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draculasintern · 17 days ago

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✎ No. 2 Pencil ✎

Lab Partner!Wally West x Fem!reader

Tags: Silly horny tension, Hot nerd!Wally, Pencil chewing, supply closet incident, messy kisses, sexually frustrated reader?, reader spiraling, nerds in heat, "oral fixation", Blowjob, finger sucking, eye contact, pet names (Smart girl, pretty, baby), dirty talk, need him bad, he's funny..

Intern note: Boss hates my new obsession with this man, but whatever.

You’re not normally into guys like this. You like the tragic ones. The ones who journal. Who own too many rings. Who have tragic backstories and tattoos with meaning and eyes that say “I could ruin your life but won’t text you back.”

The ones like Dick Grayson, honestly—flirty, charming, vaguely haunted. You're built to fall for that kind of guy. Your downfall is practically written in gothic font. So when Wally West walks into the lab wearing a bleach-stained hoodie, a backwards snapback, and a grin so bright you could use it to sterilize petri dishes—you think you’re safe.

He's late. His goggles are on upside down. He’s holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart.

You let out a breath. Oh, this guy's a joke.

And then he speaks.

“Hey—hey, sorry! Traffic. And by traffic I mean I forgot this building had a back entrance. Which like, rude? Anyway—hi!” He slides into the chair next to you and beams. “I'm Wally.”

You look up. And immediately regret it. Because holy hell.He's got these green eyes that sparkle in a way that makes you want to slap someone. He smells like synthetic citrus and kinetic energy. And when he sits down, his hoodie rides up just enough for you to see the sharp cut of his hip bones over low-slung jeans.

You blink.

“Cool,” you say, like a moron.

He offers you a bite of the Pop-Tart. You decline like your life depends on it.

You are not into guys like this. He is loud. He is orange. He is not your type.

You turn your attention back to the experiment notes. You have a lab to run. You have your degree to think about. You’re not going to be distracted by—Wally leans in to read the instructions over your shoulder, and his bicep brushes your arm.

Your breath hitches. You look down at the pencil in your hand. You’re chewing it. No—you’ve gnawed it in half.

You blink at the broken shaft between your teeth, slowly pull it out, and set it down like it just insulted you.

Wally watches you. “...You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You just snapped that pencil like it owed you money.”

You cough. “I’m fine.”

Wally shrugs and starts messing with the beakers like nothing’s wrong. He probably doesn’t notice. It’s fine. You’re fine.

You are not fine.

Because fifteen minutes later, he’s rolled up the sleeves on his hoodie to wash his hands, and his forearms look like they were carved by horny Renaissance sculptors. Veiny. Defined. Casual.

And when he laughs—because apparently he does that a lot—it’s with his whole body. Head thrown back. Crinkled eyes. Dimples. You want to scream.

Instead, you lean toward your friend across the table and mutter the fatal words:

“Yes, I’m normal about guys like him... but I wanna gnaw on him like a No.2 pencil.”

You don’t notice the silence that follows until it’s too late.

Because Wally—your lab partner, Mr. Pop-Tart-in-lieu-of-personality, is standing behind you with a freshly rinsed beaker and a very amused smile.

“Fuck-” you choke. “How long—”

“Long enough to know I’m flattered,” he says, eyes sparkling like a bastard. “And kinda alarmed. Do you chew on everyone you like or am I special?”

Your soul briefly leaves your body. He just grins wider and sets the beaker down.

“Cool. So you’re into chewing things. Good to know.”

You consider dropping out. Transferring schools. Leaving the fucking planet.

He taps the table and leans in.

“Oh, and uh—next time you wanna gnaw on me?” His voice drops just slightly.“Let me know first. I can at least take my hoodie off.”

And with that, he walks back to the sink.

You sit frozen, broken pencil in hand, brain playing dial-up internet sounds.

This is fine. Everything is normal.

Except your lab partner is a walking wet dream with a mouth like a Molotov cocktail, and you just told him you want to bite him.

You are, scientifically speaking, so unbelievably fucked.

You’re hoping he’s forgotten the pencil comment. He has not. The next week is torture.

Wally West is suddenly everywhere. Grinning. Stretching. Making offhand comments like:

“You brought another pencil today? Bold.”

You try to stay cool. Professional. You hand him goggles, take lab notes, and focus on literally anything except his stupidly toned arms and stupidly charming face and the fact that he exists.

And then you get hit with the worst possible scenario: a partner experiment. Late lab. Just the two of you.

Because of course.

It starts innocently.

You're both seated at the back lab bench. Fluorescents humming overhead. Your TA is long gone. Everyone else has filtered out. It's just you, Wally, and the faint smell of isopropyl alcohol.

He’s explaining the experiment—something about chemical reactions and motion—but you’re distracted by the way he’s pushing up his sleeves again, revealing a line of freckles and a faint, pale scar on his bicep.

You’re staring. He notices.

“What?” he asks, teasing. “You still mad about the pencil thing?”

“No,” you lie. “I’m mad you think you’re special enough to get chewed on.”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest. “You wound me.”

He’s not even looking at you when he says it, just casually moving around, organizing test tubes, somehow managing to be the hottest menace you’ve ever seen in goggles and a hoodie. You’re scribbling notes, doing your best to ignore the warm weight of his presence when you feel it.

A tap. You glance up. He’s looking at the small error you’ve made on the calculations—nothing major—and he leans in to fix it.

“Can I?” he asks, already reaching for your pencil.

You nod, too flustered to speak. He takes it—and yours brushes his fingers—and you swear your hand twitches.

Then he starts writing. Efficient. Confident. His brows knit together as he works, mumbling the numbers out loud under his breath.

And then it happens. The goggles slip. Just a little. He doesn’t even flinch. He pushes them up with his pinky and keeps going, but the moment lingers. Because something about the way he moves—focused, a little messy, totally unbothered—it hits you directly in the chest.

You lick your lips. He glances up at that exact moment. And smiles.

“You like glasses?”

You freeze. “No. I mean, yes? I mean—I like when people can see. It’s a... survival trait.”

He’s grinning now, real and wide, and there is no saving you. You turn away, hoping to salvage the remains of your dignity, and focus back on the experiment. But the pencil in your hand is already halfway to your mouth. He catches it.

“Hey,” he says gently, catching your wrist before you bite. “You're gonna give yourself lead poisoning.”

“They’re graphite.”

“Still not edible.”

You glance at him—and he’s looking at you in a way that’s not just playful anymore. Something’s shifted. His gaze dips—eyes tracking from your eyes, to your lips, to your throat.

Then he reaches up—slow—and pulls off his goggles. Takes his time. He sets them down with a soft clink, then looks at you like he's stripping away more than just safety gear.

“If you’re gonna keep looking at me like that,” he says softly, “you should at least let me kiss you.”

Your heart stutters. You blink. He leans in, then pauses.

“...Unless that’s not what you want.”

And for a second—you don’t know what to say.

Because the answer is yes. It’s yes, screamed into the void and written across every chewed pencil you’ve destroyed in the past two weeks.

But your brain short-circuits and instead of speaking, you laugh. Nervous. Too loud.

“I—I’m not kissing you in a lab,” you stammer. “There are chemicals.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You kissed a pencil in here last week.”

You groan. “That’s not the same!”

“Oh,” he says, amused. “So it’s only safe to suck on non-living things in this lab. Got it.”

You want to die. “I’m going to file a complaint.”

“With who?”

You hesitate. He grins. “Exactly.”

The tension is thick now. Heavy. Teetering right on the edge of something sharp and hot and close. He shifts closer, breath warm. And then—he pulls back.

You blink at him. He’s biting his lip now, visibly reining himself in.

“I’d rather do it right,” he says. “Not in a lab. Not with your hands covered in whatever that is—” he points vaguely at a beaker—“sodium regret?”

You exhale slowly. Your pulse is in your teeth. He winks and taps your hand once before stepping away.

“Don’t worry. I’m very... patient.”

You don’t respond. You physically can’t. Because in that moment, all you can think about is the way he looked at you. The way he said "kiss." The way your mouth feels empty. You are, once again, not fine.

You’re doing your best to be normal.

You’ve washed your hands three times. You’ve labeled the vials. You’ve written an entire paragraph about motion-based reactions even though your hands are still shaking from Wally’s almost-kiss and his very real eyes and the fact that he keeps looking at you like you’re not made of lab coat and nerves but softness and permission.

You think maybe you imagined it all. Until he starts pouring the wrong chemical.

“Wait—Wally, that’s the—!”

Whoosh. A small explosion. A puff of orange smoke. The unmistakable scent of melting plastic and male hubris.

Your TA—who somehow reappears like a ghost drawn by chaos—storms in.

“What did you mix?!”

“Uhh... enthusiasm and poor judgment?”

“Safety closet. Both of you. Now.”

You try to protest, but she’s already waving the fumes away and calling campus safety. “Go cool off before I report this. That’s a safety violation.”

You shoot Wally a glare.

He shrugs sheepishly. “It was a little reaction. Barely even explosive.”

The closet is worse than you imagined. Cramped. Warm. Dimly lit by a single red emergency bulb. It smells like disinfectant, latex gloves, and tension.

You’re standing so close you can hear his breathing. He’s not touching you. But you can feel him.

You cross your arms. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning casually against the shelving unit, “you keep letting me sit next to you.”

“Because I was assigned you.”

