#stilesworld!

[murdrdocs]

minors dni.

on nerdy flustered boys who would fuck if given the chance:

he starts with little glances. staring at you on opposite ends of the classroom, thanking past him for accidentally picking a seat that gave him a perfect view of you, the seating allowing him to slide his eyes over your profile as you write something down, he quickly realizing that he's paying for a college education and not to stare at his pretty classmate like a creep.

the glances turn to stares, giving him a way to start noticing the small things about you. the changes in your skin tone from your under eye to your cheek, the way your nose curves and bends, the way the fluorescent light reflects off your bare shoulders. and then his eyes almost fucking bulge out of his head when he sees two pebbles poking through the material of your thin white tee.

he's too busy trying not to ogle to notice the small smirk on your lips, or to hear the professor enthusiastically encouraging you all to partner up. next thing he knows, you're walking over to him and his mouth is dry and he's going to say something but you do first.

"you dropped your pencil." you bend down, grab it from the floor, and look up at him through your lashes as you do so, sliding the mechanical tool over to him with a gentle smirk on your lips. he manages to blurt out a thanks that's no where near as appreciative as it should have been due to the way his brain is short circuiting.

you saunter away to a girl seated next to him, and he can feel the boner forming in his jeans. because for just a second there, a pathetic second, he had front row seats to the shape of your tits and the way your nipples poke perfectly through your tee.

ever since that one day, it's like anytime he sees you he sees your nipples too.

at the coffee shop on campus when he is getting something to power him through another day of assignments, you're sitting at a table by the window in a loose tee that pushes against your tits when you stretch a wave to him, exposing the little mountain just enough to have him salivating.

at the gym when he is there to bring something to his roommate, you're on the treadmill, running with a sports bra that strains as it holds your tits in, not doing much to conceal your pestering nipples.

and somehow, some fucking way, when he's in your bed, staring down at your bare nipples for the second time (by some miracle), concentrating hard and following them as they move with the thrusts that he delivers to you.

he's lost in it, head spinning from the sensations of your cunt squeezing around him near-perfectly, eyes blurring from staring at your tits and your face and the way your stomach contracts as he angles his cock just a little differently and you gasp appreciatively.

you babble out an almost incoherent sentence, the distinguishable words being along the lines of insinuating that he had to have some prior experience to this, the way he fucks you a clear guess as to why you’re assuming that.

and he tries to respond, the reply easy and on the tip of his tongue, but the starts of his orgasms brews low in his stomach and he can only focus on getting both of you to that point.

his thrusts sharpen, and his hand goes down to play with your clit a little, thumb finding the bud after a moment or two of fumbling around.

when you cum, he’s right behind you, shooting warm spurts into the latex of the condom as drool falls from his parted lips falls onto your chest. he watches it glide down the expanse, gather around your nipple, and slide the rest of the way down and onto your bed sheets.

[murdrdocs]

eye ... just had a thought but abt stiles (cw unprotected piv + creampies)

stiles fucking you, hips pushing into yours with a certain desperation you only get to see in small doses. tonight, he's let completely go, doe eyes bigger and more watery than usual, his tongue looser than it's ever been before as he babbles praises, his grip tight and unyielding against your skin. it's cute, adorable even, to watch him drive himself insane as you purposefully squeeze around him, your nails dragging along his scalp, pushing the sweat-matted hair off of his forehead affectionately.

you know that the cause of his demise is technically your fault, as you were the one begging to forgo the use of a condom for the night. you needed stiles, you really did, but he'd made you cum twice, and a third was brewing, and at this point you were more entranced with the way he managed to hold off throughout your own orgasms. you were transfixed with his appearance, eagerly awaiting for his warning.

the words follow quicker than you'd expected, a pathetic whimper of, "i'm close," slipping past his swollen lips. you know he's telling you to unlink your ankles from his back. he's asking you to let him pull away from you, to prevent a potential accident that would cause more trouble than it's worth.

but you couldn't care less right now, reckless behavior be damned. your link at his back tightens, you pull him closer into you, your nails dig into his scalp as a warning when his eyes widen, almost comically.

"sweetheart, ah, lemme, i gotta–" you shake your head, pulling stiles down for a kiss. he hesitates, but he could never resist your lips, his own puckering to meet yours in a messy, sloppy kiss that is more clashing of teeth and tongue and swapping of saliva than anything else.

your lips separate from his with enough room to speak, enough room for his attentive ears—used to seeking out your moans and whimpers and whines—to hear you.

"come in me, stiles. please, i need it."

stiles would never deprive you of something you wanted, much less something you needed. so he nods, obedient in nature, and then his thrusts get sloppy and he stills with one hard thrust, warm spurts of cum painting your walls. you gasp, unused to the feeling, back arching as stiles' thumb circles your clit. your own orgasm (the third of the night) sinks into you, sliding down throughout your body as stiles is still twitching from his.

he doesn't pull out, not yet, instead burying his head in the crook of your neck, letting you comb through his hair as the both of you attempt to regain your breath. stiles miraculously recovers first, lips appreciatively kissing over your sweaty skin, hand rubbing along your side until it stops.

he stills once more, lifting himself up to look you in the eye. "you took your pill this morning, right?" you nod, still a little hazy from the feeling of stiles' cum leaking out around his cock still sheathed inside of you. "and uh ... how much is plan b again?"

you shrug. "around 50 i think?"

a beat. "shit."

[murdrdocs]

SAW YOUR END. void stiles

description. it's hard not to give into the Nogistune. he does have the face of your favorite person, after all

includes. DARK CONTENT 18+, SMUT 18+, SLIGHT DUBCON (r wants it but for safe measures), fem! reader, impact play, choking, degradation, stiles is possessed, forced impregnation, baby trapping (kinda), snowballing, reader is secretly in luv with stiles, implied that stiles is present, some angst, title from 'cherry waves' by deftones

wc: 4.5k+

→ kinktober masterlist

He’s more intimidating up close than you would’ve thought. 

You’ve been telling yourself that if faced with the shell of your best friend, you could handle yourself. The Nogistune doesn’t fight. He plots, plans, weakens you with words alone. And you thought this was something you could control. No amount of taunts or insults or manipulation could catch you off guard. 

But you somehow forgot that while he would slowly weaken your resolve, he would be wearing the face and body and voice of your best friend. You hadn’t considered that this would make you weak in and of itself, heart already thudding loudly behind your chest when you saw those amber eyes, mouth dry when he spoke your name, hands shaking with the desire to meet him in the middle when he reached out for you. 

You find yourself to be more fragile than you thought, lip quivering and eyes welling up when his gaze hardens instead of softens. Your entire body trembling when he starts his slow torture, words perfectly chosen to hit the spots of you that will be most affected. 

He’s unpredictable, possibly completely predictable if you’d been thinking with the parts of you that excelled in reason instead of the parts that excelled in emotion. 

But his unpredictable nature leaks into his actions, his desires, as his taunts turn from ones to break you down to ones that are designed to have you as putty in his hands. Promises to give you your deepest desires, ones you were previously sure that no one other than yourself and your diary knew. Claims that he could fulfill your wishes if you would just give in. 

It all sounds too good to be true, too simple and sweet and perfect. But again, rationale isn’t your strong suit at this point, so you’re standing before him, chest pressed to his, sooner than you realize it. 

Heads tilted, lips closing in on the others, tips of noses brushing until they poke at the others cheek as lips finally press together. 

Chapped pillows against moisturized, teeth clacking and spit swapping. It’s easy for you to forget that this is a trick, that this is all an elaborate scheme, while he kisses you like he wants it. 

The Nogitsune kisses you as if he’s trying to actually devour you. He sucks your saliva up as it pools between your mouths, he licks around your mouth and tongues at your bones, his hands claw at your body to pull you tighter and closer to him until you can feel the muscle tone of Stiles’ body. 

The grip he has on your waist –– slightly conservative as he almost refuses to venture down to your lower back –– has you stumbling, leaving your hands with nowhere else to go other than Stiles’ shirt. 

Stiles has worn this shirt many times before, the cotton relaxed around his muscles. But in the short time that the Nogistune has been present in it, it’s become distressed, tiny tears in both of the shoulders, the color a little dull from what you can tell. 

The tears in the fabric have your hands pressing against Stiles’ bare skin while they fumble along the material. You flinch at the first press, surprised at just how chilled his skin is. 

In comparison, you feel like you’re on fire. 

Your body burns where he touches you, yet the parts his form doesn’t reach is unbearably cold, similar to his own body. You need him everywhere and nowhere all at once. You want what he can give you and resent the idea simultaneously. 

Two wars raging in your mind, knocking around your head until you have a pressure and a fog that demands your attention. 

Instead, you focus on reality. 

You focus on the bulge that presses against denim to reach you. You focus on the thigh coming between yours. You focus on the damp feeling in your shorts, pressed warmly against your cunt. 

Stiles’ thigh presses against your center and you sigh contentedly, eyebrows relaxing from their cinched position as you subtly start to submit in the Nogitsune’s hold. He breathes in when you breathe out, taking in every breath that you let out like you’re feeding them to him. He groans when you groan, echoing you. 

You’re lost in his movements, trying to decipher why he does what he does while also trying to enjoy the feeling, creating too much for your head to handle, and suddenly –– without realizing it –– you’re walking backwards, legs bumping into your bed, knees bending and body falling back to thud against the mattress. 

The Nogistune doesn’t follow you. Instead, he stands at the edge, looking down at you. His eyes are dark and empty as they stare at your body from head to toe. Suddenly, you’re self conscious about his opinion, your tiny brain convincing you that the opinion of the Nogistune correlates to that of Stiles. You shrink in on yourself, legs glued together at the knee, drawing up to your chest as you attempt to hide. 

The Nogistune isn’t having it. 

He tuts, the bed dipping at the end under his weight as he kneels. Two rough and large hands find your bare knees and you shiver, both thankful and regretful that you’d decided on your smallest pair of shorts for the night as you’d previously been completely unaware and unable to guess that your night would take a turn like this. 

“Don’t hide from me.” It’s an order, one you wouldn’t dream of disobeying, fear of what would happen if you did preventing you from doing so. Either way, he’s spreading your legs open himself as he says it until they’re wide enough to welcome him in. 

He takes your forced spread as an invitation from you, shuffling forward until he’s completely situated between your legs. The Nogitsune’s hands press into the pillow beneath you, strong forearms belonging to Stiles caging you in. He stares down at you, analyzing your reaction as he slots one thigh between both of yours, the other resting on the outside of your left leg. 

“Pretty little thing like you,” he says, head tilting as his analyzing gaze shifts to one that resembles amazement. Wonder, even. 

“Innocent. An angel. Would never hurt a fly.” He’s spitting the words out now as if he doesn’t believe them. 

His eyes narrow, glazing over as if he’s not paying attention to you anymore, and then he blinks and you’re the main focus once more. “That’s what he’s telling me. He’s trying to get out, you know. Trying to convince me to stop. He’s begging.” He takes a second, eyes calculating as he watches you for a reaction. 

