those goddamn hands had the audacity to find your ass, thumbs pressing in slow and deliberate at the crests, palms warm and so fucking possessive, as if he hadn’t just terrified you half to death

“do you ever fucking think, Stanley?” you bit out. “do you ever stop to consider how it feels for me? me, waiting at home, not knowing if the next knock on the door is gonna be some cop telling me they found your body in a gutter?”

his smile twitched, uneven beneath the crusted cut at the corner of his mouth. “ain’t gonna happen,” he said, and that answer made you even angrier. was this shit supposed to comfort you?

you stared at him, incredulous. “you think you’re invincible?”

“nah, i just know no one’s takin’ me out without a helluva fight.”

“you’re such a f᠎ucking idiot.”

you returned to your work with a renewed harshness, dabbing at the torn skin along his jaw, trying your best to ignore the thick fingers now kneading at you, groping because Stanley couldn’t help himself. for that lustful bastard, the mere proximity of your body was enough to bring his bloodied, battered self back to some grotesque semblance of desire. it was always this trick he played when he knew you were about to explode. he thought he could fix everything with his hands. or his mouth. or his cock.

though, for a second, you faltered. your knees momentarily weak as his grip tightened, pulled you closer.

but it didn’t last. no, not this time.

“this your game now?” you sneered, fingers tightening on the bottle of antiseptic as you poured it a little too liberally onto the cotton pad. “i get mad and you think you can distract me by squeezing my ass? maybe f᠎uck the anger outta me like always? well, guess what, Stan, it’s not gonna work this time.”

in response, you heard a groan, half from the sting of the disinfectant, half from the way your hips brushed his thighs as you moved, but still that arrogant grin stayed glued to his stupid bruised mouth.

“you sound real sexy when you’re pissed, y’know that?” that shameless bastard teased, “makes me wanna keep gettin’ into fights if it means you get this worked up.”

you shot him a glare so cold it could’ve stopped his goddamn heart. “are you insane?” although the answer was obvious.

Stan's thumbs slid lower, brushing under the curve of your ass now, dangerously close to the heat between your legs, and you wanted to slap him. wanted to break his f᠎ucking nose all over again.

“y’scared for me, huh? worried?” he murmured, mouth close to your neck now, too close. you swear you smelled sweat and blood with a metallic taste. “my girl loves me that much?”

you shoved the cotton pad into the little tray on the coffee table, blinking furiously against the sting in your eyes. “fuck you.”

“already on my knees for ya, sweet thing,” he purred, dragging his hands now up the backs of your thighs, thick fingers teasing beneath the hem of your sleep shorts. “you just gotta sit that pretty pussy on my face and i’ll show you how sorry i am.”

the audacity. you could’ve killed him.

your whole body was shivering from that wild cocktail of lust and fury he always managed to inject into your bloodstream. how dare he. how dare he joke like that. flirt like that. say shit like that when he looked like he’d barely escaped with his life.

and yet your thighs clenched, traitorous and aching, because he was still Stanley. your Stan. stupid, bruised, hot-as-hell Stanley, with fists like sledgehammers and a mouth that could ruin you in seconds. and god help you, he always won. always walked away victorious, hands bloodied and teeth bared. heart still beating strong for his sweetheart, you. deep down you knew that if anyone dared speak your name with anything less than reverence, he’d beat them to a pulp with a smile on his face.

he was reckless. dangerous. a f᠎ucking fool.

as he dragged you closer, thumbs now spreading across the swell of your ass, fingers toying at the crease between your thighs, you felt that stupid rage simmer into something hungrier.

his voice dropped to a whisper. “lemme make it up to you, baby. i know you’re mad. i know i scared ya. but i’m right here. didn’t i come back? always do. and all i wanna do now is make you feel good 'til you forget all about what a dumbass i am.”

you glared at him, not giving up. “you are a dumbass,” but fucking hell, his hands were too sure. too warm. too needy. and despite every ounce of logic screaming at you, your body betrayed you yet again, hips moving forward, thighs tightening around his knees.

“yeah?” Stan breathed. “then lemme worship you for a bit. make my penance proper.”

you weren’t sure if you wanted to kiss him or cry.

god, you felt like you were falling.

whether it was from the metallic scent of blood sticking to the back of your throat, the sweet ache pooling between your thighs or those battered hands sliding beneath the hem of your shorts. you weren’t sure. probably it was both.

you gasped. a quiet, traitorous sound, just a breath and a stutter of vocal cords, but loud enough for Stanley to hear and for him to know. because his fingers had found that spot, right there, just above the hem of your panties, brushing your clit with a clumsy tenderness that somehow always undid you. he pressed again, slower this time, coaxing the sound back out of you. and fuck, your shorts were bloodied now, too. the smudges from his knuckles had soaked into the fabric where he touched you, leaving scarlet fingerprints on your waistband.

Stanley looked pleased. satisfied like a well-fed wolf with your throat in his teeth, dragging you closer with rough palms, mouth open against the skin of your belly, pressing kisses, nipping little bursts of sensation into the soft below your navel, starving for the taste of you.

but if he thought you were letting him off that easy, he was out of his goddamn mind.

you curled your fingers into his brown hair, deep at the roots, right at the base of that beloved mullet, and yanked.

Stan hissed sharp through his teeth.

“hey!” he barked, jolting back, eyes wide and confused like a puppy that’d just been smacked with a newspaper.