“You could’ve requested a transfer. Instead, you just keep showing up with sharpened pencils and clenched thighs.”

Your breath catches.

He’s grinning now. Fully aware. Fully weaponized.

“You’re the one chewing through school supplies like a stressed-out beaver every time I take my hoodie off,” he adds, stepping closer. “Pretty sure that counts as a problem.”

“I don’t have a—”

He takes one deliberate step into your space. “Say the word.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I said—” his voice dips— “say the word. And I’ll back off.”

You look up at him, at his stupid beautiful face, his slightly messy hair, the way his hoodie clings to his shoulders.

You don’t say the word. So he leans in.

And says softly, “You’re lucky I like you.”

And then he kisses you. It starts slow—like he’s testing the waters—but you’ve already drowned.

Your hands are in his hair before you can think. His mouth is warm, hungry, devastating. He groans when your fingers tug, and suddenly it’s not slow anymore.

He presses you gently against the wall—just enough to cage you in—and kisses you like he’s trying to undo every second of denial between you. His hands skim your waist. Your hips. One rises to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw. He pulls back for half a second—just to look at you. And he smiles.

“You’re hot,” he murmurs, like it’s the most important discovery he’s ever made.

You grab the front of his hoodie. “You’re lucky I haven’t bitten you yet.”

“Oh, you want something to chew on?” he teases, and kisses you again before you can respond.

It’s messy now. Desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize your mouth. Like he’s thinking about all the times he could've done this and didn’t.

The shelf behind you rattles. You knock over a box of cotton swabs. He doesn’t stop.

“Wally,” you gasp, “this is still a closet—”

“I’ll be fast,” he grins, and you slap his chest. “Kidding. Mostly.”

You finally manage to push him back a bit. Just enough to breathe.

“You’re impossible,” you pant.

“And you’re warm as hell,” he says proudly.

You glare. “I’m going to kiss you again just to shut you up.”

He lights up. “Please.”

And you do. Because at this point, resistance is futile.

It’s past midnight when you hear the knock. You open the door half-expecting your roommate.

It’s Wally. Hoodie half-off, hair tousled, cheeks pink from a run—or something more primal. And in his hand?

A box of pencils.

“You—what—?”

“Figured I’d help you out with that little oral fixation.”

You scowl. “I do not have—”

He steps in and shuts the door behind him. Walks you backward toward your desk like it’s nothing.

“You’ve been gnawing through school supplies like it’s your major,” he murmurs. “Why not bite something better?”

You open your mouth to protest—but he raises a hand and presses his thumb to your lips.

“Open,” he says.

You do. He slips his thumb in your mouth, the pad pressing into your tongue. And when you close your mouth around it—hot, slow, soft—his breath hitches.

“That’s it,” he says lowly. “Just like that.”

You swirl your tongue, sucking lightly. He groans.

“Knew you’d be real good at this,” he mutters, pulling it out with a soft pop. “Want me to test a new theory?”

You swallow. Nod.

“Get on your knees then.”

You drop to the floor. Wally’s eyes go dark.

He undoes his sweatpants like he’s been waiting for this. And when he pulls himself free—hard, tip flushed a filthy shade of pink, heavy—your mouth waters.

“Go on,” he says softly, stroking your cheek. “Fix your little pencil problem.”

You lick the tip first. Slow. Just enough to tease. He breathes out your name.

Then you open and take him in.

“Holy shit—”

You move slowly at first. Letting him feel it. Letting you feel it. His hand goes to your hair, but he doesn’t push. Just keeps it there—grounding. Your tongue swirls under the head. You bob your head, eyes fluttering closed as he twitches on your tongue. You can taste the precum leaking from his cock.

“You’re—fuck—so good at this,” he gasps. “Like scary good. Should’ve known. Big mouth, sharp teeth, pretty lips...”

You hum in response. He chokes.

You start to speed up. Letting your spit get messy. Drool slightly running down your bottom lip. Letting your throat open just a little more.

He’s unraveling. You can tell.

“Gonna—ahh—gonna cum if you keep—”

You moan around him and flatten your tongue. He shudders.

You pull off only to catch your breath, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock. You meet his gaze. He looks wrecked.

Hair mussed, cheeks flushed, jaw tight like he’s holding back everything he wants to do to you. He blinks once. Twice. And then his voice drops low — a rumble laced with restraint.

“Take off your shorts.”

You swallow thickly, lips still wet and tingly, heart hammering in your chest. You nod and step back, slowly unbuttoning your shorts, dragging them down along with your underwear. You toe them off clumsily, heat crawling up your throat as you stand there, half-dressed — shirt still clinging to your chest, nothing below it.

Wally doesn’t move. He just stares, chest rising and falling as his cock twitches against his stomach, still wet from your mouth.

“Get on the bed,” he says quietly. “On your back.”

You obey without a word, climbing back and laying flat against the mattress, arms at your sides. The air hits your thighs, cool and sharp, and your skin prickles.

He follows you up. Not rushed. Measured. Like he’s giving you a second to squirm under his stare.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” His voice has that infuriating half-smile in it — all teasing, no mercy. “You’re not just hot. You’re impossible.”

He runs two fingers down your thigh, just the barest touch. It makes you twitch.

“That mouth,” he says, fingers skimming higher. “That brain. You’re smart enough to know how this was gonna end. But you still dropped to your knees for me.” His fingers slide over your folds. “And now look at you. On your back, soaked, waiting for it.”

You whimper, hips tilting into his touch. He leans over you, his cock dragging heavy and hot over your pussy, smearing slick across your skin.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do. And he pushes in. Your hands scrambling to grab the sheets.

The stretch punches the breath from your lungs. It’s not pain — just pressure, thick and deep, like you’re being split open perfectly.

He groans, head dropping for a second. “Fuck, baby—”

Then he draws back and slams forward. The bed jolts. Your legs jerk. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out. He does it again. And again.

The pace picks up — fast, rough, unrelenting.

Your body slides against the mattress with every thrust, skin slapping loud beneath him. He watches your face the entire time. Even as you reach for a pillow to cover how loud you're getting, he takes it away.

“Don’t hide,” he says. “I wanna see all of it. Every whimper. Every twitch. I wanna watch you try to handle me.”

You moan, head falling back, arms reaching up to grab the sheets.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Look at you — takin’ it like a fuckin’ experiment. Like you’re trying to prove you can.”

He adjusts his angle — just slightly — and it hits something dangerous inside you. Your hips jerk. You make a high sound that doesn’t even feel like yours.

“Yeah,” he groans, voice rasping. “There. That’s the spot, isn’t it? Right fuckin’ there.”

You nod helplessly, breath ragged. Hands weakly grabbing his forearms.

“Of course it is. Smart girl like you—your body knows what it wants.”

His hand slides between your legs again, thumb pressing firmly against your clit.

You jolt. Cry out.

“Sensitive?” he teases. “Too much stimulation, smart girl?” He pounds into you harder, thumb circling without pause. “You gonna cum already, baby? That easy?”

You shake your head. You want to last. You really do. But he doesn’t let up, his cock driving deep into your soft spot. Every thrust slams deep and fast, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Don’t you dare hold it,” he coaxes. “Wanna feel you soak my cock, pretty. Let go for me.”

Your thighs start to shake. Your stomach coils tight. Your walls clench around him in fluttering waves. His thumb on your clit.

And then a snap. Your orgasm rips through you — loud, intense, your voice cracking on his name. He groans deep in his chest, fucking you through it with sloppy, desperate thrusts.

“Fuck—shit—you feel that? That’s what you do to me—every fuckin’ time I look at you—”

He pounds you through your orgasm, the lewd sounds doing nothing but add to the overstimulation. Kissing your jaw, a hand holds the back of your right thigh.

He buries himself to the hilt, hips grinding down as he cums hard, spilling deep inside you, warmth flooding your pussy.

He stays there, panting, forehead resting above your shoulder, still gently grinding into you as the last waves crash through both of you. His voice is breathless when he finally speaks again.

“...We’re never making it through another lab session, are we?”

You don’t answer right away. Mostly because you’re still trying to remember how breathing works.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, thighs trembling from aftershocks, brain spinning like it’s been put through a centrifuge and spat out the other side. Your body is hot. Slick. Tired in the best possible way.

And Wally West — lab partner, speedster, chaos incarnate — is currently still inside you, smug and softening, like he hasn’t just rearranged your internal anatomy and rewired your neurons.

You finally manage a weak: “Absolutely not.”

Need him. BAD.

#i need him #need that #im gonna tweak #draculasintern #wally west x reader #wally west #wally west smut #dc x reader #x readers

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draculasintern · 17 days ago

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✪ Ridin' Pretty Men ✪

Cowboy!Dick Grayson x Masc!reader

Tags: Masc/male reader, Doesn't mention any body parts but has masc pet names, Cowboy!dick, gay as hell, Cocky!dick, dick trying to teach you how to ride, he's kinda mean and condescending-ish, light humiliation, pet names (cowboy, my boy, sweetheart), idk if this counts as hate sex or just tension sex.. but still, He's such an asshole in this, praise

Intern note: Watched a rodeo earlier, Boss didn't like it too much.

The sun set slow out here—like it knew no one was in a rush. Just a drag of heat and dust and dirt under boot, turning orange and rust-colored by the minute.

You’d been leaning on the fence rail for maybe twenty minutes when one of the regulars tossed a half-empty can at your boots.

“Tryin’ to look like a rider don’t make you one.”