You think you don’t give him one, but there’s one hidden in the minute shifts of your features. 

“But you don’t want that, do you?” He comes to a conclusion. “You don’t want me to stop. If you did, you wouldn’t be humping my leg like a bitch in heat.” And you are, your hips having a mind of their own as they push and pull against the material on his legs.

You hadn’t even noticed it was happening, too busy taking in his words as if they’re a form of hypnosis. Maybe they were, because it’s not until he points out your mindless hip movements that you’re fully aware of them, hands clutching at the Nogitsune’s sides as you start to pleasure yourself. 

”Want me to please you?” His voice is sickly sweet, a teasing pout on his lips, his eyes faux soft and his thick eyebrows lifted. You know he’s mocking you, it’s evident in his voice and face. But you’re already submitting, wanting just that, and telling him with a sincere nod. “Yeah?” He shouldn’t sound as hot as he does, and you shouldn’t be as horny as you are. But at this point, you’re pushing aside nearly all of your morals, deciding instead to completely give in. 

“Yes. Please, Void.” 

His face twists into one of surprise at the nickname. “Is that what you all call me? ‘Void’.” You stop, fearing you’d angered the usually cool headed Nogisgune. Until he smiles, slight but enough to be seen, and his hands slide down to your cunt.

“Is that what you’ll call me when I bring you to completion?” 

Another nod from you, your hips starting to squirm with impatience. You’re not above begging, as you’ve proven time and time again tonight, but there’s no need. 

Void slides his hand down to the waistband of your shorts, separating the elastic from your skin enough to slide his hand beneath the thin layer. 

You’re not wearing any panties, something about minimal layers being good for vaginal health. In reality, few layers is best for easy access, proven with the way Void easily slides two fingers through your slit, pushing your lips apart to let you feel the cool air against your center. 

Goosebumps raise along your skin, your bedroom suddenly colder than it was before. 

“So fucking wet.” His words are nothing but an observation, he’s quite frankly pointing out the obvious. There’s no hidden meanings or underlying intentions woven between the syllables. It’s straightforward. 

And that’s probably why you’re so embarrassed about it. 

You try to close your legs, shy away from Void, but of course he doesn’t let you. 

He uses his free hand to push your knees apart, holding one of them down while his occupied hand flexes as he slides his two fingers down to tease your entrance. 

“You can’t hide from me, sweet thing. You know that, don’t you?” This is full of a double meaning. You feel the weight of the words as you start to surrender even more, body weighted into the mattress while Void slides Stiles’ middle finger into your fluttering walls. 

There’s barely any reaction, not much of a stretch nor enough stimulation to give you much. So Void adds a second, pushing your walls apart while he inserts. 

You hiss, hands instinctively going down to wrap around Void’s wrist. He doesn’t swat your hands away. He lets you wrap your fingers around his wrist, and his eyebrows raise as he waits for you to make a move. 

You don’t. 

Your hand limply sits curled around a slender wrist, not tight enough to really do anything at all. 

Void continues his slow torture, setting a pace for his fingers that leaves so much to the imagination. 

What would it be like faster? Could you hear the squelch that way? Do you want it faster? Since that would inevitably bring you to the end at a speed that would easily have you unfulfilled and desiring more. 

There’s not much room to think more, however, when Void starts lowering himself, eyes trained on yours while his head steadily moves down. 

When he’s above your navel, he presses a kiss right below it, and then his other hand digs into the elastic of your shorts to pull them down. You’re left bare, open, save for Void’s fingers momentarily filling you up. 

“Do you taste as good as you look? Hm?” he asks you, voice low and teasing. Completely unaware of the answer, you choose to not answer at all. But Void is determined, pulling his fingers out of you and floating them over to your mouth. 

Your lips part easily, without any verbal prompting from him. He slips the digits in, and lets you suck, dark eyes trained on your mouth while you clean the pale skin. 

His eyebrows raise to prompt you to answer his question. 

“Why don’t you see for yourself?” It’s snarky, but spoken like you’ve said the sweetest, most innocent thing in the world, words almost dainty as they saunter out in a single file line from your lips. 

He hums, eyes squinting as his lips raise in something that looks like admiration. “Got a mouth on you.” 

And then his hands are holding your thighs open as he slots his face between your legs. 

The first lick is slow, his tongue flat as he confidently traces it from just above your asshole to just above your clit. 

You gasp, not expecting that wide of a trail, and then you melt. 

Void’s fingers presses into your thighs as he situates them over his shoulders, giving him the perfect position to devour. 

Which, he does. 

You don’t know how you expected a dark spirit with thousands of years of age over you to give head, but any expectation you would have had wouldn’t have been nearly as good as it is. 

None of the previous ‘best head you’ve ever had’ exists in this room. In this space. In this moment. No conscious thoughts about the possible repercussions you’ll face from finally having Stiles’ head between your thighs, but in the most unconventional way. Nothing exists outside of Stiles’ mouth on your cunt, Void driving his actions as pleasure that knocks the breath out of you is introduced to your system. 

Your eyes stick to the ceiling, or they close, fear that if you look down you’ll either cum too fast and cease the best moment of your life, or you’ll be wracked with guilt when poised with Stiles’ eyes peering up at you. 

But of course, Void won’t let you off that easily. 

His command to look at him is so strong that you don’t even consider disobeying it. Instead, you stare down at him, eyes finding his like opposite ends of a magnet. You prepare for that guilt to make you physically sick. You prepare to get uncomfortably turned off and recoil in on yourself instead of spreading your legs wider for Void. 

It doesn’t come. 

Instead, you feel weirdly comforted, back arching further and your hand confidently coming down to thread through Stiles’ waves, the dark hair beginning to stick to his forehead with the physical exertion. 

Void pulls Stiles’ lips from your center, rosy-pink glistening before he licks them clean. You notice Stiles’ cheeks are turning a similar color and it’s then that something switches in your head. 

Suddenly, you see Stiles instead of the Nogistune. It doesn’t help when you’re sent a smile that feels soft and familiar. 

You’re pushed out of your daze by the grate of his voice. 

“I bet you’re pretending I’m him, aren’t you?” 

He licks up your cunt once more, another long stripe that collects your pooled arousal just before he sucks at your clit. 

“Wanna scream his name while I make you cum? Hm?” It’s wrong, but you do. 

You nod, the movement small and shy as you wiggle your hips to demand attention. He gives in, pressing his lips back to your sensitive nerve endings. You start to chase your orgasm, grinding your hips against Void’s face as you begin to imagine it’s Stiles between your legs instead. It’s easy to do, especially when his face is shoved in your pussy. 

Stiles’ name falls from your lips with a stutter at first, unsure from your tongue as you test it. Void shakes his head. “Say it like you mean it,” he tells you before diving back in. 

He bares his teeth and nips on the bud, giving way for the name of the face he wears to push from your chest with more assurance this time. 

It’s the same name you moan when Void pushes you over the edge with his mouth alone.

With the post orgasm haze over your mind, bleeding into your body, it’s easier for you to see Stiles more than the Nogitsune. 

His face relaxed, the light in your room brightening his dark eyes. His lips pink and swollen and glistening, spreading into a satisfied smile as your breathing starts to level out.

Logic attempts to remind you that no matter how similar they look, this isn’t Stiles. But when Void softens his eyes, his hands shake a little at your side, and his smile lacks cockiness, it’s easier than it should be for you to forget. It’s easy for you to look past the pale skin and purple under eyes and messier-than-it-should-be hair and instead see your best friend. The guy you’ve been pining after since middle school.

“You’re prettier than you know.” Void presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, close to the junction of your pelvis and limb. The action shoves you back to reality, putting you in that post-orgasmic euphoric haze.  

“Too pretty for him.” Another kiss. “Should keep you close to me, shouldn’t I?” 

Maybe there’s something else affecting you other than your post-orgasm haze, because the thought starts to sound not so bad. You try to nod, but your body is heavy. You’re tired, but your body wants more. 

Shamelessly, you start to grind, a pathetic attempt of receiving friction from perhaps the air, since that’s the only thing you’re getting. You feel drunk, confused, and incredibly horny.

A frustrated groan falls from your lips, Void replying in a chuckle. 

“What? You want more?” 

You muster your strength to nod, and you can’t see it, but you look like the prettiest fucked out thing. 

Hair messy atop your head, lips swollen and slick and pouty, eyes glazed over and it looks like you’ll cry if Void turns down your advances. He briefly considers doing so, just to fuck with you, see what you’re like at your weakest, but he figures there’s another way to get you to that point. 

Void’s hand slides up your torso, palm wide and calluses rough against your soft body. He rises as he does so, hand cupping your jaw, face hovering over yours as he brings your attention solely to him. You blink dumbly, waiting for his next move. 

“You know I’m gonna need something from you, too, baby, right? And not just those pretty sounds you make when you cum.” You stare at him, feeling like it’s all you've been doing this entire encounter. But there are no words, nothing for you to say to him. 

You lick your lips and it takes longer than it should for a response to form in your head, each word appearing one at a time. “What … do you need?” 

He kisses the side of your neck and then his hand slides down to rest over the area. You stay still, breath sitting in your chest, unmoving. 

He sucks in a breath himself, as if he’s taunting you with how relaxed and unphased he is. Suddenly, you begin to feel like trapped prey. 

“I need to hurt you, honey.” He tilts his head, eyes scanning over your body, calculating. “Not a lot, just enough to feed myself.” His grip on your throat seems to get tighter, more secure. “That’s okay, right?” 

You’re dumb. So fucking dumb and clueless and desperate. 

Because you’re nodding, hand pathetically circling Stiles’ wrist when pressure is applied to the sides of your throat. 

“That’s a good girl.” He kisses your forehead, and then your cheek is struck. 

You gasp, the sound is an instinct from your body. It forces you to breathe, and the airflow combined with the sting from your cheek feels good. You wonder if they’ll be a mark tomorrow, and the thought excites you instead of worries you. 

You don’t consider the lie you’ll have to tell Scott or Lydia. You don’t think about how you’ll potentially feel looking in the mirror in the morning. All you think about is how you want Void to do it again. 

Especially when he looks like this while he does it: Veins along his arms and neck turning black as he seemingly takes the pain, not away like Scott can, but as Void takes your pain he adds to it. Multiplies it, even. 

It’s not filled with gloom, nor despair, but there’s something heavy that feels vaguely uncomfortable from the lack of attention, like an itch that needs to be scratched. 

You need more. 

Void seems to sense this. 

“On all fours,” he instructs you, hand leaving your neck to allow you to do as told. 

There’s the sound of shuffling, not just from you. Metal against metal, fabric against fabric. More shuffling, the added weight against the bed is gone, and then hands are pulling you back towards the edge. 

There’s barely any wait, any anticipation, before your walls are forcibly stretched. 

You wish you could see it, maybe if you were doing it in missionary, but beggars truly can’t be choosers and you’re perfectly fine with taking what you can get. 