“you move one more f᠎ucking inch, Stanley Pines,” you snapped, “and i swear to god, i won’t let you touch me for a whole month.”

he blinked. then you saw a painfully familiar reaction. Stan pouted, lower lip puffing out like you’d just denied him his favorite dessert.

you hated him. you hated how cute he looked. all bruised and bloodied and bandaged, with that stupid sad-boy expression, his mouth turned down and his lashes wet from either pain, want or both. you wanted to throttle him, wanted to shove his face between your legs and let him cry about it there.

“c’mon, baby, you’re not gonna last a whole month without my hands on you. don’t pretend. not when you’re already so f᠎uckin’ wet.”

and god help you, he was right. you were soaked. throbbing. your panties clinging damp and tight to your folds, his thigh was warm between yours, and you hated yourself for wanting it

maybe you weren’t so innocent after all. who could’ve guessed you had a thing for bloodied men with split lips and knuckles stained red?

he gave you a cocky, devilish grin, and leaned to slide his hand back up your inner thigh smoothly. his thumb dragged against the seam of your shorts, and his eyes flicked to your face, reading every twitch of muscle.

“that asshole was askin’ for it, y’know,” he drawled. “talkin’ like he knew you. said some shit ‘bout how good you looked walkin’ home the other night, the tight little dress you wore when we went to that bar on main. said he wondered what kinda sounds you made.”

you tensed.

“so i asked him real nice to shut his mouth,” Stanley went on, “but he didn’t listen. first punch landed right here—“ he tapped his own jaw, where the split had swollen. “then gut. teeth. kicked his knee in backwards. dropped him like a sack of rocks. kept swingin’ ‘til his face looked more like hamburger than man. and then, only then, did i say ‘talk ‘bout my girl again and next time i won’t leave you breathin’.’”

you stared at him, fingers had loosened in his hair. you’d stopped tending his wounds, stopped moving entirely, in fact, because your breath had caught in your chest, and the flush running across your skin had nothing to do with anger anymore.

and Stanley knew it. he used that tiny moment of stillness to slip one hand beneath your waistband, thick fingers diving with ease into the heat between your legs, cupping you over your panties, rubbing slow and deep through the fabric until your knees wobbled and your mouth fell open in sound between a gasp and a moan.

“f᠎uck, look at you,” Stan grinned like a bastard as he worked slow circles into your sensitive clit. “drippin’ for me like a little angel you are. all that fire, all that fury and underneath it, you’re still my needy little thing. right, baby?”

you should’ve pulled away. should’ve slapped him. and as luck would have it, you couldn't help but whimper.

“d-don’t think,” you managed, hips twitching as he rubbed harder, “don’t think that if i don’t stop you, it means i forgive you.”

Stanley let out a chuckle as he leaned forward to kiss your thigh. “nah, sugar, just admit that you love me so much, takin’ care of your dumbass boyfriend while he ruins your couch and bleeds on your shorts and makes you feel so good you can’t even think straight.”

your head dropped back. “w-wait, you’re getting the couch dirty—”

“worth it,” he groaned, sliding your panties aside at last, fingers dragging slick through your folds.

you stood there like an idiot. all those little medical supplies, gauze rolls, antiseptic wipes, clutched helplessly in your shaking palms, hoping that if you just focused hard enough on being a nurse, you could pretend you weren’t standing with your legs parted between the thighs of a man whose bloody fingers were rubbing circles into your already swollen clit.

you were furious. righteously furious, but your body was folding inwards, betraying you, melting into him like sugar dissolving in heat. and it was so wrong, because he’d scared you. again. he could’ve gotten himself killed.

but god, his hands. his voice.

“this sweet little pussy always knows who’s touchin’ her. you feel it, don’tcha, baby? don’t even need my cock. not when you’re already this wet for my fingers. my voice. that’s all it takes, ain’t it? i trained so well. look at you.”

your breath hitched when his middle finger had slipped further down, not inside, not quite yet, but enough to skate along your aching entrance and tease the pulse of it, gathering your wetness and spreading it slow across your soft folds. and the worst part, it was working so well you caught yourself wishing for more than his hand. you wanted his cock inside, raw, fucking you stupid until the ache overtook the anger. but you couldn’t say that, no. if you admitted that, it would make you complicit in your own unraveling.

so you fought back the only way you could.

“you’re such a f᠎ucking moron,” you spat, though your voice was already thinning at the edges. “you think it’s sexy? coming to me with blood all over your shirt like some kind of street thug? you’re a stupid, violent, reckless son of a bitch, Stanley.”

he only smiled, pretending you’d just complimented his cooking. his hands didn’t stop.

“and i’d do it again. i’d fight a thousand bastards for you, sweetheart. every last one of ‘em. any man who so much as thinks he can look at you with anything but respect, i’ll knock his teeth down his throat.”

and just as you opened your mouth to answer, Stan slid two fingers inside.

it was immediate. an electric, desperate clench, your thighs slammed shut, trembling, the first aid kit supplies clattering uselessly to the floor, forgotten. you slapped both palms down onto his shoulders to keep yourself upright, breath leaving you in a crushed sound. you were soaking, embarrassingly so. the friction of his fingers pumping into your warm walls filled the room with a filthy, wet sound that made your stomach twist in humiliation and arousal both.

“sweet moses,” Stan murmured, watching your face. “you sound like a meal, mhmh. all this for me, baby? thought you hated me.”