Another laugh. You don’t flinch.

The underground rodeo scene was a mess of adrenaline-junkies, washed-up thrill-seekers, and pretty-faced masochists with a God complex. You weren’t sure where you fit yet — except that you didn’t. Not according to them.

Someone else shouted from the ring, “You even know which end of a bull’s the front?”

Laughter. Again.

You roll your jaw but stay still. Let it slide off you. You weren’t here to prove something to anyone but yourself.

And then you hear the voice. Low. Smooth. Mocking.

“Don’t bother. He’s just here to model the jeans.”

You turn your head.

Dick Grayson. Hat tilted back, a dusty hand resting on his hip. The collar of his shirt is undone, sleeves rolled up, and he’s got that thing—the kind of smile that’s always a little too pleased with itself, like it knows you’re looking.

You blink once. “Didn’t realize they let narcissists ride.”

He grins wider. “They don’t. I just make it look good.”

The others laugh, but he doesn’t look at them. He looks at you. Tracks his gaze down and back up like he’s taking inventory.

You hold it.

“…You done?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t say stop posing.”

You go to hop off the fence, but his hand catches your wrist.

“Easy. I wasn’t finished.”

There’s a beat. His grip’s loose, but it keeps you there. You raise an eyebrow.

He tilts his head, voice dropping — just enough for the others not to hear.

“You wanna ride?” The smirk twitches. “Then you learn from someone who won’t let you get kicked in the goddamn face.”

You should tell him to get lost. You don’t.

The pen is quieter now. Less shouting. Fewer eyes.

He’s got you on a practice barrel—a busted up drum strapped with ropes that simulates a bull’s motion. You feel like an idiot. You look like one too.

Dick just leans against the rail and watches, arms crossed.

“You’re stiff,” he says, nodding toward your hips. “Too much tension. You’re not bracing for impact, you’re begging to be thrown.”

You exhale through your nose. “I’ve never done this before.”

“No shit.” He hops over the rail. “Try again. Looser. Move with the motion, not against it.”

You straddle the barrel. Start moving. Try to roll with it.

A pause.

Then his hands are at your waist. You flinch slightly — but he doesn’t pull back.

Just murmurs, “Don’t get jumpy. I’m not gonna bite.”

He presses his palms in, guiding you. One hand splays across your lower back. The other slides forward, gripping just under your stomach.

“Right here. This is your center. Stay fluid, or you’ll lose it.”

The words are technical. But the way he says them? Not technical.

You try not to let your breath hitch. You really do.

He leans in—close, hot breath against your ear.

“Good. Just like that.” His voice drops, velvet and edged. “You got rhythm after all, huh?”

You swallow hard.

And then he steps back—like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just grab your hips and whisper praise in your ear while you straddled a barrel under the desert sky.

He smirks again, arms folding. “Not bad. Might keep you around.”

It’s been two weeks since you started training.

Every other night, same beat: bruises, rope burn, sweat-soaked shirts. You’re better now—not great, but better. Dick makes sure to let you know you’re still not him, though. Never will be.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he says, circling the barrel like a buzzard with an attitude problem. “You wanna stay on, you can’t hesitate.”

You mimic the rhythm anyway—hips loose, legs tight, eyes locked on a dirt scuff in the distance.

Dick leans against a wooden beam, chewing a piece of jerky. He’s in a black tank this time, no hat, hair a little damp at the ends from a rinse-off. His arms are crossed—not just to look good, but that’s a byproduct. You catch him glancing at your thighs, the twist of your core, the flex of your hands on the rope.

Then he walks over. Grabs the back of your shirt. Yanks it. Hard. You lose balance and curse, stumbling sideways as the barrel rocks. He catches you.

“See?” he mutters, holding you firm. “Still slow.”

“You’re a dick.”

“No, I’m Dick,” he says with a shit-eating grin, letting you go.

You glare. You adjust. You reset your stance. He nods.

“Again.”

It’s near midnight when he offers a different lesson.

“Alright,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “You’re not bad. But you still don’t move right.”

“Right?”

He steps in close.

“Your hips.” His hands hover near your waist again—not touching yet. “You fight the movement. You need to roll with it.”

He steps closer. Not touching. But almost.

“You want to stay on the saddle, you gotta work with the bull. Or—” He smirks. “You’ll get bucked right off.”

You eye him. “You gonna show me or just keep giving me metaphors?”

That gets you a chuckle. A low one.

He gestures. “C’mere.”

You raise an eyebrow. “For what?”

“I’m not gonna bite.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

This time he doesn’t wait.

His hands settle on your hips again. But this time, he’s flush against you. Chest to back, breathing steady. His voice brushes your neck.

“I’m gonna move you through it. Let me lead.”

The way he says it shouldn’t sound as hot as it does. But your breath stutters anyway.

His grip tightens—not rough, just firm. Like he’s holding you steady through something you won’t come back from.

“Loosen up,” he mutters, moving you slowly. “There. That’s it. Keep it smooth. You got it.”

Your heart’s pounding. He keeps talking. Keeps guiding. Keeps moving with you. You don’t remember when your eyes fluttered shut. Don’t remember when your breath got shallow.

But you do remember his voice in your ear, low and satisfied:

“Damn. You ride me like that—I might be the one falling off.”

You freeze. He doesn’t. Just smirks against your neck and steps back.

You're sore, sweating, pissed off, and still somehow—still—he’s looking at you like he’s the one suffering.

Dick leans against the fence post, arms crossed, one boot kicked up behind him. The sun’s nearly gone but his shirt’s already off—left hanging on the gate latch—like it’s some kind of personal favor to you. His chest glistens, collarbone sharp, abs flexed every time he shifts just enough to remind you what he looks like moving.

You hate him.

"You gonna ride or just keep starin’, sweetheart?”

The rope in your hand tightens. You blink once. Hard. And don’t answer. Because if you do, it’ll come out sounding like a growl. Or worse—something needy.

Dick pushes off the post, slow, letting his hand drag along the top rail. He saunters over like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it for being humble.

You move to walk past him. He steps in your way.

“You mad ‘cause I’m right, or ‘cause you keep thinking about how I move my hips?”

Your head snaps to him.

He grins. Like he’s thrilled to have gotten under your skin.

"You’re full of shit," you mutter.

“I’m full of talent,” he shoots back. “But that’s fine. If you’d rather be a stubborn little punk with bad form—”

You shove him. Hard. Right in the chest. He doesn’t even stumble. You hate how solid he is.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” you snap.

“I always finish,” he says, and it’s smug and low and absolutely fucking infuriating.

You shove him again, harder this time—and then suddenly you’re both grabbing.

It’s not a fight. Not really. It’s a struggle. It’s heat and rough hands and “fuck you” muttered too close to lips. You push him into the post, and he flips you into it instead. Your chest hits wood, his forearm comes down across your shoulder—not hurting, just holding. You twist out of it and throw him off—and somewhere in the wrestle he laughs.

And that’s the last straw.

You slam him into the fence and kiss him like you want to shut him up forever.

He groans into it. Doesn’t waste a second. Bites your bottom lip, grabs your jaw, pulls your hips flush against his, and that’s definitely not his belt buckle pressing into you now.

“You’re so goddamn tense,” he pants against your mouth. “No wonder you ride like shit.”

“You talk too much,” you breathe.

“You like it.”

You do. You shouldn’t. His hand slips down your back. You bite his shoulder. He curses and drags you toward the gate.

You don’t remember walking to his bunk. You remember slamming into walls, kissing like a dare, shirts half-torn off, boots kicked somewhere. You remember him pushing you onto the bed like he owns the goddamn mattress. You remember your belt hitting the floor.

You end up straddling his lap, both of you shirtless and sweating. Your hips grind down and his hands are on you immediately—your waist, your chest, dragging blunt nails down your spine like he’s trying to scratch the tension out of you.

"You wanna ride?” he pants, eyes hooded, hair stuck to his forehead. “Then fuckin’ ride.”

You reach down, line him up. He’s already hard—has been, for way too long—and when you sink down onto him, slow but steady, you both curse like it’s instinct.

“Fuck—” he grits out, head falling back. His fingers grip your thighs like a threat. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

You glare down at him, breath caught in your chest. “Wanted to shut you up.”

He laughs, breathless, eyes dragging over your chest and neck and the sweat dripping down your jaw. “You think this’ll do it?”

You grind down hard. He groans—deep, guttural—and grabs your hips, forcing you into another rough thrust.

“Not even close,” he hisses.

You settle into a rhythm, pace fast, desperate, the sounds between you obscene. Your skin slaps against his, your hands braced on his chest, and every time you slide down, he meets you halfway with a sharp buck of his hips.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s all teeth-gritted control and barely-held-back filth.

“Keep movin’,” he pants. “Fuckin’ ride me, cowboy.”

You snap your hips down harder. He groans like he’s losing it.

“Yeah. Just like that.” His voice drops. “Look at you. All that attitude and now you’re bouncin’ on my cock like it’s the only thing you want.”

You mutter something rough under your breath. He just laughs, sweat-slick and flushed beneath you.

“I’ll teach you to ride anything, sweetheart. Long as you beg for it like this.”

You grit your teeth and ride faster. You can’t help it.

The tension winds tight in your core, hot and throbbing. His hands slide up your sides, one drifting to your chest, then your neck. Not choking—just holding you there, steadying your balance while you move.

“You close?” he rasps.

You nod, jerky. Your eyes slam shut.