Void is at least a few inches deep before you consider the option of protection. You bring it up to him, glancing over your shoulder and your voice wobbling as you say it. 

Void tuts as if he’s disappointed, shaking his head. 

“You don’t want his babies?” He speaks through a pout, the epitome of condescending. “Don’t want to be the whore with her crush’s seed festering in her womb? ‘Cause I think you do.” 

His hand presses flat against the middle of your back, pressing you down into the mattress, leaving you with your ass up. 

Void bottoms out completely, a hiss sounding through your teeth as you try to adjust as quickly as you can. 

He doesn’t give you much grace, instantly setting a pace that has you gasping, pornographic sounds slipping from between your lips. It’s nearly exactly as you’d imagined it, loud with the squelches of you and Void combining in the purest way possible. But it’s dirty, fast and lacking any neatness or grace. 

He fucks you just as you expected from him: Mercilessly, with little to no concern for how you feel. 

As if to emphasize this, he spanks you, the clap loud to the point where it seems fake. But the sting left behind on your left ass cheek begs to differ. 

It’s not long before his thrusts become erratic, most likely from the build up of the entire ordeal. A lack of rhythm becomes present as he fucks you harder, with more intention behind each aggressive snap of his hips into yours. You’re sent further and further into the mattress as he does so, your lips pressing against your definitely sodden sheets. You attempt to maneuver your head to where he can hear you, a plea for him to cum anywhere but inside of you desperately climbing up your throat. 

But it gets stuck behind your mouth. Void’s hand presses into the back of your head, forcing your face into the sheets, and just when you feel as if you can’t breathe, his hand wraps around your throat and he pulls you up, your back against his chest. 

His chin sits on your shoulder, his lips brush your earlobe as he speaks. 

“Gonna cum in you, yeah? Fill you with little Nogitsune babies. Be a lot better than the little weaklings he would give you. Bet you would look so pretty carrying my kids. Tits all swollen,” his free hand circles around your waist at this point, climbing up to pinch an already sensitive nipple between his pointer and thumb. 

You hiss, attempting to recoil away from the clamp. There’s nowhere for you to go, completely closed in by Void in all places. He’s still in you, rock hard and hot and fucking up into your walls with a depth that stings, his tip not too far from your cervix. His body is around you, arms circled around you, hands at your neck and stomach, pressing you back against him. 

You couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. And with another orgasm brewing low in your belly, you want the opposite. It’s hard to admit, and it’s not like you will ever admit it, but you have the sudden craving for Void to fill you up. 

You whine, pretending to be disinterested by the thought he puts in your head. But Void continues speaking, voice heavy and a little slurred as he continues to take the pain he’s inducing. 

“Feel so good around me. It’s like this is how it was supposed to be. You and him. Maybe you two were made for each other.” He chuckles cruelly, almost taunting you with the idea. You have to bite back a sob because that sounds so nice, but it seems impossible after this. 

You can’t imagine Stiles ever wanting to be with you after this. 

“He wants that, too, you know. But ‘s not gonna happen when I’m here.” He kisses your cheek, and it would be romantic in any other situation. 

You can’t even consider the idea of romance when Void’s hand squeezes at your throat and his voice drops a few octaves as he tells you: “You’re mine.” 

His hand slides from your tit to between your thighs, two fingers circling your clit rapidly, meant to send you over the edge. You do so a few moments later, satisfied that he hadn't made you beg while your body completely relaxes until you let out a sound that is practically inhuman. 

It’s a mix between a growl and a moan and a sob. You sound like a wounded animal. And while Void cums in you, you feel like one too. 

He lets you go, allowing you to collapse face first into your bed. 

Both of you are still for a moment, Void's heavy body atop of yours as you both lay limply on your mattress. Of course, he moves first, separating from you and letting you lay there in silence.

There’s no tranquility, no comfort, just thick silence. 

You’re spent, fucked out as you attempt to catch your breath. 

It’s almost impossible to do so when Void lifts your hips a little and then presses his tongue flat against your entrance. You gasp, experiencing too much too soon, and again attempt to thrash away. He holds you still, strong hands holding you up as his lips pucker around your hole. He sucks, and it becomes clear to you that he’s retrieving his own cum from inside of you. 

When he’s finished, he flips you over and goes to your mouth, and it’s shameful that you still don’t have to be asked to open. You do it automatically, lips parting as Void presses his to yours. The swap is disgusting, both in taste and texture, but you lose yourself in the messiness of the kiss. 

By the time Void pulls away, there’s drool and cum from both of you sliding down your chin. He smiles at the sight, gently tapping your cheek before doing the same with a much harder slap on your abused cunt. 

This time, you don’t recoil, or writhe away, or even make a sound. You’re completely submissive, the only indicator of the pain being the way your stomach flexes.

Void grins, satisfied with how he’s made you. You expect more from him. You’re expecting him to tug his dick back up, so you’re sat watching him dumbly as he mechanically redresses.

You don’t move, too tired to do so, just blinking languidly while pale skin is recovered.

Just before Void leaves, he tells you: “I’m not done with you.”

And it’s both a threat and a promise. One you hope he keeps.

[murdrdocs]

concept not long enough for kinktober ; more stiles + vamp!gf minors dni

Stiles has a bit of a pain kink. 

He realizes this when you’re riding him, nails scratching down his chest. You’ve got insane stamina, evidence of your non-human abilities, but this is your third orgasm and you’re faltering. Stiles does what he can to help out, situating himself a little sturdier against the headboard so he can wrap his arms around your waist and pull you in, heels digging into the mattress to give him leverage to thrust up into you. 

You take the change gratefully, lips pressing to Stiles neck as you let out pretty little breaths that have a pitch resembling a moan. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders, they scrape around his back, and he can feel the marks being created. They sting, a delicious feeling he thought was just a one time thing in high school, his body younger and amped up on adrenaline during one of his first times having sex. 

Now, this is another tally in the dozens of times you’ve fucked him, and he knows that the feeling of you marking him is one he thoroughly enjoys. 

Your hand threads in his hair, grown out along the back simply because he likes it when you do this. You tug, nails scratching at his burning scalp, and Stiles stifles his moan by biting down onto his bottom lip. 

His hands dig into your hips, his thrusts increase in pressure and speed. 

He’s close, but hellbent on sending you over first. It’s not until your lips part and Stiles feels the gentle scrape of your teeth along the pronounced vein in his neck that he realizes he’s gonna cum first, a warning of his speedily impending orgasm barely slipping from his lips before he’s cumming into the condom, fucking himself through his orgasm while still attempting to fuck you to yours. 

When you cum, the strongest time of the night, Stiles has a fleeting wish for your teeth to slip into his neck. He imagines the pressure, the slight pain of the bones puncturing his skin and veins, and he’s already becoming hard again.

[murdrdocs]

stiles is knee deep in his passenger seat and he's eating reader out after she threw him a bday party :)

happy stiles day to all those who celebrate; oral (f receiving), dom!stiles; inspired by casual by chappell roan; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

you were supposed to be heading towards stiles and scott's apartment ten minutes ago.

under your thigh, your phone has been vibrating for the past couple of minutes, likely message after message from the group chat that included everyone in your friend group minus stiles. the birthday boy.

he had been clueless earlier in the night of the festivities, and you know he's clueless about how they have yet to end. if he knew, it probably wouldn't have changed anything. he wouldn't have stopped.

it's his birthday, you're supposed to be celebrating him, and you did earlier in the night. but now, after you're a little tipsy from drinks and stiles is a little buzzed, and you're both elated from the party you'd thrown him in a restaurant he's always wanted to visit, he's the one celebrating you. your events earlier in the night, born out of weeks of planning, was unlike that of a casual relationship. it was unlike that of the mutually beneficial agreement you and stiles have settled on. but this is more like it.

with your legs spread and stiles between them, this is the familiar territory. it's a weird position, slightly uncomfortable for both of you, but stiles is undeterred.

he keeps licking and sucking like his life depends on it, pouring all of his appreciation into the way he pleases you.

"thank you," he tells you every so often. at first, you thought he was speaking of the party you'd thrown him, but now you don't know exactly what he's thanking you for. possibly for the way you're letting him devour you in this parking lot in his jeep.

"no problem," you stress. stiles draws a line up with his tongue from your entrance to your clit. his circles it, staring right up at you while he does it.

"are you close?" you nod, your face scrunched up in pleasure. "can you give it to me?" you nod again, unable to do anything else for fear that speaking will pull the loudest and most uncomfortable sound from you. stiles sympathizes but helping to get you closer.

he increases the speed of his tongue against your clit. his amber eyes watch you the entire time. his large hands keep your thighs spread apart, even whenever your muscle start to twitch and you attempt to close them around his head. he shakes his head at that, his mouth busy but you know what he would have told you.

keep 'em open.

[murdrdocs]

stiles needs his dick sucked fr fr

like he works sooo hard time and time again to protect his friends and beacon hills and he just needs to blow off some steam you know.

he just needs to stand there, arms crossed over his chest, gaze a little hard as he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. he's thinking, staring at the board in front of him, putting together the final pieces of the latest crime to be nearly solved.

you're being patient as can be, swinging your legs as you lay on the bed behind him, eyes focused entirely on his frame even if you can only see the back. he starts talking to you, or maybe more so to himself. murmuring connections, letting rhetorical questions fall out into the air, only for him to answer it himself just a second or so later.

your patience starts to wear thin, especially when he scratches his jaw and his back muscles flex. he turns around to face you, pink lips already forming a questions directed at you this time. but there's no time, not when you're already over there, on your knees with your hands at the waistband of his sweatpants.

stiles only has enough sense to say "woah", his hands resting over yours. "are you––? do you wanna––?"

each question is left unsaid, but you nod anyway, waiting for stiles' consent to continue. which comes in the form of a nod, and his hands leaving yours. he lets you dig your hands under the elastic. he lets you pull his sweats and briefs down.

he watches as you take the leaking head on his tip into your mouth, lips puckered around him, tongue flicking out to lick the precum off. when you pull away, there's just enough saliva there to add a glisten, entrancing both you and stiles. you look at him, he looks at you, and then he looks back down to watch your mouth work.

[murdrdocs]

she’s driving me crazy

description. STILES STILINSKI finally gets another chance with you, and he won’t take it for granted

includes. SMUT 18+, riding, car sex, fem!reader, protective p n v, lots of making out, loser!stiles, awkward stiles, bi!stiles, exes getting back together, slightly manipulative reader, reader has easily malleable hair, reader wears makeup, drinking (but no drunk intercourse), bickering, scott guest appearance

wc. 6k+

a/n: long awaited stiles fic. bestie boo this one's for u. title from confidence by ocean alley. art credits unknown.

Stiles knows he fucked up. 