“i do hate you,” you gasped, but your hips were moving, chasing his knuckles as you needed them inside you more than air. “you’re a goddamn disaster, Stanley— fighting like some caged animal, bleeding all over my furniture“

“couch looks better with my blood on it anyway,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss the skin just beneath your chest. “’s a declaration of love, ain’t it?”

he kept kissing up your torso, open-mouthed and unhurried, leaving a warm trail of breath and spit from your navel to your sternum. pausing at your collarbones, he nuzzled like a boy desperate for comfort, then lowered his head and simply laid it on your chest, those eyes, those soft deer-eyes, looking up at you as he begged.

“please, baby, just a kiss. it’s been all day. i need it. i need you.”

you turned your head away.

it hurt. it hurt so bad your ribs creaked under the strain of it, because you did want to kiss him, more than anything, wanted to wrap your arms around this bastard and cry and tell him you’d die if he ever died, and he could never do this again, scare you like this. but you were still angry, drowning in that suffocating, pulsing worry that had gripped your throat when he came through your door looking half-dead.

and Stan saw that pain in your eyes, so he changed tactics.

“please,” he breathed, fingers still working you slow and firm, curling into that sweet spot that made your knees buckle, “please call me your good boy. jus’ once, angel. i’ll be better, i swear. i’ll be good, i’ll listen next time. please. . . lemme hear it. tell me i’m your good boy, baby— please please please”

you shook your head. even as your thighs trembled and your pussy clenched around his fingers, your wetness dripping in hot streams down your leg, your lips parted around broken moans, you shook your damn head, and it made you feel like a villain, like you were punishing a dog who only ever wanted to be loved.

Stan's mouth was on your chest, so hungry, sucking, licking, mouthing one nipple with noisy abandon while his free hand came up to pinch the other, switching between them, lavishing each with sloppy, obscene attention until your back arched off his lap and your head tipped backwards.

then, just as you felt the sweet tension pulling tight low in your belly, first wave of pleasure starting to bloom, you cried.

a tear slipped down your cheek, and then another, and then you hiccuped, your whole chest shuddering.

“you— you idiot,” a sob escaped you. “you don’t understand what it feels like to open that door and see you like that. i thought— thought maybe this time, maybe this time it wouldn’t just be a bloody nose— maybe this time they’d have a weapon. i thought, t-thought i’d never see you alive again”

Stanley pulled his mouth from your chest and looked up, horrified. “baby,” he said, breathless, “hey, shh. i’m right here”

“i hate you,” you choked, curling over yourself, arms now limp on his shoulders, fingers digging into his stained tank top. “i hate you because you make me love you. and you don’t know how to stop. you just— just keep getting yourself hurt, and i can’t— can’t watch it again—”

you were full of Stanley and full of Stanley mant full of rage and of unbearable love.

and Stanley just held you, fingers still working slowly in and out of your clenching pussy, kissing your skin and whispering, “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, baby, i’d die for you, but i swear i won’t make you watch. i swear, i swear i’ll try to live for you instead.”

yeah, the idiot didn't know how to support you.

he begged you one last time, this time without that stupid playful, teasing crooked smirk that made you want to slap and kiss him in equal measure.

his hand was soaked, knuckles glistened with your juices, and your thighs had gone near-numb from trembling. your clit, swollen and over-attended, throbbed with need, signalling you were getting close. feeling this, Stanley continued fucking you with his fingers, working them inside with the unwavering focus of a man who didn’t know how to stop, who would finger you until your soul left your body.

“sweetheart, please, just kiss me. i ain’t gonna make it. swear to god, you don’t kiss me right now, i’ll just— i’ll drop dead right here with my fingers inside this perfect pussy. and what a way to go, sure, but f᠎uck, honey, i need you.”

your lip trembled while Stanley kept going, faster now, no longer patient, the pads of his rough fingers curling upwards to grind against that velvet-soft patch inside you, knot of nerves hidden in the heat of your folds. your walls were spasming in helpless pulses, more wetness dripping down your thighs like nectar. every stroke of his hand struck lightning through your spine.

“awwh this little clit so f᠎uckin’ needy,” he murmured, watching it twitch under his thumb. “your walls keep squeezin’ me baby, this cunt knows no one else can fill her right. you were made for this, weren’t ya? made to take my fingers, say it, princess. kiss me and say it.”

you tried to speak, but the pressure had climbed so high it hollowed you. something tremendous pressing against your ribcage, your throat and in the end of this all, against your sanity. the ache inside your cunt had become unbearable, your pussy spasming tighter and tighter around his fingers, sucking them deeper with every drag, desperate for that final push over the edge.

Stan's mouth was still open, face so close, so dear, those dry bloodstained lips trembling, eyes dark and glistening. such a needy face.

cursing yourself, you gave in, bent forward and kissed him.

thankfully, the kiss silenced you. because just as your lips touched his, dry and cracked, the orgasm overtook you so suddenly.

your body folded as your overstimulated pussy clenched down with such violent force you nearly cried out, but that kiss stole the sound away, swallowed it greedily. your thighs locked around his wrist, breath shuddered into his mouth, and your hands clawed into his strong shoulders, because the room had disappeared. the fucking world had disappeared. all that existed was the frantic pulsing of your pussy and the dizzy, collapsing crash of pleasure that emptied your mind and filled your body with white, hot, blinding light.

you fell. and this time, you fell into him.

all of you, crumbling downward, half-sobbing, half-limp, your head knocking gently against his chest. Stanley caught you in those awful, perfect arms, ams still marred with dried blood and bruises, and he held you to him like he would never let you go.

you were shaking. violently. legs useless, pussy aching, heart hammering as if it wanted to escape the prison of your ribs. your face was so red, eyes puffy from crying, lashes sticky with tears. thighs trembled against the edges of his seat. your mouth was slightly open, breathing shallow. completely undone.