“Eyes on me,” he says again, voice low, and now it sounds like a warning. “Wanna see how pretty you look when you break.”

Your thighs are shaking. You’re moving on instinct now—hips rolling, hands braced against his chest—every push down into him wrecking your breath more than the last.

And he just takes it, looking like he owns you. One hand on your waist, the other gripping your thigh, letting you ride it out like you’re something he made—like this whole thing was his idea, not yours.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, breath hot, like he’s barely holding it together. “That little flutter when you squeeze?”

He groans through his teeth, fingers tightening on your hip. “Fuck, you’re close, aren’t you.”

You try to pace yourself—try to hold on—but your rhythm stutters. You grind too hard, too fast, and your body jolts with it.

“Hey—uh uh.” His grip slams your hips down flush to his. “No running off now.”

“I—I can’t—” It’s half a protest, half a moan, voice breaking like your focus is slipping.

He chuckles—breathless, cocky, but desperate with it.

“Yes you can. C’mon. You’re takin’ me so well. Don’t you dare stop now.”

You feel your body seize—that pressure building low and tight, threatening to rip through you. And he sees it.

His hand slides up your chest. “Fuck, look at you. Ridin’ like you need it.”

He bucks up once—sharp and deep—and you cry out, grabbing at him, shaking.

“That’s it,” he groans, praising you like it’s a curse. “That’s my boy. That’s my fuckin’ boy—go ahead. Give it to me.”

And you do.

You fall apart on top of him, grinding through the crest as it crashes into you. Your back arches, your whole body jerking as you come hard, clenching around him, soaking his skin, your own voice caught in your throat. You try to stop—to breathe—but he doesn’t let up.

His hands keep your hips locked to his, and he thrusts into you like he’s chasing it — like your orgasm just lit a fuse in him.

“Jesus—fuck—you’re so—” he gasps, bucking up again, voice unraveling as his rhythm falters. “So fuckin’ good—shit—mine.”

He spills inside with a low groan, deep and sharp, hands gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His whole body tenses beneath yours, his mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as he gives in.

You’re both still for a second. Then his hand rubs over your thigh, firm and slow.

“That’s how you stay on the saddle.” he mutters, voice hoarse.

God, He’s such an ass.

You're leaning against the fence near the back pen, arms crossed, one leg bent up like you’re trying not to look tired. Like your hips don’t ache. Like you didn’t ride a man harder than most of the bulls here get handled.

Someone whistles low.

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

You blink out of your thoughts and glance over. Three girls, all rodeo-polished and grinning like coyotes in lip gloss, stop near the fence beside you. One pops her gum. Another adjusts the fringe on her top like it needs to draw your attention—as if your legs aren’t already shaky from another cowboy entirely.

“You don’t ride?” the tallest one asks, sizing you up like she’s already picked out your best parts. “Or just waiting for your turn?”

"He’s gotta ride," another adds, biting her lip. “You’ve got the thighs for it.”

The third girl leans in, eyes twinkling. “You look like you could break a bull if you wanted to.”

You snort. Can’t help it.

“Not into bulls,” you say, voice dry, watching him across the pen.

Dick’s rolling up his sleeves like he’s doing it for a crowd. Glove tucked between his teeth. Sun catching in that ridiculous hair. He swings into the saddle like he knows you're watching—and worse, like he's still inside your skin.

One of the girls follows your line of sight.

“Oh. So you’re here for him.”

You don’t even look away.

He shifts in the saddle. Adjusts his grip.

You tilt your head, let the corner of your mouth twitch into something smug.

“Ridin’ pretty men.”

The girls blink. One lets out a laugh, unsure. The other two stare after you as you step off the fence and start walking, slow and limping just slightly.

Let 'em wonder. You’ve already had the best ride of the night.

For my Masc readers, I love you <3 Yeehaw.

-The Intern

#i need him #need that #draculasintern #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x male reader #male reader #x reader #smut #cowboy #cowboy au #dick grayson

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draculasintern · 17 days ago

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⏾ Make Girls Cum Again ⏾

Sevika x Speakeasy Owner Fem!reader

Tags: WLW smut, No men allowed, Lesbian/Bi speakeasy, Kinda mean Sevika, Dom!Sevika, Sub!reader, fingering (reader receiving), oral (reader receiving), face sitting, multiple reader orgasms, Pet names? (Pretty like once), I need this baddie

Intern Note: Boss is in the states and now I have time to write smut.

You built this place with your hands.

Bolted beams, welded piping, bought your way through Zaun’s rust-choked backstreets with favors and spare parts. You handpicked every bottle. Sanded every table. Taught yourself to bartend when no one else was good enough to trust.

Slow Burn isn’t just a speakeasy. It’s your rebellion.

Your women come here to sweat and breathe and exist, uninterrupted. No hands on their hips. No leering eyes. No men. You made sure of that.

But there’s not much rotation. Sweet staff, sure. But not much relief. Just you and your bar.

So the weeks drag by—long nights, short mornings, sore knees, tighter shoulders. You forget meals. Skip rest. Your body starts to live in tension. Your back aches from wiping tables. Your jaw stays clenched. Your thighs twitch when you sleep, restless and unsatisfied.

And you haven’t touched yourself in... weeks? Months?

You wouldn’t even know where to start now. It’s been too long. You're not numb exactly, but... dulled. Like someone turned the dial down on your own desire and walked away.

You’re behind the bar again tonight, polishing glassware by muscle memory, lost in the buzz of synth and laughter, when you feel someone shift into the seat at the counter.

You don’t look up at first. Plenty of girls come alone. Some linger. Most stay in their corners.

But then the scent hits you: cigar smoke, leather, steel, and something darker beneath it. Warm. Lived-in.

You look up. And Sevika is sitting at your bar. Not her usual table.

She’s leaning one arm across the counter like she owns it. Cigar in the crook of her mouth, metal arm gleaming faintly in the flickering light. She’s watching you. Not saying anything.

You blink. “Whiskey?”

She nods once. “No rocks.”

You pour without a word, then push it toward her. She takes it slow, eyes never leaving yours.

Something about it unsettles you. She’s never sat at the bar before. Never this close. Usually she’s perched near the back wall, content to smoke and observe. Tonight, she’s in your space.

You wipe the counter again, trying not to stare. You feel her eyes move with you. Like gravity. Like pressure on the back of your neck.

After a beat, she speaks. “You clench your jaw when you’re tired.”

You pause. “Excuse me?”

Sevika lifts her glass to her lips. Sips. “Right there.” She taps her own jaw with a ringed finger. “Been watching it all night.”

You scoff. “Are you psychoanalyzing me now?”

“Just observant.”

You roll your eyes and turn away. She watches you grab another bottle, eyes skimming your back, your shoulders, your waist.

“You don’t get yourself off either,” she says, like it’s casual conversation. You nearly drop the cork.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning back to her, “is that supposed to be a line?”

Sevika doesn’t blink. “You haven’t in a while. You’re too tight. Can’t even relax your grip when you pour.”

You bark a laugh, caught between disbelief and heat crawling up your neck.

“Right,” you say. “You a detective now?”

“No.” She takes another sip. “But I’d like to help.”

You stare at her.

She sets the glass down, then leans in. Just a little. Voice quieter. Heavier.

“I’ll make you cum,” she says. “Nothing in return. Just keep making the drinks strong... and stay pretty.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You try to laugh again, but the sound dies in your throat.

The bar feels different now. You don’t know if the lights dimmed or if your pulse just jumped high enough to blacken the edges of your vision.

Sevika doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

She sits there like stone. Heat behind her eyes. Legs spread, cigar half-burned in her fingers.

You clear your throat. “...Are you actually serious?”

She raises an eyebrow. You grip the bar towel tighter than necessary.

“You think I’m—what—some kind of charity case?” you ask, trying to keep the edge in your voice. “Just because I’m tired and... a little high-strung?”

Sevika drags from her cigar, exhales slowly through her nose. Then shrugs.

“Sure,” she says. “If that’s how you want to think about it.”

You blink.

The way she says it—offhand, dry, like your protest isn’t going to change a thing—it lights something sharp and crawling under your skin. It doesn’t feel insulting. It feels like a challenge. Like she already has two fingers curled under your waistband, and she’s just waiting for you to catch up.

She doesn’t look away.

You stare at her for a moment longer, trying to parse her face. But she’s unreadable. Cool. Ashed over. That same calm heat she always carries—the kind that doesn’t rush, because it doesn’t have to.

You set the towel down. You’re not sure why. Just that your hands need to do something, or they’ll start shaking.

Sevika’s gaze tracks the movement.

“You gonna stall all night,” she says, voice quiet, “or are you gonna let me take care of you?”

You open your mouth—no words come out.

She tilts her head just slightly. Like she's curious how long you're going to fight your own body.

You don’t remember grabbing the key to a back room. You just feel it cold in your palm.

You nod toward the hallway.

She stands. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. She just follows. Like this is inevitable. Like you’ve already said yes.

The private room door closes behind you with a low click, soft and final. You don’t look back.

You hear Sevika follow—not loud, not rushed. Just the solid rhythm of her boots against the wood floor. One step after the other, like she’s not entering a room, but claiming it.

Your chest tightens.

The purple-glow lighting does nothing to hide the heat under your skin. The way your pulse kicks harder the closer she gets. You step forward on instinct, away from her, toward the couch in the middle of the room—the one you’ve pretended was just for drinks and talk.