He had you, after almost a full year of tortuous pining, and he let you slip through his hands. All of it, your relationship with Stiles, really didn’t last more than two months. Two months where date nights were rain checked and eventually canceled. Sleepovers were lackluster, and nothing more than a movie playing in the back while Stiles worked over something that wouldn’t rest in his brain, leaving you alone in the center of his unmade bed. Promises were made, and never kept. It was a mess, a horrible, murky mess of Stiles’ own creation. 

He knows this. But he still allows himself to mourn what could have been. He grieves what was. All while nursing a warm beer that doesn’t sit well in his stomach, mostly because of the sight he has been doomed to acknowledge—also his own doing as he could definitely turn his gaze elsewhere. 

You’re tucked under the arm of some guy who looks nothing like Stiles, and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. Is that your dream guy? Or are you forcing yourself to branch out and try something that wasn’t him? He tries to resist the spiral that sends him on, and is only able to start crawling out of the self-deprecating and insecurity tunnel through Scott’s voice beside him. 

“What’re you staring at?” 

Scott reeks of alcohol and fruit-flavored syrup. If he wasn’t a werewolf, Stiles knows his best friend would be unable to stand straight by now. But Scott stands like his usual self next to Stiles, a big grin on his face probably from the attention he’s been getting from Kira. (It was sickening for Stiles to watch but he forced himself to be happy for the strong relationship his best friend has.)

Stiles’ immediate instinct is to lie. “Nothing.” He says it a little too fast. He tries to cover his slip up by taking a sip of his beer, but the flavor is unappealing to the point where the face of disgust he presents makes him look more guilty than he really is. 

Scott stares at Stiles, waiting. Stiles knows he won’t lie to Scott, not about something this small anyway, and it is only a matter of a few seconds before Stiles sighs. 

“Look,” he points at you and your suitor. “Don’t you think he’s making her uncomfortable? Look at that. He’s all over her. Probably reeks of Axe body spray.”

It’s then that the guy cracks another joke, your head throwing back in laughter just before you rest your ear against his chest. It’s so affectionate. As if you’ve known this guy for years, and not just mere minutes. 

Stiles flicks his eyes over to Scott, expecting to see his best friend analyzing the situation with at least a small amount of attention that Stiles is. Instead, Scott is looking over at Stiles, wearing what Stiles can only describe as a knowing smirk on his lips. 

Stiles steps back, a little bewildered. “What?” 

Scott, annoyingly, shrugs. He sips his drink, one he has solely for taste as Stiles knows, and only responds once he’s taken a long, slow swallow. 

“She seems fine to me. I thought you guys were broken up anyway.” 

“We are!” 

“Then why do you care so much?” 

Stiles can’t help but petulantly roll his eyes. He turns to face you and your human shaped bag of bricks once again, gesturing for Scott to do the same. His mouth opens, lips parted and tongue ready to spew out the analytics he’d been gathering this entire time in lieu of an excuse. 

Then Scott interrupts. 

“Do you want me to see what’s going on?” Scott throws a finger up towards his ear, one eyebrow lifted as he waits for Stiles to gather the implications and then make a decision. 

It takes Stiles longer to complete the latter than the former. 

He waits, thinks, looks at you and the guy. And then remembers the strict ‘no listening’ rule you all have set in place, the one he most definitely won’t betray in the name of jealousy, even if you aren’t particularly aware of all of the intricacies. 

When he sighs, it’s defeated and with his entire body. He knows he’s pouting, he assumes he resembles his teenage self—mopey and brooding. He doesn’t mean to speak through gritted teeth, but he ends up doing it anyway. 

“No. She’s probably … fine. I guess.” It hurts to admit, deep in Stiles' jealousy-filled gut. Scott’s way of comforting him is by clapping a hand on his shoulder, and telling him that you’re a grown adult who is allowed to make her own decisions, the same as him. 

Scott’s intentions aren’t understood until he points at someone in the opposite direction of you. A guy who, from the looks of it, has been eyeing Stiles for a while. He’s Stiles’ type. Exactly his type, actually, and Scott knows this. 

“Instead of sulking around …” Scott doesn’t need to finish his sentence in order for Stiles to understand. He only lingers for a few seconds, and then is pulled back towards the larger group by Kira’s eyes and grin. 

The guy on the other side of the bar is still watching Stiles. He’s smiling a small but confident smile, like he knows Stiles wants him as much as he wants Stiles. He tilts his head in a beckon, and Stiles is close to letting the guy pull him over there. Until he sees you step away from the man, smile dismissively up to him, and start towards Stiles instead. 

Instantly, it’s like a flip has been switched. 

He starts to feel the effects of the alcohol, even though he’d been nursing the same bottle the entire night. Still, he chooses to attribute the buzz flowing throughout his body to the overpriced beer and not excitement of finally having your attention. 

He watches your path, trying not to feel too disappointed as he takes notice of the way you’re struggling to walk in a straight line. 

You fall into his arms in a fit of giggles. Your head resting on his chest, your hands circling around his back. 

“Stiles,” you sing, long and drawn out and definitely drunk.  

He repeats your name in the same tune, placing his drink onto a tabletop next to him and abandoning it for good. Keeping you away from self destruction is his new main priority. 

You slump against him even more, turning yourself around and leaning back against his body. Your position leaves Stiles with nothing else to do other than stand stiffly. He knows that if you were sober, you wouldn’t be nearly as affectionate as you are now. He ignores the way your ass brushes against his crotch. He ignores the smell of your perfume wafting up to him, a scent he had the privilege of seeing you apply a few times before when you were dating. (The image of you getting ready for the day, lathering yourself in the oils and lotions and scents that worked to create your unique scent will never leave his brain, for better or for worse.)

He does his best to remain unaffected, but then you tilt your head up, the crown of your hair rubbing against Stiles’ shirt as you look at him. As soon as he glances down, he sees you pouting, clearly over exaggerated but it’s a look he, pathetically, will never be able to resist. 

“Why won’t you touch me?” You manage to sound pitiful, as if you had lost every single thing you hold dear to your heart in the last couple of minutes. 

In his response, he tries to remain neutral. Drunk or not, you know the game you’re playing, and Stiles foolishly believes that his knowledge of the ploy makes him insusceptible. 

“Because you’re drunk,” he platonically rests his hands on your shoulders and encourages you off of him. “And we aren’t together anymore.” 

You turn around to face him, grinning up at him like the cat with the canary as you tell him, “it didn’t stop us last time, right?”

That, and the way you almost throw yourself at some guy walking past, is enough reason for Stiles to link his hand in yours and pull you towards the others. Scott stares down at your interlinked palms for only a moment before Stiles explains his plan, which entails getting you back to your apartment before you do something you could regret. 

This isn’t an excuse for Stiles to continue hanging out with you. He makes sure he clarifies that to himself and his best friend before he’s pulling you out of the bar and towards his Jeep.

You’re both less than ten steps away from the entrance to the bar when you suddenly have your lips pressed to Stiles’. 

There is a moment where Stiles fails to resist. Where he reciprocates quicker than his brain can realize, acting on pure instinct and muscle memory instead of logic. He is unable to stop himself from getting comfortable, from linking this kiss to the last one he’d received from you. Hotter and messier than this one. (Lost in his appreciation to finally be kissing you again, Stiles fails to notice how you don’t taste like alcohol at all)

Only a few more seconds pass before Stiles reminds himself that you’re drunk, and that this is wrong. When he pulls away from your lips—regretfully, that is—he’s tempted into staying by the slight stickiness of your lipgloss and the almost-disgusting string of saliva that briefly keeps you two sewn together. 

You try to lean back in, but Stiles stops you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“You’re drunk,” he reminds you. 

You’re fixing him with a look, one that feels strong and weirdly sober. His suspicions have more proof to back them up when you say his name with the same matter-of-fact tone he had just used on you. 

“I’m not drunk.” 

He scrunches his eyebrows together, the muscles in his face mimicking the movement as well. His lips part as he nonverbally exclaims his confusion. He lifts one of his hands from your shoulder to hook his thumb towards the bar entrance. He looks around, for nothing or no one in particular, but as if the night will have an explanation that you would surely be willing to provide if he asks. 

He didn’t even need to ask before you provide an explanation. It’s cut and dry, matter-of-fact, spoken like it is the most casual thing in the world. 

“I faked being drunk so you could take me home.” 

Stiles knows what you mean. He’s not dumb. But he surely does feel it when he says, “If you didn’t feel well you could’ve just told Lydia. She would’ve taken you back to yours.” 

You roll your eyes. “If you don’t wanna sleep with me, that’s fine. Just let me know before I waste my time.” 

Stiles should stand up for himself. He should reprimand your attitude, and exclaim how unnecessary it was. Instead, he flounders and almost falls to your feet with the speed he clarifies himself. 

“No. I do wanna sleep with you. Like, really bad. But … um … well,” you lift your eyebrows and Stiles clears his throat. “How many fingers am I holding up.” 

“Jesus, fuck, Stiles.” He continues holding up his first three fingers on his right hand until you answer. “Three.” 

You lean in but Stiles takes a step back. And then another. And then another, until he’s standing against the wall of the bar and you’re standing at the edge of the sidewalk. 

“Walk in a straight line towards me.” 

You don’t seem happy about it, but you place one foot in front of the other over and over again until you’re in front of Stiles. Nothing more has to be said before Stiles places his hands on your hips, pulls you flush to him, and finally allows himself to kiss you. 

It’s been a while since Stiles had the privilege of kissing you. The last time, just a month ago, didn’t count in his mind. Sure, he remembered nearly every detail, but your shared inebriated state at the time overruled any legitimacy the encounter could have held. Now, it only acts as a reminder and motivator for Stiles to enjoy every moment of this that he can. 

Eventually, it would be smart, and preferable, to leave the outside of the bar and actually take you home where you two could be alone. But for now, Stiles presses his hands into the middle of your back as a way to pull you as close to him as possible. He has his legs spread, creating space for your limbs to stagger. Your hands rest on his shoulders, then at the back of his neck, then in his hair. Both of you are attempting to get as close to the other as possible, all while engaging in the sloppiest kiss you’ve ever had. You both kissed cleaner when you were drunk. 

Now, outside this bar with your closest friends inside, and with nothing but the night (and the bouncer) as witness, you submit to the other. There is a level of appreciation in the way your lips slide together. There is a level of gratitude in the presses of your tongues against each other. There is an exorbitant amount of longing that is solved each time you jerk your hips into Stiles and each time he reciprocates. 

You thread your hands through Stiles’ hair the same time that he slides his hands down to your ass and squeezes, pulling you as close to him as possible and rubbing his thigh against the center seam of your jeans. You both groan into each other's mouths—Stiles from the way you tug just right on his hair, and you from the feeling of his leg between yours. 

Sensing—knowing that he did something right, something good, Stiles does it again. And again. And again. The steady slide of his thigh between your legs does the job. You let your head fall, leaning the top of it against Stiles’ chest just right under his sternum. 

The sound of you moaning Stiles’ name goes straight to his dick, with a few remnants traveling to his head, leaving him dizzy and with a steady growing semi. His actions make you grip his hair stronger. His actions indirectly cause pleasure for him, too. 