“whoa, whoa,” Stan said softly, still holding you, one palm gently stroking your hip. “easy there, baby. thought you were gonna black out on me. what, my fingers that good? huh? blew the brains out your pretty lil head?”

a soft, wounded groan escaped you, and when Stan leaned in to kiss your cheek, grinning smug like the bastard he was, you pushed his face away with one hand, weakly, but still.

“we’re doing the no-sex thing,” you said hoarsely, voice hoarse from crying and cumming so hard. “for a month. starting now. that was your final freebie.”

Stanley chuckled, still cradling his fragile precious baby. “yeah, right, sure, sweetheart. tell that to your pussy. ‘cause she don’t sound like she got the memo.”

and still, that bastard kissed your temple so fucking soft. gentle in a way that said he’d wait, if he had to, of course.

giving up, you curled into your boyfriend. and for the first time that day, despite your bruised heart and shaking thighs, you felt way better and calmer.

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

hi!! sorry to bother but i just had to ask, do you by any chance have any headcanons for pre-portal fiddleford? 👀 like… what kind of kinks you think he’d be into?? i totally understand if you’re not into him like that or don’t feel like answering, no pressure at all!! i just got curious and thought you might have Thoughts™️

okay anon sooo i think we’ve got some real Fiddleford lovers in the house! and while yeah, i’m usually more into Stan & Ford, i’m always down to write for Fidds, especially after i stumble across some of that really good art of him... you know the kind... yeah. he’s honestly super cute in canon too, let’s be real.

answering ur question, i’ve been carrying around some thoughts about Fidds in my brain for a while now. they’re probably not the most original takes out there but.. ehhh, i’m gonna post them anyway because why not?? he deserves the love!

nsfw

toy-building.

this is the obvious one i think. nah, Fiddleford doesn’t just buy a toy, he’s in his little lab, sleeves rolled up, grease on his fingers, building some remote-controlled vibrator specially for his darling. he’ll build you some wearable stim device. and he’s not even that smug about it, he’s just earnest. he will gently ask you to test prototypes while he takes notes. and yes, he blushes when you cum too fast. and yes, he tries not to jerk off about it but absolutely fails

oral fixation / praise kink

there’s no question in my mind, he’s an oral fixation boy, through and through. not just about getting you off (though that’s obviously a huge part of it), but about the sensory act of it. the taste, the smell, the way you grab at his hair or thighs when you can’t take it anymore, he’d be studying you with the same reverent focus he gives his machines. and i think it makes him shy afterward, almost embarrassed by his own neediness. he’ll say things like “hope i didn’t get too carried away down there” even while your legs are still shaking. he’ll never quite admit how feral he gets for it

this man is obsessed with putting his mouth on the person he loves. “i don’t know what i’m doing with my hands so i’m just gonna use my mouth” energy. he really needs the other person’s reactions to feel reassured he’s doing okay. lots of tongue, lots of sucking bruises into skin absentmindedly while taking a break from studying, tons of focus on inner thighs, fingers, lips, ears even. he’s so weird with it. like “i was thinkin’ ’bout you all day and now i just wanna taste every inch of you, if that ain’t too much” with this pathetic look in his eyes, he’s just starving.

PRAISE. being praised and giving praise. he's tender, still someone who overthinks everything, and having a partner go “you’re so good at that,” “you’re making me feel so good,” “you’re such a sweet boy” just makes him melt and pant and probably bust way too early. and if you beg, if you look down at him and say “Fidds please don’t stop,” that’s it. he’s finished. “yes ma’am/sir/baby” is all he can manage. and if you call him “baby”? oh lord. bring a defibrillator.

he’d absolutely be the type to ask “didja like that? did i do okay?” after giving head/eating you out, blushing. hopeful and looking for reassurance, which makes it all the more intense because he’ll want to go again until he knows without a doubt that he did it right. multiple orgasms for you is the goal.

he’s def a “consent king but also gets off on being used” kind of boy. he would ask to be used, softly, scared to say it out loud. “i mean, if ya ever wanted to just. . . y’know, sit on my face ‘n let me help ya relax, i wouldn’t mind none. promise.” and then he’d get off on being treated like a toy, a tool, a good little thing who exists to make you cum. and the praise just loops right back around, “that’s my good boy” does smth to him

light powerplay?

but here's the twist. he’s a giver, yeah, but he also wants to have you too, to own just a little. he’ll be under you one night and the next he’s got you bent over a cluttered blueprint table, one hand on your spine, telling you “i’ve letcha play enough, sugar. now hush and lemme show you who runs this lab.”

semi-public play

he doesn’t realize it at first, it just sort of happens. you kiss his neck too hard while he’s calibrating something and he forgets he has lab assistants three rooms over. but when Fiddleford realizes you’re a little breathless and shameless about where his fingers are inside you, it does something to him. it’s probably the adrenaline thing. or it’s just how damn proud he is that the person writhing in his lap is the one he gets to take care of. and that someone else might hear, might know what he’s capable of?? yeah, he holds onto that idea. might even whisper in your ear about it, “s’not my fault yer so sweet i can’t keep my hands off ya. now stay quiet for me, hon.”