You feel her stop behind you. The air shifts.

"Take off your pants."

Her voice is smooth. Blunt. Almost bored. But you can feel the weight of it—the kind of pressure that doesn't need volume to hold power. The kind that doesn’t ask twice.

You swallow once.

Your fingers fumble at your waistband, and for a second you feel ridiculous—exposed under purple light, trying to undress while someone else watches like they’re waiting for you to admit something. But you don’t stop. You push your pants down, slow. Hesitant. You leave your shirt on.

Your underwear’s damp already. You know it. She sees it.

"Thought so," Sevika mutters.

You feel the words like a palm down your spine.

She doesn’t gesture. Doesn’t point. Just walks around you and sits herself back on the couch, legs spread wide, leaning into the cushions like it’s her throne.

Then she pats her thigh.

“Here.”

Your eyes widen.

“I—what?”

Her gaze cuts to yours. Flat. Expectant.

“You wanted help, didn’t you?” she says. “Sit.”

You climb into her lap slow, tentative. Straddle her hips, your knees bracketing her thighs, your breath already shaking. You don’t dare grind. You just… sit. Upright. Back stiff. Every inch of you alive with nerves.

Sevika leans back, arms draped lazily across the backrest. She looks at you like you’re already undone.

"You ever let anyone make you cum back here?" she asks, tone bone-dry.

You shake your head.

Her mouth twitches like she knew. "Figures."

You breathe shallow. Her gaze hasn’t left your body once.

“I—” you start to speak, but your voice dies. Her eyes flick up, just once. Waiting. “I just don’t really…” you start again, then trail off.

“Don’t get yourself off much. Don’t let anyone else do it either. Let it build until you get headaches and don’t know why.”

She tilts her head, studying you. “You think I haven’t seen it?”

You don’t answer.

“You walk around stiff as iron. Not ‘cause you’re cold. ‘Cause your body’s starving.”

Your breath catches.

“Sit up straighter,” she mutters.

You do. Her metal palm settles flat on your lower back, grounding you against her. Her other hand slips down, sliding between your thighs.

You clench your fists.

She presses up against your underwear—and you jolt.

“You’re soaked.”

You flinch at the bluntness.

She watches you with a half-smile. “You embarrassed?”

You hesitate. Nod once.

“Good,” Sevika says. “Means it’s real.”

She hooks your underwear aside with two fingers, slow and clinical. You feel air hit where you’re wet and warm, and your body twitches again. Her fingers trail just once along your slit and you gasp, your hands gripping her shoulders to stay balanced.

She doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say anything cute.

Just: “You feel that?”

You nod.

“That ache? That’s what happens when you go months without letting yourself break.”

Then she pushes her fingers inside. It’s sudden, not cruel, but intentional—thick and deep and filling, and your gasp breaks on her shoulder. She doesn’t let up. Just finds a rhythm, working you open slowly but steadily. Curls just right after a few minutes.

"Fuck," you whimper. "S..Sevika—"

"You gonna cum already?" she teases, voice low in your ear. "Barely started. You’re really this desperate?"

You nod, half-choked. “I don’t— I c-can’t—”

"Oh, you can. You’re just not used to it.”

She curls her fingers and you cry out—one hand flying to her forearm, the other clutching her thigh for balance. You’re shaking already, hips twitching, your chest rising too fast.

“You want this every time you get tense?” she murmurs, barely winded. “Want me to remind you what your body’s for?”

You nod frantically, nearly crying.

“Use that mouth, pretty.”

“I’ll let you—every time—just don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Her thumb brushes your clit and your whole body locks. You spread wider in her lap, breathing ragged, thighs trembling where they cage her hips. She fingers you through it, deep and unrelenting, until your head drops to her shoulder and your voice is just a breath.

She finally pulls her fingers out slow.

“See?” she says, licking them clean without ceremony. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You can’t even speak.

She shifts under you. Doesn’t move you off. Just sits back like she’s settling in.

“We’re not done.”

You're still in her lap, barely. Legs shaky, underwear somewhere now on the floor. You haven’t spoken since you came.

Sevika leans back, grunts once, and then lays down—fully, shoulders pressed into the cushions, one arm resting on her stomach, the other tapping her thigh with idle fingers.

Then she looks at you—up from under her lashes, slow, unreadable.

"Get up here."

Your breath hitches. You blink at her. "What—?"

She shifts, spreading her legs wider, and then with two fingers she pats her mouth.

Oh. Your stomach flips.

Sevika doesn’t say it again. She just stares. And waits.

You stand—legs trembling—and step forward. Knees brush the cushion, and you move to straddle her head. Awkwardly. Hovering.

That’s when she exhales, annoyed, and grabs your thighs. And drags you down onto her face.

The breath rushes out of you in a choked gasp. One hand catches the arm of the couch, the other slips along her arm, blindly scrambling for balance. You don’t even have time to brace properly before her mouth is on your clit—hot, firm, relentless.

There’s no teasing now. No warmup. Just her tongue, steady, dragging through you like it has a point to prove. You twitch. Buck. Try to lift—instinct—but her hands are already firm on your hips, holding you in place. Not cruel. Just decisive.

Your knees dig into the cushion at either side of her head. Thighs already shaking.

Sevika hums low against you, like she's settling in. She adjusts her grip—one hand moving to the curve of your back, the other anchoring your hip—then keeps going. It’s not soft.

She eats like she works: with focus, pressure, and a pace that builds. Nothing rushed, nothing wasted. Just steady, perfect friction, like she knows exactly how long it’s been since you’ve let anyone touch you like this.

Her mouth finds your rhythm before you do. You moan—broken, already too loud—and try to shift your weight back, but her grip doesn’t budge.

You glance down once. Her eyes are open. Looking at you. Not smug. Not soft. Just there. Watching.

You can’t hold the eye contact—not with her mouth on you, not with her tongue working tight, rhythmic circles on your clit that make your stomach clench and your fingers claw at the fabric behind her head. You feel like you’re going to break.

Your voice gives out in a half-whimper, half-moan as your thighs start to tense again—hips rocking helplessly, the edge building faster than it should.

Still, she doesn’t stop.

She shifts her tongue again, angles it sharper, until you feel tingles at the base of your spine.

You pant her name, shaky, broken—not begging, not quite—just desperate.

And still, she keeps going.

One more pass of her mouth and you're already there again, crying out, forehead collapsing to your arm as your body shudders hard—thighs clenching, hips rocking, unable to stop it from ripping through you.

Sevika holds you steady as it hits. Mouth locked tight. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let you move off her face. Just keeps her grip and drags you through it.

You’re trembling. Wrecked. Your entire body twitching with overstimulation, sounds falling out of your mouth that don’t sound like yours. You barely notice her slowing down—just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go.

She finally lets you ease off, lips slick, and lets you collapse forward.

You land on couch arm, panting, body sunk over hers, face buried in your arm. Your skin is flushed, your chest rising and falling in ragged pulls, your thighs aching from how hard you’d clamped down.

You don’t dare move.

Sevika lights another cigar under you like she didn’t just devour you like a full meal, then exhales a long breath, smoke curling past your ribs.

“Should’ve done that weeks ago.”

Feeding my Sev lovers.

-The Intern

#arcane #draculasintern #sevika x reader #sevika #sevika arcane #sevika my love #arcane sevika #x readers

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draculasintern · 19 days ago

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I've been MIA for a hot minute. Only because I'm writing a book! So! I have half of the fics I did a poll for done. And plan to publish the first few either later today or tomorrow! 😼😼

So let's not get our fangs in a twist, I've just been busy with writing my book.

-The Intern

#draculasintern #x readers #writerscommunity

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Will be doing all of these, just whatever gets the most votes it'll be posted first.

-The Intern

Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal file #V016-XX

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal file #V016-XX

#arcane #draculasintern #dick grayson x reader #wally west x reader #bruce wayne x reader #sevika x reader #arcane scar #tim drake x reader #miguel o'hara x reader

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal file #V016-XIX

I feel like I make a lot of gender neutral and fem!reader stuff. I like writing masc!reader a lot though, mostly because I'm genderfluid and tend to like more masc/boyish terms.

-The Intern

#im gonna tweak #draculasintern #x readers #fem!reader #gender neutral reader #genderfluid reader #masc!reader

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Well I advise go watch it cuz it's amazing also how is your day going my day is going meh as usual anyway you know what's funny to me it's that if reader finds out that Vander lets the kids do these quote on quote jobs basically the kids robbing places and other stuff like from the scene from the building explosion I'm pretty sure she'd be more mad at Vander than the kids because Mama Bear mode instantly starts and instead of Vander interrogating vi it's reader who's interrogating vi in a more sweeter gentler kind of way like any mother figure would and she would not blame violet and she would go and tell violet that whatever happened it's not on violet and it's not always going to be on her and violet is still a teenager and she has her whole life ahead of her same with her siblings and reader tells Violet to go upstairs with the rubbing alcohol and rag just so Violet can go fix up her siblings and of course Violet understanding that reader has to interrogate Vander only Vander is very terrified of his wife because he sees that she's angry at him and not at the kids again sorry I had to get this out it's just really funny.

Transcript from Draculasintern internal file #V016-XVIII

I love the idea that we all agree it was never, and will never be Vi's fault. No matter what happened or will happen, unless it explicitly says it's her fault, that she's the reason for this certain thing happen, we will never blame her. And that the same way for every character, Arcane is filled with people hurting people and it's hard to put the blame on one person, so it kind of causes a fandom civil war. Kind of stupid but understandable when everyone is used to having a main villain, a hero, a background character, but even the background characters were important.