It all disappears when the sound of spitting—loud and boisterous, almost cartoonish—breaks up the moment. Stiles stops his movements. He lays his hands flat on the back pockets of your jeans as he turns his head to the side. 

The eyes of the bouncer meet Stiles and Stiles’ ears burn. 

While the bouncer doesn’t say anything to him, Stiles knows the message he’s trying to communicate. 

Get the fuck out of here. 

Stiles is forced to push you back by hooking his fingers in your belt loops. He’s still touching you, at least an extension of you, but then your hands drop to your sides and Stiles can feel his body crying out for you. The same way his body calls out for vital needs—food, water, sleep, entertainment. He squashes his emotions for a second, plasters on a—truthfully sympathetic—face, one that comes off more as a tight lipped smile than anything else. 

“Sorry, man. You — uh. You have a goodnight.” He throws a hand up to the bouncer, hoping it is received as friendly. When the bouncer returns the gesture, still with that same look in his eyes, Stiles heads down the street and pulls you with him. 

The walk to the car is tortuous. His boner keeps rubbing against his jeans, leaving him to stop every few paces, face away from the street, and try to adjust himself. After the third time, you were voicing your frustration, claiming that it was taking forever to reach the car because of Stiles’ worry about who could see his erection. He tries things your way, ignoring the way his dick calls for his attention and instead focusing all of his attention on you. 

The way your hips sway in your tight jeans. The way the wind blows your perfume to him and lifts the edge of your shirt in one, giving Stiles a peek of your skin. It’s such a small look, nothing more than a glimpse, and Stiles feels like a Victorian man the way he’s having to bite his fist at the next crosswalk to avoid groaning. The street lights illuminate your face in just the right ways, highlighting your makeup in an unnaturally ethereal way. Everything about you is driving Stiles crazy. There’s no way he’s going to make it to your house. If he doesn’t get to his car soon, he might pull you into the next bar bathroom that he could find just for a semblance of privacy. 

If he could just get to his Jeep. 

It’s then that Stiles realizes he’s been walking for far too long. He stops in the center of the sidewalk. You stop right beside him. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything as he turns around and leads you three blocks down the street, one street over, and then into the parking garage elevator. 

The way you’re grinning at him alerts Stiles of the words soon to come out of your mouth, definitely words that would be at his expense. He stops you while you’re ahead. 

It’s nice to have the position switched. Your back against the wall instead of his. His hands are still on your hips, but he uses them to push you into the metal instead of pulling you into him. You have that part covered, your arms once more thrown over his shoulders, pressed into the back of his neck and head, drawing him in until the pressure of his lips against yours is a little painful. 

In the rush neither of you have pushed the button, leaving the elevator stagnant on the ground floor. Stiles notices at the same time that you scratch his scalp. He moans, he really can’t help it. His mouth opens as you purse your lips again, and he feels a little bad but you aren’t deterred. In fact, you do it again, your nails scratching in just the right spot and Stiles feels like an animal the way he shudders and keens. 

He’s more human when he admits, “Missed this.” He presses his lips to yours again, pulling back with a smack. “Missed you.” 

Your lips slide against his with what Stiles can only describe as desperation. Pure, unadulterated desperation and desire. You’re breathing a little heavy, deep exhales through your nose and inhales in the in between moments, and it doesn’t turn Stiles off at all. He wants more of you. He takes more of you. 

He doesn’t know how long you two are in there, but it is eventually you who pulls back first, your lips visibly swollen and lacking any of the makeup that was previously on it. 

“Has the elevator been moving at all?” You could check for yourself. Just one look over Stiles’ shoulder and you could see that the small screen still displayed a digital ‘1’. Yet, you’re looking up at him instead. Like Stiles is the most important thing in the elevator. Like he’s the most important thing in the world to you. (Maybe it’s Stiles’ delusion talking, but he chooses to believe it either way)

Still, Stiles looks over his shoulder, confirms that he hadn’t hit the button at all, and leans back to correct his mistakes. 

The elevator beeps twice, bringing you both to the third floor, and as much as Stiles’ wants to continue standing there and just admire you, he can hear the door daring to slide close. Again, he pulls you out behind him. 

As soon as he turns the corner, Stiles is immediately made aware of the lack of other cars on the level. It’s a little eerie, and if he wasn’t about to get his dick wet he would possibly be on the lookout for potential threats that could turn one of the best moments of his life into another inconvenience. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, his back, his arms, as you hold onto him. 

“Why did you park all alone? Did you plan this? Were you trying to get in my pants all night?” 

Stiles digs into the front pocket of his jeans and searches for his keys. “No. There were other people parked here earlier. They’re just all gone now.” 

You hum unconvincingly. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Stiles.” 

As soon as Stiles has the passenger door unlocked, he holds the door open for you and stares, hoping the annoyance is overpowering every other feeling he’s currently having towards you. 

“In the back,” he tells you. You smile up at him, big and entertained, and then do as he says. 

He climbs in right behind you. At this point in the night, there was no point in attempting to get back to your apartment or his. Stiles couldn’t wait much longer, and you two are no stranger to the back of his Jeep. You’ve been in this situation before. 

It’s all completely effortless. You’re already in the process of slipping your jeans off whenever Stiles has the door closed. He mourns for just a second, pouting to himself over not being the one to take those sinful jeans off of you. But then you climb over his lap, situating yourself to hover just a bit above him. 

Stiles plants his hands on your hips, just like he did before, and pulls you to sit right over him, just like you have before. He knows that the status of your relationship has changed since the last time he had the privilege of being in this space with you like this, but that doesn’t mean the way you do things has to change, too. 

You were never shy before. You would always be quick to attach yourself to Stiles in whatever ways you could, just like you had been doing just a little earlier into the night. But that’s gone now. Now, you’re staring at him, your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. 

Before you were together for a short time, Stiles had spent months pining. Months analyzing whatever he could about you. Months mentally cataloging your tells. And now, he calls on that information to declare that you’re hesitant. You’re nervous. No, not just nervous. You’re worried. Almost regretful. 

He tilts his head. “What’s wrong?” 

You shrug but Stiles knows you’re aware of what has you like this. He just gives you the time to voice it. 

Eventually, you say: “Will this change anything between us?” 

It’s his turn to shrug. “I dunno. Do you want anything to change?” 

You shrug again. 

“Well … do you want to keep going? And we decide that afterwards?” Stiles really wants to fuck you, but deep down he knows that if you stopped and got up off of him in this moment, he would be okay with it. Well, he would be okay with it after a few days. Maybe a week or two. 

A little part in him swells, jumps, and clicks its heels when you nod. 

“Yeah. That sounds good.” You press your lips to his once. 

“You just tell me when you decide, okay? I’m cool with whatever you’re cool with.” And Stiles means that. If he gets just one more time with you, if this is his final time with you, he would cut his losses and be grateful for the time that he was allowed. What else was he supposed to do? He would never dream of doing anything that could jeopardize his spot in your life. 

Stiles can feel the warmth of your center is his hand when he trails his touch down. He cups your mound and his eyes flutter shut. He feels like a pervert for only a second before you start to work your lips down his neck and rock your hips into his hand. The way your mouth suctions around his favorite spot almost has him distracted enough to not notice your hands working on his pants. Almost. 

He can’t really tell in the dark, but he can slightly feel your once confident movements start to falter. You stop on his neck, keeping your lips as nothing but a pucker against his skin before you pull away completely to look down between the two of you. 

“When the fuck did you start wearing a belt?” 

Stiles doesn’t want to tell you the truth, he feels like it would be too embarrassing. Really, he knows it wouldn’t, but something about having to tell you that he decided to wear a belt because you always said he should makes him feel a little meek. So instead of filling the silence with the truth, he fills the silence with the clinks of his belt buckle as he undos it himself. 

“Recently,” is all he tells you when you’re still staring at him for a response. Somehow, it’s enough for you and your hands are back on his waistband. 

In record speed, your hands are down the elastic of his boxers and wrapping around Stiles’ cock. He doesn’t hiss, but he does shudder. He tries to hide it by pretending that the car is cold, which it was beforehand, but now it’s warm. It becomes warmer when you spit in your hand, wrap it around Stiles’ cock and pump him a few times, and then push your underwear to the side and hover above him. 

It really pains Stiles to stop you, but he does. He asks if you have a condom, then he asks if you want to use a condom, and the entire time he’s kicking himself. Because he can feel the warmth radiating. He has his tip already nudged between your folds, and just this small touch is already making him lose it. His nails are digging into your hips, he’s breathing harder than he was before, and he has to blink a few times to really focus on you. 

It feels like Stiles blinks and suddenly you’re tearing the foil packet open and slipping the condom over him. He watches it go down as best as he can, and the light doesn’t reveal much. Just the bottom of you and the tip of him is visible, the rest Stiles is forced to make out through squints and memorization. 

He’s just briefly dejected about the lack of visuals, but then your hands rest on his shoulders and he hears you take a breath and he knows it’s time. 

Stiles rests his hands on your side and looks up at you. 

You go down slowly. Softly. It allows Stiles to feel each delicious inch as they go by, revealing more and more of the inside of you as time passes. He battles between watching your face and simply basking in it. Eventually, he settles on the former. 

Your eyebrows are tightened just enough to show your discomfort. You have your lips parted, long breaths leaving them every so often, usually right before you sink down again. And Stiles has seen you take him before. He knows that you have been able to take him faster than this before. And then he wonders: is this your first time doing this, with anyone, in a while? Have you been as lost without him as he has been without you? Have you even attempted to fill that hole, and was your stunt earlier tonight just that: a stunt?

There isn’t time for him to ponder over his questions like he would have wanted to whenever you bottom out. It’s with a sigh, the back of your thighs meeting the top of his just briefly. 

You rest your forehead against his, and you both breathe together. Or, it’s more so you breathing and Stiles matching the pattern. 

You lean up, you move your hair out of your face, and you tell him, “Don’t remember it being this hard.” 

Slightly cocky, Stiles tilts his head.  At first he doesn’t say anything. He smiles, his eyes are heavy when they look you up and down, and then he rubs your back. “Take your time.” 

You take the time you need and then you start moving. Up and down. Up and down. Agonizingly slowly at first, and then faster when you get more comfortable. 

This is what Stiles has needed. This is what he has been missing in his life. You’re like a drug for him, and one hit seems like enough at the time, but by the time this is all over he knows he’s going to be searching for more. He’ll do anything he has to, so long as it gets him in a spot similar to this again. 

He searches for your hand, refusing to look away from the way your body moves atop of him for even a second. You help him out, bringing your hand to his, pressing the fingertips together, leaving Stiles to interlock them. He lifts your hands, looking at them in the white light that enters the foggy window. Somehow, this image is even more captivating. There is a more pornographic way the two of you are connected, one that demands Stiles’ attention. There is something about the innocence of this. He’s doing nothing but holding your hand, and Stiles feels like he might either lose his mind, or cum too quickly. 