overstimulation!!

this man has never once wanted a normal orgasm. he wants to see you lose your mind. wants this kind of sex where you're curled into his lap afterwards trembling and murmuring his name over and over again, dumbfounded, whispering you can't do it anymore. he doesn’t mean to overwhelm you, it’s just that when he starts, he can’t stop. he’ll say “one more” twelve times. he’ll gently scold your whines like “now now, sugarplum, don’t start gettin’ dramatic on me, yer almost there.” + he’ll absolutely use his toys on you for this, might even build one with a timer so he can watch your face when the pulse changes mid-orgasm. will whimper with you when you beg for a break. and then still keep going. for science!

so, i think he's not into degradation (would cry)

he's very responsive to gentle domming

definitely would be the type to cry during sex if he was emotionally overwhelmed by the love part

i think Fiddleford’s whole sexual philosophy is built on three things. curiosity, reverence, and utility

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Okay so this is not a spicy ask, but can you imagine waking up at night 'cause you can't sleep and walking into the kitchen just to see Stanley already there? And since neither of you can sleep, you stay up to make midnight snacks and it's a whole mess 'cause you're tired and spilling stuff on the counter and on each other, giggling whenever one of you fumbles and inevitably messes something up (you obviously poke fun at each other because of it). But somehow you manage to make something edible. It looks ugly as shit but it's tasty and you made it together and it's the best you could ask for. You both sit down and have a few bites, and halfway through the third and fourth bite you suddenly feel sleepy again and go back to bed together, all cuddled up, relaxed and happy.

Apparently I am in a sappy mood-

ohhh this is so tender. i would literally cry if I cooked side by side with the person i love. yes this is the domestic softness Stan absolutely thrives in once he lets himself have it

it's probably 2:43 a.m, at least it was last time you checked, when you pad into the kitchen wearing one of his old, oversized shirts, and there he is, leaning against the counter in the glow of the fridge, eyes squinty. Stanley looks at you “hey, you too?” and without needing to explain anything, suddenly the two of you are in this dreamlike little bubble, whispering and giggling like kids at a sleepover

he’s making sarcastic commentary while you try to whisk eggs with a fork, you're teasing him for dropping the bread on the floor again, and there’s flour somehow on both of your faces

he licks something off your thumb and smirks. you boop his nose with a greasy spoon. you both are so tired but can't sleep a wink

so Stan pokes fun at your sleepy eyes and you call him “chef boyard-uh-oh” when he fumbles the spatula. there’s what? butter smeared on his shoulder? seriously? and somehow, miraculously, you end up with the ugliest grilled cheese known to man, but it's so damn good you groan when you taste it.

and then you just. . . get sleepy again. probably the warm food hits and the quiet settles and suddenly you hear, “c’mon, sweetheart. let’s crash before one of us falls asleep in food.” Stan yawns mid-bite as you press your forehead to his arm, closing your eyes, and without a word he sets the plate aside and wraps an arm around you to steer you back toward bed.

you fall asleep curled into each other, smiling into each other’s skin

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

i can't stop thinking about stan keeping the handcuffs

sooo whaddya think....what kind of kinks does he have? does he like role-playing games? 👀 nehee

oh sweetheart, i was actually writing Stan’s nsfw alphabet and surprise, surprise, guess what letter k stands for?? yep kinks and that list is long. don’t get me started, Stan’s a man of appetites. but to answer your question....

nsfw, switch!Stan, handcuffs stuff, mentions of breeding kink

YES. yes of course Stan kept the handcuffs of course. haha, silly guy! he absolutely “forgot” they were in that box until he opened it one night with you, half-drunk and laughing, going “oh hey, these! forgot about ‘em. . .unless you wanna. . . y’know” he scratches his neck nervously with a silly grin on his flushed face. and you know he’s thought about it.

and i absolutely think Stan’s into role-playing. i mean, guys, he’s got natural showman talent, right? he slips into characters without even trying. he’d be so into playful power dynamics, especially ones where he still gets to be a little soft deep down. the slow click around your wrists while he murmurs “hope you know what you’re in for, sweetheart,” but he’s already grinning like an idiot behind that fake tough guy voice. Stan wants it filthy. fun. loving. he’ll play any role you want. as long as it ends with your legs wrapped around him and his voice cracking from begging or praising or both

and god, he’s so physical, this is a man who’d use his whole body in bed. he’d wrap around you, press you down, groan into your neck, talk and talk and talk, and if you were into it? yeah, the cuffs would come out more often than not, Stanley knows you like the way it feels when he leans down and locks your wrists, “guess you’re mine tonight, huh?”

i mean, Stan is such a kink-riddled mess under all that gruff exterior. he lives for being bossed around in the bedroom when the right person’s doing it, someone he trusts and who knows when to be mean and when to kiss the bruises better. he’d pretend to grumble but you’d catch how he pathetically ruts into your palm when you grip his chin and tell him, “uh huh, hands where I can see 'em, mr pines.”

imagine slapping down that old man with a leather strap or cold handcuffs, making him beg for mercy. and Stan, stubborn as he is, would love being restrained, forced to listen to your rules and promises, whispering what you're gonna do to him next. it's just. . . the second he sees you in a costume, especially if you’re the one in charge, his knees get weak. if you tell him he’s “under arrest for being a bad boy” he’ll laugh, wink and then happily surrender with his wrists already out.