Vi, I love her, being the oldest daughter to an oldest daughter, she was literally me on a screen. Just with pink hair and a girlfriend (need to dye my hair pink and find a girlfriend STAT). I think if reader (you) would've done the talk instead of Vander, then Vi wouldn't have tried to turn herself in, and Enforcers wouldn't have taken her after the big explosion. I don't even think there would've been an explosion or another Vander-Silco fight (gay people breakup and make it everyone's problem, let me tell you). But this is just me rambling..

-The Intern

#arcane #im gonna tweak #draculasintern #vander x reader #violet

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Hiii I found you because I was searching Scar things hehe and I saw your fics of many fandoms ♥️

Would you like to write an Scar x reader modern AU maybe like in a club dancing or first time trying something with reader 🤭

Transcript from Draculasintern internal file #V016-XVII

I really would love write more Scar stuff, he deserve so much. I love him so much. Love the club idea, not sure if he's a club type of guy because in the show he has a daughter (Single dad AU is melting my brain rn..) and I think if you guys really like AUs I do, I'll do polls more often for certain characters. And fandoms. If you like other fandoms, I can do other fandoms too.

But what I have in my vampiric little head for scar: Single dad, friends take him out for drinks or his birthday or something, reader bumps into him, they hit it off, blah blah blah, little bit a of angst, you meet his daughter, blah blah blah, more angst, little more angst, bit more angst, smut, bit more angst, happily ever after.

-The Intern

#arcane #i need him #need that #im gonna tweak #draculasintern #arcane scar #Arcane scar #x readers

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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You know what's funny to me it's that if the reader finds out that Vander lets the kids do dangerous jobs that are illegal and this is after the pilltover building explosion and Vander finding out about what the kids did and when the reader asked the kids who told the kids it was okay to do this and she told them to point out the person who got them into this type of job in the first place they point at Vander and Vander looks at the reader with a scared expression the reader has a very angry expression which is known to basically terrify a grown man and the reader calmly tells the kids to go upstairs and Vander begs the kids to stay but the kids not wanting to feel their adopted mother's wrath they go upstairs and Hope Vander survives of course nothing bad happens it's just that reader/you is a very calm woman but when she's angry you might want to run she's so terrifying that even enforcers are terrified of her sorry if this is long I just had to get this all out.

Transcript from DraculasIntern Internal File #V016-XVI

This reminds me of that one scene from Bob's burger where Bob tells Chet that his mannequin girlfriend or whatever is in a dumpster and upsets him. And Linda tells the kids to go to their rooms. So this entire idea is just that Bob's Burgers scene.

You ask the kids where they got all these bad ideas from, who taught them how to hide cuts and bruises and how to get to fights that quickly. All of them pointing to poor ol' Vander just sitting on the couch trying to read something in peace.

"Kids, Bed—Now," you look at him, voice having a bit of an edge to it but nothing he hasn't heard before, but it still uneases him. "I wanna talk to your father."

"No, Kids, Stay." He keeps eye contact, "Please, Stay."

"Go." Kids moving towards the door.

"Stay." Kids stopping again.

"Go!" Kids moving more towards the door.

"Stay!" Kids stopping at Vander's almost panicked voice.

"You go!" You point to the door.

"Powder, Stay!" Vander standing quickly.

"Now!" You keep pointing to the door.

"Claggor, Mylo, Don't move!" He points to them, begging at this point.

"Kids, Go to bed!" You wave a hand towards the door.

"Violet, Stay!"

"Get out of here!" At this point its just you and Vander yelling at you kids to leave and stay. The poor children conflicted.

"Don't Leave me here!" Vander yells.

"Go to bed, get out of here!" You finally yell. Kids very confused, not scared, just conflicted. But going upstairs to bed.

You turn to Vander, "How could you teach them that, they're just kids!"

end of that. Just silliness.

-The Intern

#arcane #vander x you #vander arcane #arcane vander #vander #young vander #Desk 6 #Draculasintern

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Hey I just got done watching K-pop demon hunters and I hope you enjoy it as well if you have not watched it but if you have please tell me what your thoughts are on it and I've been thinking what would happen if the reader was a pop star and her group can be anybody that you want to be in her group like any of the female characters from arcane and Vander and any guy character from arcane can be the demons I know it's probably stupid but I'm working on a similar fic and I need some inspiration I'm sorry if I'm wasting your time I just needed to get this all out cuz the movie was awesome sad and funny but the songs were incredible my two favorite characters are the tiger and the bird because why not it's so cute.

Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal File #V016-XV

This is a cute thought, I haven't seen Kpop Demon Hunters yet, really want to though. I've seen a lot of ship art, fan edits, and I think the 2nd movie trailer (unless that's fake and I'm just gullible). I love this idea, very cute and kind of sad considering the movie ending/ Rumi and Jinu (I've seen spoilers, Im a bit weird, I'll only watch a movie if it shows me major plot points with no context, so it kind of forces me to watch it to see it in context.) Also Tiger and Bird, very cute, silly animals and their hat.

-The Intern

#kpop demon hunters #arcane #Draculasintern

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Thinking about starting a little series on here called Vampire Intern Files. Basically: How vampires work. Different species, clans, biology, love, war, etiquette, blood bonds, petty drama. All from the perspective of Dracula’s intern (me, unfortunately). Would anyone actually read that? Very unwise to share but I like human sight, very interesting view points from things that can die.

#vampire #Draculasintern #vampirism #vampire lore #Vampire Intern Files

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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Hey how you doing I don't know if I send this to you already but if I have not then what if instead of Vander finding a young Violet and powder on the bridge it would be the reader and she would not only adopt the girls but also claggor and Mylo as well because why not and the reader she's the owner of a diner that is in zaun and is famous all throughout pilltover and zaun as well and Vander and silco they go to the diner to check on the kids just to see if they are okay and they see the reader being a wonderful mother figure to the kids and treating the kids like they are her very own and they grew feelings for her uh Vander and silco this could be whatever you want it to be sorry if I'm bothering you

Transcript From DraculasIntern Internal file #V016-XIV

Intern note: You’ve asked before, if I remember correctly. Likely buried beneath the dust of newer scrolls—posts. I’ll draft a proper masterlist and pinned introduction soon. Patience, fledgling. No need to bare your fangs just yet. Here it is again, rewritten better. (I hope)

The kids weren’t supposed to survive. Not like this.

Not clean. Not fed. Not safe. And certainly not under the care of someone like you.

You weren’t looking to adopt a revolution’s aftermath. You were just walking home and took the wrong street. Found Vi on the edge of the bridge like a flame too stubborn to flicker out. Powder clinging to her. Shaking. Trying not to cry unless Vi cried first.

You didn’t ask questions. Just offered a warm meal and a place to sit.

Claggor showed up next. Said he was “just watching out for them.” He meant it. He always does. You gave him a plate too, and when he finished eating, he started fixing things around the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world. The sink. A loose board. The fryer vent. Never asked for anything. Just did it.

Mylo came later, loud and skeptical. Claimed he was “too cool to stay.” Came back the next morning asking for eggs.

They work the floor now. Fix the lights. Keep the back room swept. Not because they owe you. Because you let them be children again.

Vi’s still all sharp corners and suspicion, but she listens. Powder’s shy, and quiet unless she’s excited about something, and Claggor’s the glue. The steady presence. The one who doesn’t say much unless it needs saying. You trust him to lock up. He trusts you not to make a big deal of it.

That’s when the trouble starts. Not from them. From the eyes watching.

Vander hears about it first. Thick hair. Stubborn jaw. Familiar names. Too familiar. He walks in expecting ghosts. He finds you instead.

You, telling Mylo to hush before he gets whacked with a spoon. You, reminding Vi not to slam the plates so hard. You, teaching Powder how to stir without burning the bottom. You, handing Claggor a fresh towel for the broken pipe he’s already halfway through fixing.

Vander doesn’t say much. Just watches. Leaves too much coin on the table. Comes back the next week.

Silco finds out shortly after. Doesn’t come for the food. Comes to confirm. Walks in like a problem in a nice coat. Doesn’t smile.

Sees you offer him the same service as anyone else. Sees Powder flinch. Sees Vi stand up straighter. Watches Mylo hesitate. Claggor steps a little closer to the others, like he’s already calculated the worst-case scenario.

Silco stays exactly five minutes. Leaves without finishing his tea. Returns two nights later.

They’re both coming around now. Not together. Never that. But more often than before.

Vander always sits in the same seat—back to the wall, clear view of the door. He doesn’t bring anyone with him. Doesn’t flash a name. He just orders the same thing each time, quietly, and listens. To Powder humming in the back. To Mylo cracking jokes that aren’t as funny as he thinks they are. To you, correcting Vi with a voice that’s calm but not soft. To Claggor’s steady footsteps moving through the space like he’s lived there his whole life. Vander doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to step in. Just... watches. Like he’s trying to memorize something he missed the first time around.

Silco doesn’t sit. Not unless you make him. He stands by the counter, runs a finger along the edge like he’s checking for dust. He never says the kids' names, but his eyes settle on each of them, one by one. Powder. Vi. Mylo. Claggor. He studies them like he’s seeing different versions of the ones he lost.

They look back. Sometimes defiantly. Sometimes not.