He might do both. One after the other. 

You sink down on him again, a little awkwardly this time, but it does it for you. You hit a spot that makes your mouth widen and your eyes flutter shut. You search for it, and find it miraculously. Your head throws back as you hit that spot over and over again, pleasing yourself on Stiles’ dick. The image is heavenly for him. It’s euphoric. 

He lets his eyes wander down your neck, along your clavicle, and your shirt reveals just a bit of your bust but it’s not enough. With his free hand, he pulls the rest of the fabric down, and when he sees that you’re not wearing a bra, he almost cums into the condom then and there. He doesn’t wonder how he hadn’t noticed, he doesn't consider how he hadn’t taken into account the natural shape of your breasts pushing through the fabric, almost reaching out to him. Instead, he leans forward, presses his hand into the curve of your back, and attaches his mouth to the untouched skin. 

Your free hand sinks into Stiles’ hair. Your fingers weave through the back of his hair first, and then you make your way up to the front, pushing back his bangs blindly. 

Stiles peers up at you from his spot around your nipples. You’re still in ecstasy—your head now level once more, but your mouth still open and your eyes still closed. 

He detaches from your nipple to tell you: “Look at me.” 

It fuels Stiles’ ego when you do as told quickly. 

You’re looking at him on his command yet Stiles feels like he’s the one entranced. Because of your eyes. Fuck, your eyes. Watery, lazy, but your pupils are dilated. Your mascara has transferred to under your eyes by now, and it’s smudged a bit, making you look completely fucked out. Stiles thinks some of your makeup along your face has disappeared too, but it allows for a fresh skinned appearance instead. 

Really, there is nothing else for him to do except kiss you. It’s so messy but so good. You flatter in your movements on his cock, but Stiles feels absolutely no remorse when he takes over. 

He unlocks your hands and plants them both on your hips again. This time, he uses the leverage to pull you down on him again and again. He lets you lead the kiss, while he leads this. 

Your hands land on the leather of the seat behind Stiles' back and the foggy glass pane of the window. He hears your fingertips glide down the surface as he starts to fuck you harder, and then the sound is combined with your moans when your lips separate from Stiles’. 

You call his name, low and breathy. 

He hums. 

“‘m so close. Keep going. Just like that.” He nods. Then you add, “Little faster.” And he does as told. 

Your forehead pressed against his, the sweat on both of your skin making your heads glide more than anticipated. It doesn’t deter either of you. When your nose bumps against Stiles’, he kisses you again. When your head becomes too heavy for you to hold it up, he presses his thumb under your jaw, rests his fingers on the side of your neck, and holds the weight for you. 

“You’re so pretty,” he tells you, adding your name at the end to seal the deal. “Baby,” he says, and his heart swells when you hum in response. So he says it again. “Baby, you feel so good. Feel so good, babe.” 

He doesn’t know what more he says. He can vaguely recognize his lips forming the words and his own voice in his ears calling you the prettiest girl ever, telling you that he could never get this anywhere else, telling you he never wanted to get this from anywhere else. 

“Needed this so bad. I needed you so bad. I’ve missed you.” And just as his words finish, yours begin. 

“Stiles, Stiles. Right there. ‘m … I’m…!” 

He singles two fingers out, slips them between your thighs, and rubs along your clit until you’re shaking above him and holding onto his wrist between your bodies. He doesn’t know if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away, but watching you cum is too gorgeous for him to ever dream of making it stop. 

So he doesn’t. 

Not even when your eyes start to leak and your lips start to plead and you contract around him. 

“One more,” he asks. “I just need to see it one more time. Please.” 

The sound of him moving in and out of you is loud. He drifts his eyes down to watch it happen, groaning when he just barely sees a broken ring of white glinting in the fluorescents from the parking garage. 

It feels a little romantic when you cum and then Stiles follows right after. 

The Jeep is warm, the windows are foggy, and there’s an ache in Stiles’ thighs. He knows for every one of his aches, you have three. The condom has been removed, tied, and disposed of in an old paper bag Stiles had sitting on the floor of his car. His pants are pulled back up, but his belt is still undone. His shirt sticks to his skin and he really needs greasy food and a shower. 

But if that means leaving this moment, and never returning to it, he could put off his needs and wants for an eternity. 

You’re sitting next to him, redressed with the button of your jeans still undone. You’re staring straight ahead, trying to catch your breath as you rub the muscles in your thighs. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he licks his lips and he says, “Uh … do you … um. Would you like some … ice or something? For your legs?” 

You smile ahead, turn to face him, and shake your head. “It’ll be fine. Nothing a shower and good sleep won’t fix.” You pause. “And maybe some food.” 

Which is how Stiles ends up sitting in your bed, sipping the remnants of his Dr. Pepper as he watches you lather lotion on your legs with your towel still hanging off of your body. 

“Your food’s cold,” he tells you. He doesn’t tell you about the handful of fries he stole earlier, but he knows you’ll notice it and hold the grudge for later. 

Later. Will there be a ‘later’? 

“Be there in a second.” You start to walk back to the bathroom. “Should we go to that place in the morning? Or …” you look at your clock and wince at the time. “Later. The one with the really good pancakes?” 

Stiles is quick to agree. He would love to do something with you later. 

[murdrdocs]

stiles deserves road head fs

reader has hair long enough to tie back; MDNI 18+

there were times when you absolutely hated stiles' jeep.

it wasn't particularly fit for road trips, even without considering the unreliability of the engine and stiles' handiwork of duck tape temporarily keeping things together. compared to lydia's car for example, the seats were stiff and barely allowed for any sleeping room. leaving you sitting upright with your head resting against the window and knocking into the metal of the interior any time stiles' ran through a pothole.

but there were times when the truck had redeemable qualities, namely the lack of a center console.

sure, it would've been nice to have something to rest your hand on as you wrapped your mouth around stiles' cock. but really, beggars couldn't be choosers and in this scenario both you and stiles were beggars.

so stiles drives a little smoother, settling on the outside lane to leisurely cruise instead of being pressured by trucks bigger than his in the inside lane. and this way, he gets to enjoy your lips sliding up and down his cock, and you aren't facing the plausible threat of losing your grip on the seat next to stiles' thigh and hitting the floor.

it's as comfortable as you can get. one hand pressed into cracking leather with the other resting on stiles' thigh. your seatbelt more of a decoration than anything as it loops around your body in a way that allows you to kneel on the seat, your ass turned towards the window. stiles' has one hand resting on your back between the end of your sweatshirt and the beginning of your leggings. the other rests on the steering wheel, effectively opening his body up to your work.

the tape in the radio has long ended, leaving space for the music from stiles' lips to fill the area. the sound of his breathing, deep sighs nearly each time you went down. the sound of his grunts each time you came up and swirled your tongue around him.

he tries to praise you every so often, but stiles' brain can only handle so much stimulation. and focusing on the road while also focusing on you is all he can take, leaving him to utter unfinished sentences.

"doing so ..."

"jesus, you're so ..."

"mhm, right ... right t–"

your hair has been tied back since the first half hour of the trip, but between your intense sing-alongs and your less intense naps, only half of your hair remains in the tie, leaving stiles to push your hair back, holding it off of your face.

in an attempt to thank him without sacrificing his pleasure, you look up at him and smile as best as you can. but since your mouth is occupied, the look transfers mostly to your eyes.

you don't know what does it, but stiles glances down at you, stares into your eyes for less than a minute, and then grips your hair as his hips jerk up into your mouth, his foot slams down onto the gas pedal, and he cums right down your throat.

[murdrdocs]

kiss me | s. stilinski

description. stiles loves nothing more than to have a taste of your lips

includes. SMUT 16+, stiles is a munch, oral sex (f receiving), AFAB! anatomy, no pronouns, sweet boyfriend!stiles, takes place after s3b (like right after probably), they have a pool day!

a/n: I was singing the song as I typed this document up hence the title plus I wrote this just to get back in the flow of writing okay enjoy (deff not proofread that well I'm busy)

word count: 1.8k+

 His hair is clearly dripping wet, blobs of water falling down onto his shoulders with each step that he takes. The water that falls from the rest of his body to meet the concrete is expected, you pay it no mind, and maybe you would’ve felt similarly about the droplets from his hair. But Stiles is approaching you with a mischievous grin, one that tells you he’s up to no good. It’s almost unsettling; mouth turned up at the corners in a thin smile, brown eyes widened. There’s just enough humor in the amber orbs for you to know that he’s not planning anything too evil, but you’re still on edge. 

“Stiles…” you warn, legs already shrinking in on yourself, book folding closed with your thumbs in the center to keep your page. He’s just a few steps away from you now and up close you can see the tan he’s gotten from the pool day. It sits prominently along his shoulders and across his nose, the color standing out against his usual paleness. 

He looks good. Especially with his trunks hanging low, clinging to every part of him, summer conditioning for lacrosse treating him well as he has muscles cut into his abdomen, along with a newer definition to his shoulders and arms. He looks good. And you could admire that more if your borderline-evil boyfriend were not standing right beside you, bending down, tilting his head towards you…

The squeal you let out is girly, high pitched, one you would see in a movie and remark about how people don’t actually sound like that in real life. Turns out: they do. Usually when water is slinging all over your previously dry body, just barely avoiding the book that you move out of the way just in time. 

Stiles laughs, the sound joyous and pretty to your ears. You can’t help but echo it, letting go of your book to hit his forearm, barely any malice in the touch. 

“Come on, you know I couldn’t help myself.” His smile is infectious, too. Your faux stern expression that you’d quickly painted onto your face melts into a grin, one that has Stiles leaning down to kiss you this time, a soft kiss that sticks your lips to his even as he tries to pull away. There’s a layer of chapstick added to his lips when he comes back in for a second kiss, and a third. 

You let him, taking advantage of the loneliness in the Martin backyard. 

Lydia went inside a half hour ago to do god knows what, while Scott and Kira went on a run to grab lunch. Which left you and Stiles alone, with a large pool, and an even larger backyard to yourselves. 

If it weren’t for your lonesome, you wouldn’t let Stiles lay between your legs, head on your lower belly while his big eyes looked up at you. The position is innocent, for now at least, but you know Stiles, and you know that even the presence of his friends wouldn’t get rid of his one track mind. 

His motives start coming to the forefront when his long fingers teasingly pull at the string of your bikini bottoms. 

“This suit is nice. Did I tell you that already?” He did. And he knows he did. 

You hum, reopening your book to your last page, focusing your attention on the sentences instead of Stiles with hopes of deterring him. 

“You did. Multiple times.” Once when you asked his opinion as you were buying it, another when you tried it on for him after it came in the mail last week, another when you packed it for the day in front of him, and a final time when you came sauntering out of Lydia’s house in it, oiled up and ready to sunbathe. 

Still, Stiles plays dumb, brows furrowing in the way that tells you he knows the answer to whatever question is about to slip past his lips. “Did I?” 