haha, handcuffs on himself, he pretends to grumble about it. “you’re lucky i trust ya, doll” but he secretly melts the second he hears the click around his wrists. gets feral when you lean down and whisper in his ear all slow and mock-gentle, asking if he’s ready to be punished. Stan loves being in charge most of the time, but something about being at your mercy just flips a switch in him. especially if you tease the hell out of him with long slow touches, grinding against him, not letting him move until he’s begging.

cop roleplay perfectly thrives under it, because it’s you being the one calling the shots. imagine you’ve got him cuffed to the bed, while he’s in his boxers and a tank top, all mouthy until you shut him up with a slap to the thigh and a firm, “i said quiet, pines.” ughhhhh

if Stan’s the one cuffing you, you’re done. it’s over for you. he starts by talking shit, like always. leaning over you, teasing the cuffs against your wrist before snapping one side on with a loud click. “you got the right to remain fucked, sweetheart.” puts you on your back with your wrists cuffed to the headboard, while he's above you, kneeling, stroking himself, staring down at your helpless body, muttering filth about how pretty you look when you can’t touch him. he’s a slow tease here. two fingers between your legs, then a pause. his tongue. then a pause. a slap to your thigh. then a kiss <3

“look atcha, already soaked and i haven’t even put it in yet. needy little thing, huh?”

OH FUCK he also loves to fuck you face down, cuffs behind your back, ass in the air. Stan holds your hip with one hand and keeps your wrists yanked just enough with the other, rutting deep and hard, it's a punishment after all, isn't it?? his mouth is right by your ear. “can’t even hold onto me, huh? poor thing. you’re gonna have to take it just like this.”

breeding kink goes WILD here. he’s panting, telling you how tight you are, how good you’re taking him, how he’s gonna fill you up and watch it drip out.

and yes yes yes, imagine sitting on his lap, straddling him, wrists cuffed behind your back, chest to chest<3 this one’s filthy-intimate and Stan's favourite. because that way he can kiss your neck, your collarbone, lick sweat from your chest, suck on your nipples. he rocks you on his cock with slow, painfully slow thrusts, letting you feel every inch while your hands are trapped behind you. trust me, he's barely holding back himself.

and ugh, he forces eye contact, palms your ass. grinds up into you until your thighs shake. he's so damn proud of how messy you get.

he talks the whole time. this guy just doesn't know what it means to shut up!!!

“god, look at you. couldn’t run if you wanted to. not that you would.” , “aw, is this too much? too rough? tell me and ill stop. yeah, didn’t think so.”

he’s possessive and mean if he really wants to but also so fucking clingy. sure he's trying to keep brutal blah blah, but he gets so so soft the second you whimper. he’ll unlock you only to hold you tighter and kiss your wrists<3

as for kinks, ill post the full list when i post the alphabet, but...

bondage, big time. rough rope or fuzzy cuffs, whatever, he likes the helplessness. he wants you tied up too.

praise-degradation cocktail, especially when he's talking about himself. “yeah, i’m your filthy old man, huh? always so desperate for that little cunt, fuck, look at me, sweetie, look at what you do to me.”

breeding kink layered in with the possessiveness.....+ he wants to hear you say, “you gonna put a baby in me, Stanley? please, please cum inside me” while he’s losing his mind beneath you as you ride him

oral fixation, im just. . . 1000% sure he's a disgusting kisser, in a good way. he kisses like a man dying of thirst. he’d thank you for gagging him with your panties, only to moan when you call him a dirty freak for loving it. sorry

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Young!Ford x fem!Reader

Genre: his POV, smut

CW: smut, Ford being even more of a freak than before-

A/N: surpriiiiiise! I am posting the second part as well! Despite Ford's poetic wording, this is pure smut, so read at your own discretion. Do keep in mind that, despite being an x Reader, this piece was also written for my friend @wolfhunter89 so there might be a few descriptive words here and there (not really, but I thought I'd give you a heads up anyway). I'd also like to take a moment to thank @darlingdaisyfarm for inspiring me and kickstarting my desire to write after months of inactivity. Your lovely writing encouraged me to try and get out of my creative slump, and it constantly gives me and my bestie ideas for our own little stories (we have definitely incorporated some of your headcanons into them, especially the ones about Ford). I hope you enjoy this!

Journal entry #27:

"I had a dream last night.

Usually the merciful embrace of sleep would give me some reprieve from the flow of thoughts always taking place during the day in my already crowded mind. Thoughts about her. Of what I'd like to do, what I'd like to see...

Anyway, all of this to say that she has now made her appearance in my dreams, and I no longer know peace.

How can I look her in the eye after this? How can I call myself her friend after dreaming about her in such a manner? After enjoying it so thoroughly?

I can keep a firm grasp over my own wandering thoughts during the day, but last night, my imagination was completely unrestrained. We were together, (Y/N) and I. On a bed, not mine, but barely big enough to fit us both anyway. We were doing what I could only describe as snuggling, forced by the lack of space to stick close together in order to stay comfortable.

But for what reason were we on that bed? What brought us there together? Does it really matter, when her body was pressed so tight against me? And was it truly just out of necessity, when her hand found its place against my chest and she looked up at me like... God, like she wanted nothing more than to be there with me? To get even closer.