Claggor never says much when Silco’s there, but you notice how he positions himself. Just slightly between the others and the man at the door. Like instinct.

Silco orders strange things—tea, once. Then nothing at all. Just shows up like a shadow that smells like powder and rust, and then disappears before the door finishes swinging shut.

Neither of them say what they’re doing there.

But you know.

They’re checking. Watching. Seeing if the kids turned out alright without people like them watching over. Seeing who you are and how long you’ll last.

At first, you think that’s all it is.

Then Vander leaves a note under his plate one night. Nothing dramatic. Just “Thank you.” You don’t ask what for.

Silco, days later, fixes the hinge on your back door when he thinks you’re not looking. Leaves no name, no word. But you hear the way Powder says the lock doesn’t stick anymore. You file that away too.

They don’t flirt. Not exactly. But there’s something there in the way they linger. The quiet way Vander’s gaze lingers on your hands when you’re kneading dough. The way Silco listens when you scold Mylo, like he’s cataloging your voice for later. The way Claggor’s presence settles next to you like a second anchor—loyal, solid, unspoken.

You aren’t flattered. You’re tired. You’re busy. You have mouths to feed, and ghosts to keep out of your walls. And neither of them—no matter how many times they show up—get to walk in and make this theirs.

Still. You don’t turn them away. Yet.

Sorry if this isn't to your liking or not as spicy as my other things. I've been watching human romcom movies and wanted more yearning in my writing lately. Thinking of writing more 'Pride and Prejudice' style yearning things, and 80s-00s romcom fluff stuff. Dracula had to put me in the northern wing of the castle because of the giggling that comes with watching the movies.

- The Intern

#arcane #zaundads #vander x reader #silco x reader #DraculasIntern

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draculasintern · 1 month ago

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★Body Logic ★

Body Literacy Consultant!Jason Todd x fem!reader

CW: AFAB reader, sex positivity, sex education, light foreplay, fingering, first orgasm (f receiving), gentle penetration, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, supportive Jason, toxic selfish ex mentioned, healing, constant consent checks, comforting touch, not color coding his speaking lines cause he talks hella, smarty pants Todd

Intern Note: I’m supposed to be transcribing cursed manuscripts, but instead I’m drafting foreplay scenes. Dracula keeps muttering “unprofessional” in ancient Romanian (kinda hot.. Don't tell him I said that..). He’s just mad Jason treats people right.

The room doesn’t look like a therapist’s office.

It’s warmer. Low lamp lighting. No desk between you. Just a plush couch, a matching bed, and Jason Todd across from you, notebook balanced on his knee, pen resting loose in his hand.

He looks like someone who should be dangerous. But somehow, he isn’t. Not here. Not with you.

“All right,” he says gently, voice thick with sleep-rough gravel. “Let’s just start with what brought you here.”

You hesitate.

He nods slowly, sensing the weight of it. “Take your time.”

You exhale. “My boyfriend—my ex—thought I was bad… at sex.”

Jason doesn’t flinch. He just writes something down. “Did he say that in those words?”

You nod. “He… told me he didn’t feel satisfied. That I get distracted. That I’m never wet enough. He gave me the card for this company. Said if I cared about our relationship, I’d take it seriously.”

Jason scribbles again, jaw ticking subtly, as if that irritated him. Just a bit. “And did you feel like he was right?”

“I don’t know.” You look down. “Maybe.”

“No judgment here, all right?” he says, voice even softer now. “There’s nothing wrong with you. A lot of people—especially people socialized to perform—don’t learn how to listen to their body. You’re here to learn. That’s all.”

You nod again, tighter this time. Like if you move too much, you might fall apart. And you just might.

Jason leans back slightly, flipping to a fresh page. “So let’s build a baseline. You’ve only ever been sexually active with that one partner?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were in that relationship for…?”

“Ten months.”

He jots that down. “And before that, did you have any experiences? Solo or otherwise?”

You pause. “Not really. I mean—I tried masturbating once or twice. But it didn’t feel like much. Just kind of… hollow. I thought maybe something was wrong with me.”

Jason nods slowly, then asks, “Do you remember what you were thinking when you tried?”

“What I was thinking?”

“Yeah. Were you doing it for yourself, or… because you thought you were supposed to?”

Your brow furrows. “…I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “It’s a common reason people don’t connect with it. If your brain thinks it’s a performance—even if you’re alone—your body doesn’t know how to respond.”

He writes again, slower this time. “Have you ever orgasmed?”

Your throat goes tight. “No.”

Jason just nods. Not disappointed. Not surprised. Just… bothered thoughtful. “And penetration—has that ever been pleasurable for you?”

You hesitate.

“I’ll define that,” he adds quickly, “since most people aren’t asked. Was there a moment during or after where you felt a release of tension? Any warmth in the belly? Any emotional shift, like comfort or safety?”

You shake your head. “It’s always felt… rushed. Or like he’s waiting for me to do something. I tried not to ruin it, but…”

He stops writing. “You felt pressure to make it good for him, but you don’t know what you need.”

“…Yeah.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Sex is a conversation, not a monologue. You’ve been giving pleasure to someone that wasn’t giving pleasure to you.”

You look at him, unsure whether to cry or laugh. “I didn’t think it was supposed to be like..that..”

Jason nods once. Then, with care: “May I ask what foreplay looked like between you two?”

Your face flushes, but you answer. “Sometimes he kissed my neck. Sometimes he went down on me, but only for a minute. He said I took too long.”

Jason’s pen doesn’t move for a moment.

He finally writes: lack of patience. disregard for female arousal timing curve.

Then looks back at you. “Can I show you something?”

You nod.

He flips the notebook toward you. A small diagram—nothing graphic. Just a line graph.

“This is the general sexual response cycle for people with vulvas,” he says. “Arousal can take anywhere from ten to thirty minutes. Sometimes longer. If he’s expecting immediate lubrication and reaction, that’s not only unrealistic—it’s actively harmful.”

He points to another curve below it. “And here’s one for people with penises. You’ll notice it’s much shorter. But he expects you to match his timing.”

You blink at the chart. “I didn’t know that.”

Jason offers a faint smile. “Most people don’t. They think their partner’s response should be instant if they’re ‘attractive enough.’ But that’s not how physiology works.”

You sit with that for a moment. Then you murmur, “So if I’m not wet, it’s not because I’m broken…”

“It’s because you’re not being given time. Or stimulation. Or, frankly, care.”

Jason closes the notebook gently and sets it aside. “Now. I can talk you through more. Or, if you’re willing—I can walk you through what that arousal curve feels like. With your consent, your pace, and absolutely no expectation.”

You bite your lip. “Like a demonstration?”

He nods. “Clothed at first. Minimal touch. I’ll narrate so you know what I’m doing and why. It’ll help me understand where your body does respond, so I can teach you how to listen for it.”

You hesitate.

But something in his tone—so calm, so grounded—makes you feel… safe.

“…Okay.”

Jason’s eyes are kind. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He reaches for a small bottle of body-safe lube and a towel. Then waits.

“Would it be alright if I sat next to you?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be alright if I touched your thigh?”

“…Yes.”

He moves slowly. Nothing suggestive. Just his hand, warm and steady, sliding just above your knee over your skin.

You exhale softly.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“…Yeah.”

He keeps his eyes on yours as he strokes gently upward, then stops. “Now, I’m going to explain what’s happening while I do it, alright?”

You nod.

“When you’re aroused,” he says, voice low and focused, “your body warms up from the inside out. You’ll feel it in your stomach first—like a low, dull hum. Your chest might tighten. Your breath might stutter.”

As he speaks, he leans in—not kissing, just letting the warmth of his breath brush your cheek. His fingers flex softly on your thigh.

“That tension you’re feeling now?” he murmurs. “That’s your body realizing it’s being seen. That’s good.”

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. He smiles faintly, thumb brushing over your waistband.

“You’re reacting. That means you’re learning.”

His thumb strokes gently, just below the curve of your hip. Not dipping too low. Not rushing. Just patient pressure, steady warmth.

“You still okay?” he asks again, voice a low murmur.

You nod, breath soft. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says. “Now I want to show you something simple. Arousal doesn’t always begin where we think it should. It starts in the mind, yes—but also in the chest, the stomach. The skin.”

His hand traces back up your thigh, palm pressing gently. Not groping—just grounding. Then he lifts it, barely touching now, fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt.

“Would it be alright if I touched here?” he asks, voice low, steady. “Your stomach.”

You nod, and after a beat, whisper, “Yes.”

Jason’s touch is featherlight at first, warm and soft across your skin. He presses his palm flat just above your waistband.

“Feel that?” he says, tone almost clinical, but not cold. “You’re warmer here. Muscles tighter. That’s the beginning of tension building. That’s a good thing. Your body is responding.”

You swallow, trying not to shift too much.

“You don’t have to stay still,” he says, sensing it. “Your body will move the way it wants to when something feels good. You’re allowed to chase that.”

You glance up at him, face flushed.

His eyes are kind. Focused. “Still okay?”

“…Yeah.”

“I’m going to touch a little higher now. Still slow. Just learning.”

His hand glides upward to your sternum, spreading heat in its wake. You’re already breathing heavier, though you didn’t notice it at first.

Jason does.

“You’re taking in more air,” he murmurs. “That means you’re getting closer to your curve. Your body’s preparing for pleasure even if we’re not at the genitals yet.”

You bite your lip.