You roll your eyes, already starting to form a snarky reply, but then his fingertips dip below the thin string of your bottoms, and his lips graze the material at the front, just a few inches above your clit. 

You jump involuntarily, lowering the book from your face to glare at him once you recover. He flashes a brief, innocent smile, then his eyes lower back to their main focus. His thumb and forefinger rubs the silky material of your suit bottoms, the slightest tug loosening the bow just a little. 

“If you want me to stop …” he licks his lips, glances up at you for a split second to gauge your reaction. “Then you gotta tell me now.” 

He hesitates, one end of the string pinched between his fingers, and he stares at you, waiting. You take a breath, glance behind you at the backdoor which is still closed, look towards the back exit of the mansion to try and see if Scott and Kira are returning. 

Your teeth trap your bottom lip between them and you roll the flesh a few times before sighing. “Scott and Kira probably won’t be back for a while, right?” 

Stiles nods. 

“And Lydia is … busy, yeah?” 

“Pretty sure she went to meet her new boy toy and just didn’t tell us.” 

A soft, gentle smile from you. “Then okay.” 

Although he was the one doing the convincing, Stiles still seems shocked to hear you agree. His eyebrows shoot up, an appalled look on his features. “Okay?” 

Your nod is barely complete before Stiles is peeling your bottoms off. They’re completely dry, at least in terms of treated salt water. It just makes the wet patch inside of them more noticeable. Stiles stares in awe, lips parted, borderline drool slipping out of them. He licks his lips, throws your bottoms off to the side, and then he’s level with your cunt, hands sliding under your thighs to open you up for him. 

“I just want a little taste,” he’s murmuring, most likely to himself. 

You nod anyway, pushing your hips towards him. “Be quick,” comes your warning. 

“Mhm. Yeah.” But Stiles is already leaning in, tongue licking a wide stripe up from your hole to your clit. It makes you shiver, as the first touch always does, but his kiss into your clit is expected and welcomed, a deep sigh emptying from your chest. 

His kitten licks to your clit are appreciated, providing the stimulation needed if he were teasing you, but when the return of your friends is random, and they could come back at any moment, you need more if you’re going to get off quick. 

Your hand reaches down, tangling in Stiles’ dark locks, nails scratching at his scalp. He hums, just when his lips are wrapped around your clit, and the vibration is heavenly, akin to the ones you get from the toy under your bedside table. But like always, having the pleasure come from your living, breathing, insanely hot boyfriend is unsurpassable. 

You tug gently on the wet strands, pushing aside the intrusive thoughts centering on how unpleasant the feeling of wet hair is when Stiles moans this time. You know how much he loves going down on you, and you know how he likes to have his hair pulled just enough, so his tendency to get lost in the feeling and the act is expected. Doesn’t mean it’s wanted. 

You tell him you want more, the simple word almost a growl from your lips. He’s quick to obey, adjusting his grip on your legs so he can practically dive in. 

His tongue makes quick work of sucking up your juices, and adding to the slip with his saliva. Stiles licks and sucks and flicks his tongue in ways that you can barely even comprehend, his skillset coming from nothing other than determined practice where he’s made you cum again, and again, and again, just so you can tell him what he can do to improve. 

The sessions were tortuous at times, a little humorous when approached from outside of the bedroom, but you’re thankful that you did them in moments like this. 

Because it barely takes anytime before you can see the start of an orgasm just over the horizon. You’re climbing up the hill, Stiles pushing you further and further as he probes your entrance with his tongue, a warning for his middle finger that quickly follows. The ring finger is added in a succession that makes you gasp, the stretch just enough to provide the right amount of stimulation. 

His long, deft digits replace his mouth, giving him time to peel back and speak to you. 

“That’s right. Right there, yeah?” His fingertips curl at your favorite spot, brushing the sensitive area before attacking it head on. You nod, eyes squeezing shut, cutting off your view of the clear sky. “Uh-uh, none of that.” The demand in his tone makes your lower stomach swirl, a feeling that tells you to go another round, even when the first one has yet to end. 

“Look at me.” His voice reaches a depth that you’re used to hearing, usually towards the end of the night when you both need each other in ways that only the steamiest sex can satisfy. He’s commanding you, easily as you do as told, eyes opening and head swiveling down to bring your gaze to your boyfriend. 

His hair has started to dry, the strands a little awkward as they dry in an untidy pattern, but it looks good on him. Dark hair hanging over his forehead, almost reaching darker eyebrows as he’s due for a cut. His cheeks flushed from the sun, the lightest freckles dotting them. He’s pretty everywhere, gorgeous even, but your focus zero in on his lips. 

They’re pink, and coated in glistening essence. It makes you groan, saliva released by your glands like you’re fucking Pavlov’s dog or something. Stiles notices where your attention has gone, a cocky smirk on his lips. 

“Wanna kiss me? Hm?” He’s so attentive to what you want, always. It’s both a blessing and a curse, embarrassment entering your body, but quickly replaced with gratitude since you didn’t have to voice the want yourself, surely leading to your words being disjointed and broken up. 

Your nod suffices as an affirmation, and you start to reach down to meet him halfway. But Stiles doesn’t move. Instead, his fingers stuff deeper into you, clearly on a mission as his thumb of the other hand comes to your clit, rubbing tight circles that are driven by a motivation to send you over the edge. To have you reach the horizon. 

“Then cum for me.” 

And of course, you do as told.

[murdrdocs]

WANNA RIDE STILES WHILE I WEAR HIS LACROSSE JERSEY MHM YEAH

WHYYYY WOULD U SAY THIS TO ME

just thinking abt like ... the way stiles would go absolutely feral. like he would go slightly insane. mouth open, lips still glistening from the messy kiss you'd shared with him a few moments prior, but his face has been frozen like this ever since he'd walked into his room to see you laid on his bed, wearing nothing but his lacrosse jersey, scrolling through your phone like it's the most casual thing that's ever happened.

the only thing that's changed is his eyes, consistently roaming over your body, flicking between your face which is scrunched up in pleasure, and your chest that he's forced out of the jersey, the material lifted up on one side, bunched over your shoulder. he's watching you through lidded eyes, similar to when he's tired, that same scrunch between his eyebrows, too.

his hands roam over your body, taking in as much as he can. calloused palms against the soft skin of your torso, running along your back, sliding down to your hips and around to press along your lower abdomen, making their way down to your cunt where he flattens his thumb along your clit, lifting the hood to gain better access.

he can't get enough, wanting more, wanting to do this again even when it's still happening in front of his face. he's trying to commit this to memory, he realizes when he's giving you possibly the hundredth full-body scan of the night. from your messy hair down to where you repeatedly sink yourself onto his cock.

his eyes get stuck there for a bit, not breaking away until he hears your breathless giggle.

"fillin' me up so well, stiles," you tell him, voice sounding pretty like it always does when you're like this.

the sweet sound of you – both your words and your cunt squelching around him – breaks him out of his stupor. he licks his lips, runs his thumbs along your skin, head spinning when you mewl as he rubs slow circles along your clit.

"yeah?" he asks you, even though he knows you're telling the truth, he can feel it. but he likes to see your almost pained nod, it fills his chest with pride, bolsters his ego. "feels good, honey?" another nod from you that makes him smile.

"'s that why you put that on? knew it would get you here?" his hands slide to your hips, his heels digging into the mattress as he slams up into you once, repeating the action at the sound you make. you don't answer him, it's not like you could, the breath taken from you just like the control was.

"hm? is that why you put my jersey on, laid in my bed in nothing else, waiting for me to get home." your hands press into his chest, fingers curling and your nails start to scratch at his skin. he takes a second, head tilting, eyes blinking innocently as he looks at you.

"that's kinda slutty, don't you think?''

[murdrdocs]

stiles birthday boy deserves a gift in the morning (head + riding)

talking to pussy; riding; unprotected sex; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

you've already lubed his dick up with your mouth— hot and warm around his cock as you went down on him as soon as you both were conscious enough to stay awake for more than two minutes. you intended to get him off like that, the start of your many gifts to him. but just as he began to get lost in the feeling, one hand on the back of your head as an anchor, he grunted and used his grip to pull you off of him almost by the scruff of your neck.

"sorry," he was quick to apologize when you glared at him, and even quicker to explain. "just don't wanna cum like that. if it's okay with you." his voice was raspy then, it still is as he groans words of affirmation into your chest while you ride him.

the saliva that you had smeared around his cock helps you now, but it wasn't really needed as your leaking cunt manages to hold her own without any trouble. stiles praises you for this, he praises her for this.

"that's my girl," he says, staring down at where your cunt sucks in his cock over and over again. you don't know who he's speaking to, you or your pussy. but the effect remains the same.

your eyes roll back, your hands on his shoulders, nails bared and digging into his freckled shoulders. he's more vocal than he's ever been, spewing out praise after praise, all of it spreading equally between your head and your cunt.

"you're doing so good. so, so good. keep going. yeah. just like that. milkin' me so well."

and you really do milk him. in your haste, a condom was deemed unnecessary, allowing stiles to feel you in ways that he only has a couple of times before. like those previous times, he doesn't take it for granted. he revels in the feeling, his eyes shut as his hands rest on your hips. when he cums, your cunt squeezes around him, sucking the cream out of his cock as you continue to bounce. stiles' watchful eyes stare down, gazing as his cum leaks out and you smear it on his cock.

just that sight alone makes his cock twitch inside of you and encourages you to speed up. to continue.

[murdrdocs]

pathetic stiles who unconventionally begs for your forgiveness.

a mistake of his own doing leading to you distancing yourself. he'd purposefully excluded you from the newest mission. he'd brushed off your additions, barely gave you updates, shielded information from you when you would ask questions. he pushed you away, by some means of "protecting you" when you've been through worse together.

so when he comes at your doorstep, tail tucked between his legs, eyes pleading, it's a sight that you barely feel any sympathy for. you're walking away from him, back to your bedroom, and he's hot on your tail as if you have a leash leading him.

his hands are on your hips, touch simultaneously cold and warm, the contact both wanted and dreaded for you. you still end up melting against his chest as it comes to your back, head resting on his shoulders when his lips start to kiss down the side of your neck.

"I'm sorry. so, so, so sorry." the words sound sweet enough to create a toothache from him. they drip in sincerity, barely giving you enough clarity to decipher if he truly means them, or if he just wants to get back on your good side.

with just a few more kisses, and stiles' fingers starting to slip under the waistband of your sleep shorts, you decide that it doesn't matter. history repeats itself either way, and if that means you'll get brought back here, then that's fine.

because here you have a borderline pathetic stiles between your legs, dark hair product free and left in a mess as your hands tangle through them. his tongue which is usually used for spewing out shit faster than you can follow, now flicking against your clit, lips puckered to provide suction every so often.

it's possibly the best apology you've ever received, making the betrayal you felt before slightly more bearable.

[murdrdocs]

thinkin abt messy audible sex w stiles

It’s like your senses are heightened, the ability to take in absolutely every single thing happening around you a new addition to your usual life. Maybe, if you weren’t in these specific circumstances, you would be a little freaked out. Heart racing for another reason, a different type of overstimulation seeping into your body and sending you running instead of chasing the sensations. 