I just know I looked down at her, marvelling at how perfectly she fit against my side... when suddenly her lips were on mine. It was unhurried, confident, like she knew I was not going anywhere and she could take her time savouring me. I wanted her to do it. I wanted to do the same.

Her perfume, that heavenly scent, hung thick in the air around us, making my head spin and turning my thoughts into sludge, like snow after a hot day.

Her lips felt soft against mine, like being kissed by the petals of a fresh rose, and her hand came up to touch my face, suddenly making me feel like she was holding me together with the mere act of cradling my cheek in her warm palm. I felt complete, sated... safe.

If she would have allowed me, I would have stayed like that forever, pouring myself into our kiss so that she may have all of me while I basked in all of her.

She, however, had different plans for us. She pulled back from me and, with great dismay, I thought I did something wrong. I was already about to apologize, when she rose from her lounging position to slide onto my lap, straddling me with no hesitation, as if she knew she owned me and I would let her.

I did.

My head was foggy, and I was barely coherent. One blink of my eyes and suddenly she was bare before me. We both were. It should have shocked me and yet I just accepted it like it was obvious, one small portion of me aware I was dreaming... and another one, the main one, feeling like there could be nothing more right than the situation at hand. Like I was home, right there with her and stripped down to nothing.

She looked down at me with a serenity that put my heart at peace despite its wild beating against my ribcage, and as she looked into my eyes she sunk down onto me. I almost did not notice my own pleasure as the way she beautifully tilted her head back with an ethereal sigh of relief captivated every ounce of my attention. She took a moment to feel all of me seated inside of her as if she had to burn that moment into her mind's eye, and then her beautiful hips rose again, and thus began her steady, languid rythm.

I was looking at a goddess. She wasn't chasing her release. She was taking and bestowing pleasure, savouring every moment thoroughly and deliberately, as if what truly mattered to her was the joining of our bodies and souls into one, rather than the climax of our physical act. She smiled down at me, and I felt like she had just gifted me the whole sky and all of its stars. That moment alone felt like eternal happiness.

Eventually, that slow, deliberate pace shifted into something different. Something more demanding and carefree. Her hips rose and fell, again and again, and she sighed and moaned and called to me, God, she called to me while her head fell back in bliss and her hair flowed down in soft waves behind her, making her seem even more divine. I wanted to give her all she wanted. She could have taken all of me for all I cared and I would have still asked her what else she desired.

Her movements changed again. The rise and fall of her hips turned into a sensual grind. Back and forth, back and forth, then in a circle and repeat.

This was not for me. It was for her, and I was merely lucky to even be there to witness it.

Should one truly be upset about an intimate partner thinking about their own pleasure first? I could not bring myself to even care about anything other than marvelling at the miracle happening right above me. If she wanted to use me to bring herself to the very edge of ecstasy, then I would be the perfect tool for her, and I would feast on the beauty of it all. Her pleasure was my pleasure, and only then I noticed my voice echoing hers in the most delicious, sinful of symphonies.

I refused to close my eyes, despite the pleasure. I wanted to see her, all of her. I let my hands wander, thanking all that is holy for the permission she so graciously gave me, as if she was waiting for me to partake in her as much as she was partaking in me. I never took control from her, deeming it almost sacrilegious to interrupt a creature as perfect as her. Still, my pleasure ebbed and flowed and I knew she would be my ruin.

I welcomed it with open arms.

What came next is a bit blurry. An unfortunate consequence of my consciousness slowly returning to me in the early hours of the morning, but what little I could witness will haunt me for days in the most beautiful and exasperating of ways.

(Y/N)'s grinding hips sped up and my name fell from her lips like a blessing while her hands travelled against my body. They were warm, and simultaneously soothing and exhilarating. It was everything I had never known I had wanted... and with every single fraction of a second, I grew more aware of the fact that I would aways want more of it. Want more of her.

In the last few moments of this blissfully damning sleep, I saw as (Y/N)'s lips fell open with a loud keen right as she jumped over the edge. She jolted and twitched on top of me, her hips grinding down on me even though she could not take anymore pleasure. As she let herself fall on me with a contented giggle, I awoke, startled by reality as my dream evaporated into nothingness.

I was sweaty, my breathing was uneven... and it soon became clear that my nightly fantasies had some very real consequences on me.

I was mortified.

I still am.

I am just glad everyone was still soundly asleep and I had the opportunity to take a shower and wash my clothes.

I am at a complete loss... How am I supposed to face her from now on? Is this going to become a common occurrence? How can I ever pretend to just be her friend when these are the thoughts that my mind conjures up?

I could perhaps admit a small attraction to her... but this goes so many leagues beyond that. I worry I may not be able to pretend like everything is still the same as it was before. Even writing this down to clear my head has...

Well, it doesn't matter. I can make this work.

Mind over matter, Stanford. Mind over matter."

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

Young!Ford x Reader

Genre: his POV, suggestive

CW: suggestive, slightly obsessive behaviour? (Not really, Ford is just being a big, smitten loser)

A/N: Heeeeey guess who's back? Not that I ever left. I just have no time to properly work on my writing so I haven't been posting anything. BUT!! I have a nice little treat for y'all today (if I have time, maybe even two, who knows?). This piece right here I wrote for my lovely bestie @wolfhunter89 , who I have successfully dragged into my Gravity Falls obsession (I screamed when the revival happened because of the book drop and the site). You can consider this as part one of a two-part project. Ford girlies, enjoy!