But with Stiles above you, left hand pressed into the pillow under your head, right hand gripping your bare hip like his life depends on it, you’re able to use your enhanced-like senses to your advantage. You’re able to smell the remnants of Stiles’ cologne and your perfume as your combined sweat washes it off, replacing the traditionally pleasant scents with untraditionally aromatic smells of sex. You’re able to feel Stiles’ silky soft hair under your fingertips, and the easy way his cock slides in and out of your welcoming walls. But most of all, you’re able to hear the sound of you and Stiles together, the wet squelch of your cunt taking his inches with each thrust, the near silence of the refusal to let him go as he pulls back. 

When you’d first started a couple of orgasms ago, you could barely hear all of that, your moans and Stiles’ praises drowning the sound out. Then after your third orgasm, you’d gone silent, your euphoria rendering you speechless, soundless even. It’s then that you could hear it all, Stiles noticing first as he shushed you with a just as audible kiss. 

“Listen to that. You hear that?” He waited for your response, amber eyes flickering between each of yours. When you did hear it, mouth dropping a little as your eyes hazed over, he smirked, a curt amused chuckle falling from his lips before he kissed you once more. “Making fuckin’ music, baby.” 

Usually, Stiles fucked you with as least some sort of percision, some technique that he'd picked up which always made you mess. But you were already a mess, and Stiles' style of fucking you tonight was messy. Uncoordinated thrusts that had you wanting more and less. Fingers added along with his cock, the slightest stretch having you seeing stars. Circling your clit and spitting on it and even fucking speaking to your cunt. He's like a different person.

You were fucking gushing around him, a product from the first orgasm Stiles had given you with his fingers, then the second with his tongue, and the impending third from his cock. You’ve been in a position similarly to this one before, but your abundance of arousal was unusual, probably an effect of Stiles’ new haircut and particularly cocky attitude today. 

Both had you wanting him more than usual, trying to keep your hormones subdued even though it made them worse. Pretending like you didn’t want Stiles eventually had you pressing yourself against him when you were alone, close to begging for him to touch you but you’d never have to beg Stiles, he thinks it’s a privilege to have you like this. 

To him, his form of heaven is bringing you to the edge again and again. It’s why he’s bolstering right now, chattier than usual as he praises you for even being this wet for him. It starts off as praise, and it starts with him talking to you, but then you feel as if he’s talking more to himself. 

“So, so good for me, sweetheart. You don’t even know what you do to me, do you? Think about you all day. My girl. Letting me treat her like a little slut. Don’t even know what to do with myself most of the time. Can’t do anything but jack off, thinking about how good you taste, how good you feel.” 

And as much as you like hearing Stiles talk, you just need to hear what the two of you sound like a little more. So you bring him down to you, nails digging into his scalp to silence him even as you push your lips to his. Then, you pull back enough to speak to him, a commanding, “listen” let out into the air. 

Stiles smiles against your lips, and then he listens.

[murdrdocs]

taking a bath w stiles … [inspired by this] references to sex but nothing but fluff !!

it’s nothing short of innocent and domestic: a bath ran with the bubbles and oil you’d been saving for a special occasion. the night wasn’t necessarily a special occasion, but the way stiles had fucked you was definitely special. almost all of your long standing fantasies fulfilled, bringing you to your peak over and over again, to the point where your body had absolutely no interest in taking you to the bathroom.

you’d quickly gained interest, though, whenever you smelled the fresh scent, one of your favorite aromas wafting through the open bathroom door and straight to your nose.

stiles had coaxed you into the bathtub, a promise of letting you be the big spoon working to convince you to take the shirt you had just put on off, and climb in before him.

you end up with stiles sat between your legs, both of you submerged in bubbly-oily water as stiles takes one of your hands in his and kisses along your knuckles. he tells you about his day, toying with your fingers, absent of any rings for once. you listen thoughtfully, the warmth from the water and your favorite boy almost coaxing you into a slumber.

that is, until stiles prompts you with a question.

“are you even listening to me?” the question was simple, but you jumped in your spot against the porcelain, eyes snapping open as you stared into stiles’ amber ones that displayed nothing but amusement.

“what? oh, yeah. definitely …” your statement is loose, clearly a lie, and stiles chuckles softly.

he presses his lips to yours, a soft chaste kiss that makes you smile, dazed and hazy.

“‘s okay,” he tells you, giving you two more chaste kisses before he settles in for a longer one.

your lips move in tandem, a perfectly rehearsed dance from constant practices. just like always, your hand finds his hair, soapy fingers tangling in the waves at the back of his head. stiles sighs, the tip of his pretty nose pressing into your cheek as he slowly raises one of his hands to cup your cheek.

when he pulls away, he kisses your other cheek, unable to keep his lips off of you for long enough to speak. somehow, he manages it.

“d’you think we could fuck in here?”

you laugh, unable to help it, your head thudding back against the tub. “you’re depraved,” you tell him, meaning it while also being too lovesick to notice what you’re saying.

he brings your head back level with his, the grip he has on your cheek maneuvering you as he wishes.

he leans in, lips move against yours when he speaks. “still not answering my question.”

[murdrdocs]

INTERVIEW 002

with. stiles stilinski

includes. sub!stiles, fem!reader, thigh riding, begging, implied switch!stiles, pet names towards stiles (good boy, etc.)

→ kinktober masterlist

He should be more embarrassed than he is. 

His hands digging into the thin tee you wear, head buried in your neck, soft pants escaping his kiss swollen lips as his eyebrows push together. He bares his teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as the pain caused by absence of pleasure seems to set in with increased intensity, pearly whites pressing down into the plush of his bottom lip instead of the skin of your neck like he’d originally wanted, his pathetic sounds still masked enough to lessen any shame. 

Stiles’ current state wouldn’t be as shocking nor entertaining as it is if he were sheathed fully inside of you. If his hips were canting up into yours without the layers of separation. If he were chasing a high that was clear to him, a high he could clearly see off in the horizon.

Instead, he’s chasing something he has barely gotten a taste of. 

The previous feeling of your clothed crotch grinding against his, nearly equal in attire, has started to fade, leaving nothing but phantom desires for Stiles to attempt to grasp onto. Because it’s the only amount of friction he’s received thus far, nothing but a few pity grinds against his cock from you, a soft pout on your lips as you held his face in your hands, cooing down at him in a way that let Stiles know that you had the upper hand. 

As if he could even begin to forget that simple aspect. 

He’d been at your mercy the entire night, obliging no matter what, bending to your will with little to no hesitation settled within his body. He thought that if he did what you asked of him, obeying your wishes and commands as part of a previously set verbal bet between the two of you that he wouldn’t be able to do so, you would satisfy him. He thought that if he was your "good boy", as you’d prettily called him just a few moments ago, you would stop your torture and impale yourself on his dick until he was spurting blanks up into you, the previous remains of his cum leaking out as you would bounce like there was no tomorrow. 

You did the opposite. Forbidding him from slipping off his sweats, not even lenient enough to slide off your panties and grace him with a look of your slick brushing along the gray material, darkening it with your arousal. Instead, you remained with them on, your bra covering your tits as well, leaving Stiles to stare at the way your nipples perked through the thin material, filling in the blanks of the expanses he’s seen many times before. 

Noticing his eyeline, you giggle, the sound light and pretty from your lips. Stiles’ eyes flick up, he meets your gaze for a second, and the smile he gives you is dopey. It’s reminiscent of the one he lets out when he’s drunk, a slight stumble to his step and his hands a magnet to your body even with the slightly unassured way they find your skin. 

His palms are the opposite now, sure and steady along your hips and waist and thighs as you drag yourself along his muscled thigh. He’s taking advantage of your lack of care with this particular aspect, your allowance of calloused hands along your pure skin feeling like a holy blessing in Stiles’ hazy mind. 

He licks his lips, stares up at you, and you throw your head back, your hands pressing harshly into Stiles’ shoulders as the drag of your hips back and forth speed up just a little. Feeling slightly bold, Stiles slides a hand up to your tit, palm encapsulating it easily, the other sliding down to your hip where he grips with enough pressure to start to control your movements just a little. 

Instead of swatting his hands away, you let him continue, allowing Stiles to manipulate your pace. 

His thumb slides over your nipple, pointer finger adding itself into the mix as he pinches the bud with just enough pressure to have your lower lip rolling between your teeth. 

“You close?” he asks, voice raspier than either of you expected. 

You nod, brows pushing together, focusing too much on reaching your peak to attempt to take the control back from Stiles before he can get too acquainted. But he doesn’t want control. He likes submitting like this, providing assistance instead of authority, aiding you towards your peak instead of pushing you towards it. 

One of your hands clasps around Stiles’ wrist, the other digging into his hair, nails scratching deliciously at his scalp. His eyes roll back, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, pushing his hips back down as soon as they start to tilt upwards towards you. 

“Need you to cum, sweetheart. Then I can fuck you, right?” You nod, enthusiastic, clearly anticipating what comes next as much as Stiles is. “Then cum for me, please, baby. I need to fuck you so bad. Please. Just let go.” 

[murdrdocs]

I just want them to beg for my touch, to have them so stupid that they would beg for even a hand job, but I also want them to look at me as if I'm a goddess as I ride them, as if I personally put every single little star in the sky (and yes, this is about the subby men)

sub!stiles stilinski; handjobs; begging; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

stiles' teasing nature always melts away as soon as your hand lands on his crotch. if the roles were reversed, and you melted as quickly as he did with just the slightest touch, stiles would tease you relentlessly. he would mock you as he said something along the lines of "my girl is always so needy, isn't she?".

and it feels so good to be the one saying that now. pouting up at him almost cynically as you stroke over his boner with the lightest touch. "my boy is always so needy, isn't he?"

you don't realize just how far gone stiles is until he doesn't feed you a reply that is just as sardonic. instead, he stares blankly at you, the only signal of life existing behind those eyes being the way they flicker from your own eyes to your lips over and over again.

you drop the act just a bit. just enough to not be mean. but you're still a little rude about it. not in the way you push forward and press your lips to his. not in the way you pull his pants off and spit into your palm before circling his cock with your palm. but in the way you almost give him what he wants.

you pump his cock with perfectly crafted strokes. and just when he starts to get into it, when his head falls back and his breathing turns all labored, you take your touch away. you kiss his neck, you tap your fingertips against his leaking head.

it's surprising how you don't even have to tell stiles what to do. he starts begging on his own volition. not as sweet and desperate as you would have wanted. at least not at first. but when it comes, it's so worth it.

you're between his legs, kissing around his thighs and torso. missing the spot that literally cries thick fluid for you every single time. until up above you, you think he might cry too.

he expels his desire verbally instead of with secretion.

"please. pleasepleaseplease. i'll do anything. just touch me, please?" it would be downright evil for you to deny stiles when his begging is so pretty.