Journal entry #20:

"(Y/N) invited me over to her house for our private tutoring session yesterday. I had been to her house before, for a small gathering among friends... but I had never entered her room before yesterday. We were alone in the house, which was also a first. I am embarrassed to admit it, but the invitation made me nervous. I'd say I've been doing a pretty good job at staying in my lane and keeping a cool head... but the idea of being alone with her in her room sounded like my toughest challenge yet. And I was right. When we got there, the first thing I noticed was her perfume. It hit me as soon as she opened the door and it took everything in me not to take a big, deep breath. It was just so unmistakeably her. Something sweet... but with the potential to ruin me. It was like being surrounded by her, her, her. I both wanted to run away and to bask in it for as long as possible. Trying to keep a straight face and focus on the lesson was nearly impossible. It all just felt so different. To be in her private space, to breathe her in with every inhale while I bestowed my knowledge upon her... it felt like I was being given a unique blessing, and yet it was also a curse. My gaze kept falling to her lips, and the way her teeth were gently worrying at them while she worked on the equations I gave her, the way she sometimes brought the tip of her pen to those same lips as she thought long and hard on the next step to take. They always look so soft. If only I could test that theory out for myself... I think I could die happy. Or maybe not. Maybe it wouldn't be enough. I know myself. I know one taste wouldn't sate my curiosity. And she does arouse my interest so very much. I don't very much care for people and their overcomplicated intricacies, but her...? I want to learn everything I can about her. From the workings of her wonderful mind to each frivulous detail of her likes and dislikes, to... every single detail of her body. These are the same thoughts that plagued my mind yesterday as she followed my words and my examples. I almost feel bad for writing this, no, even for thinking all this, as she was merely doing her best to memorize what I was teaching her, unaware of the deep affection I feel for her. I am not sure how much longer I can keep going like this. Each time becomes more difficult than the previous. I can't get her out of my mind. I don't even know if I want to."

[sil-writes-fiction-too]

LADS : ‘Current Boyfriend’ Prank

ᯓ Synopsis: How would the LADS boys react to you pulling the TikTok Video ‘With my Current Boyfriend’ Prank!

ᯓ Caleb

You set up the camera at the perfect angle, making sure to get Caleb’s massive frame into the shot. You take a few steps back and give a twirl of your dress.

“Hey everyone! I’m doing a ‘OOTD’ with my current boyfriend, Caleb!”

Caleb’s goofy smirk falters, and you swear you see his eye twitch.

“Current, Pipsqueak?” He grabs your arm, pulling you back away from the camera, his hand cups your jaw ever so slightly, even as the camera continues to roll. “Nah, you better change that tone baby. What was that?”

You cheeks are squished between his forefinger and thumb.

“M-my boyfwend fowever.”

“Thats right, Pip. Good girl.”

ᯓ Rafayel

Rafayel always finds these trends annoying. He immediately knows something is up by the way you are already giggling to yourself. You set the phone on the tripod and take a few steps back.

“So today, I am going to be asking my boyfriend a series of questions about myself-“ you break off into light laughter, struggling to finish your sentence as you catch the upmost SASSIEST look from Rafayel in the corner.

“Current? Is there one after me, Cutie? Perhaps I should let them go ahead and have their turn.” His lower lip is jutting in a pout, even as you try to pull him back in to finish the video. Rafayel dramatically recites old tales of doomed lovers, and how if you were to leave him he would throw himself into the deepest edge of the sea.

You are busy the rest of the day trying to repair Rafayel’s wounded pride.

ᯓ XAVIER

Xavier is rubbing the sleep from his eyes after waking up from a nap. You had promised him a delicious smoothie, if you could record it.

You stand by the blender and prop your phone. “Hey everyone! I am here with my current boyfriend Xavier! I am go- Xavier? Wait, no-“

You are barely able to wrestle back your phone before he snatches it and throws it into the blender, his finger dancing over the ‘blend’ button.

His sharp blue eyes burn into you.

“Current? My shining star, what have I done to deserve such a mediocre attempt at a joke.”

“It’s a trend, Xavier!”

“I am going to start revoking your phone time.”

ᯓ Zayne

Zayne looks over the rim of his glasses as you prop your phone up on his desk. You sit on his knee which he gladly welcome. He gazes up at you like you out the stars in the sky.

You hit record and wrap your arms around his neck. “Hey everyone, today I’m going to ask my current boyfriend, who’s a surgeon, about what the-“

Zayne calmly reaches over and shuts off the video.

He slides his glasses off of his nose, resting the ear piece against his lips with narrowed eyes.

“I know you are far too intelligent to think that’s funny,” he grabs your chin and tilts your head to him. “Go on, apologize.”

ᯓ Sylus

Sylus is used to your antics by now. He’s currently fixing a loose piece on his bike when you extend the tripod and place your phone onto it.

He perks his head up just enough to wave to the camera.

“So today, I am going to be asking my current voting to quiz me in motorcycle facts!” He nearly busts his head under the bike from how quick he shoots up.

His hand grabs a handful of your ass and you squeak like a little mouse. “Oh Kitten, if you were so desperate for attention, you could’ve just said so~”

A few minutes later you are restarting the video, clearing your voice and trying to act like Sylus didn’t kiss you within an inch of your life.

“I’m here with Sylus, my husband.”