“That’s a good sign,” he says gently. “You’re sensitive. That’s not a flaw. That’s just data. You’ve never been given the space to learn your own pattern.”

He withdraws his hand.

“Now,” he says, voice dipping even lower, “I want to focus on your clitoris. That’s where most pleasure centers. But I won’t touch without asking.”

Your breath catches.

“May I?” he asks. “Just through the fabric. No pressure. Just to show you how little it takes.”

You whisper, “Yes.”

Jason’s hand returns—but this time, between your legs. Palm cupped lightly over your core. No movement. No pressure. Just the weight of his hand there, anchoring you.

“Now breathe,” he says. “Feel what your body does. Does it rise to meet me? Does it flutter?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He can feel it.

“I want you to notice something,” he says. “You’re already getting warmer. That’s arousal. Not something to be earned, or deserved. It just… happens. When the body feels safe.”

His thumb strokes lightly—still over fabric. Just enough to tease the nerves.

“Still okay?” he checks again.

“…Yes.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’m going to add a little more pressure now. You tell me if you need me to stop, slow down, or change pace.”

The heel of his hand presses slightly firmer, and your hips twitch—just a little. His fingers shift higher, brushing just where you need him.

You gasp.

“There it is,” he whispers. “That flutter right there—that’s your body opening up. That’s lubrication. That’s your own response. Not for someone else. Just for you.”

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion, panting softly.

Jason strokes a little firmer.

“Every sound you make, every shift of your hips—it’s feedback,” he says. “That’s how I know what works. That’s how you will know.”

Your thighs shake.

“I’m going to stop here,” he says, and withdraws his hand slowly.

You whimper before you can stop it.

He smiles—not teasing, but proud.

“You’re incredibly responsive,” he says. “You were never broken. You were just rushed.”

Your eyes are glassy. “Jason…”

He tilts his head, hand resting gently on your knee again. “You did well, baby.”

You blink at him.

“Can I call you that?” he asks softly. “Or would you prefer something else?”

You nod, voice catching. “I liked it.”

He smiles again, soft and real.

“Good. Because you deserve to be called something sweet. Especially when you’re learning to be kind to yourself.”

You nod again, and Jason watches you closely.

“We can stop here for today,” he says gently. “Or I can guide you to try more. I won’t touch again unless you ask me to. But I can show you how to do it yourself. With your fingers, or a toy. Your call.”

Your breath is still shaky.

But you don’t want to stop.

“…Can you show me?”

Jason nods, eyes warm. “Yeah, baby. I can show you.”

“Do you want to move to the bed, just so you’re comfortable?” He asks ever so softly.

You nod, “Could we?”

“Of course we can, this is for you, baby.” He leads you over to the bed. Sitting you on the edge, letting you shift back on to it before joining you.

He shifts beside you on the bed, the weight of his presence warm but not overbearing. His body never crowds you—he stays at a respectful angle, close enough for reassurance, distant enough to let you lead.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and even, “I’m going to keep touching you. Just like before. No pressure to react a certain way—this is just about noticing.”

You nod, breath already shallow.

He touches your shorts. “May I?”

You nod, heat on your neck as he undoes your shorts. Sliding them off of you.

“I’ll start where we left off,” he murmurs. “Over your underwear. Just a light touch. You tell me if anything changes—if it feels good, or if you want to stop.”

You manage, “Okay.”

Jason’s hand returns, resting over your clothed core again, this time more purposeful. The pressure is featherlight, his palm molding gently to the shape of you through the fabric. He doesn’t move right away—just holds, grounding you.

“You’re warm,” he says, almost to himself. “That’s a good sign. It means your body is opening up to sensation.”

He begins to move—slow circles with the heel of his hand. Just enough to awaken nerves. The fabric creates just enough friction to tease, not overwhelm.

“Still okay?”

You nod, a little quicker this time. “Yeah.”

His lips part slightly. You see the focus in his eyes. “Good. You’re doing really well. I can already feel the tension changing.”

His fingers slide upward slightly, brushing over the subtle rise of your clit through the fabric. The pressure is light—so light you almost miss it—until your hips shift in response.

Jason hums, soft and pleased.

“That,” he whispers, “that right there is feedback. Your hips moved without you thinking. That means we’re hitting something real.”

His thumb starts a gentle rhythm—up and down, side to side, alternating—still through the cloth. Not fast. Not rough. Just steady.

“Can you feel it building? Like a humming beneath your skin?”

You nod, lips parting. “Mhm.”

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “That’s exactly how it’s supposed to feel. Nothing sharp. Just rising warmth.”

You let out a soft exhale, your thighs pressing together around his hand. Jason doesn’t adjust. He doesn’t push. He just waits, riding your rhythm.

“Still good?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

“I want to try something a little more direct,” he says. “Still external. But I’ll slip my hand inside your underwear, if you’re ready for that.”

Your stomach flips. But your body is ahead of you, pulsing with slow need. You nod.

“Yes. I’m ready..”

Jason’s touch doesn’t falter. His hand leaves you only long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your underwear.

“May I take these off?” He asks. He always asks.

You nod again, shakier this time. “Yeah. Please.”

He moves carefully, sliding the fabric down your legs. Not staring, not gawking—just handling you like something precious. Once they’re off, he moves closer, shielding you from the cold air, from vulnerability.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

His hand returns, now skin to skin, fingers stroking gently across your folds.

“You’re already slick,” he says with a quiet smile. “That’s a good thing, baby. That’s your body telling us it’s enjoying this.”

He traces a lazy, delicate path up to your clit, circling it with the pads of two fingers. No pressure—just motion. The contact is subtle, almost teasing.

“Still okay?”

You nod rapidly. “Yes.”

“Atta girl,” he praises softly. “You’re so responsive. That’s a gift, not a flaw.”

You twitch under his hand as he adjusts the angle slightly, dragging his fingers lower before returning to that spot, learning your rhythm. His voice follows you like breath.

“Do you like that pace?” he asks. “Or want more pressure?”

You manage, “A little more.”

Jason listens immediately. His fingers press a little firmer—slow and steady, never frantic. Your thighs tense. Your chest heaves.

“There it is,” he says, proud. “That little flutter. That’s your clitoris responding. That’s blood flow, pleasure, arousal. You’re doing everything right.”

Your body trembles under the attention. Your legs shift wider without thinking. He never pushes you open—just follows your lead.

“I can keep going like this as long as you want,” he says. “But if you’d like to try something internal, I can guide that too. Only if you feel ready.”

You blink through the haze, heart thudding. “I… I think I’m ready..”

Jason brushes his clean hand over your hip. “Alright. One step at a time.”

He reaches for a small bottle of lube from the side table and warms some between his fingers.

“I’m going to start with one finger. Very slow. If there’s any discomfort, you tell me.”

He rests a hand against your thigh, then presses inward—so carefully it almost feels like nothing—until you feel him there, sliding inside.

The stretch is gentle, eased by slick and patience. He stops halfway in, checking.

“How does that feel?”

You bite your lip. “Good..”

He waits, just breathing with you.

“Let your body adjust. That fullness? That’s your muscles responding. You’re safe.”

After a beat, he curls his finger slightly, aiming toward your front wall.

“I’m going to feel for a change in texture—about two or three inches in. That’s where your G-spot likely is.”

He presses, slow and steady, until your breath hitches.

“There?” he asks.

You nod, voice barely there. “Y…Yeah.”

“That’s it,” he says, reverent. “That’s your G-spot. Slightly spongier tissue. Not always sensitive at first, but with the right rhythm, it can be powerful.”

He starts a steady rhythm—gentle, slow presses against that spot—while his thumb rests above your clit, grounding you.

“Does that feel good, baby?”

You whimper, breath catching. “Yes.”

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

Jason’s finger keeps its rhythm, curling with each gentle thrust, finding that spot again and again. Not fast. Not deep. Just enough to let your body open around the sensation.

“You’re doing so well,” he says softly, his voice lower now—not because he’s hiding, but because he’s focused entirely on you. “So responsive. I can feel the way your muscles shift around me—tightening when I hit the right place, softening when I slow down. That’s your body trusting the moment.”

You let out a shaky breath, caught between tension and something else—something sweeter, just out of reach.

Jason’s thumb strokes lightly along your thigh, not adding pressure anywhere else. Just grounding you.

“I want to ask something,” he says gently, his tone all warmth and care. “Would it help you to be kissed right now? Or praised out loud? Some people like that—being told they’re good, being held while they fall apart. But it’s your call, always.”

You blink up at him, lips parted, cheeks burning.

“…Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that. Both.”

Jason’s eyes soften, like he’s proud of you. Not because of what you’re doing—but because of what you asked for.

“Good girl,” he says quietly, the words reverent, not performative. “You deserve to be told you’re doing beautifully. Every part of you is working just as it should.”

He shifts closer—still careful, still slow—and lifts his free hand to your jaw. He doesn’t move any further until you meet his gaze and nod.

Then his lips press to yours.

Not greedy. Not demanding. Just… warm. Present. A kiss that feels like being held.

You moan softly into it, your hips rocking just a little harder into his hand. Jason stays with you, keeping the rhythm steady, the kiss anchored in care.

When he pulls back, just barely, he whispers, “You’re so soft around my fingers, doll. So warm. So glad you trust me touching you like this.”

You whimper again, your whole body trembling now.

“I want to add a second finger,” he murmurs. “To give your body a little more stretch. It’ll help the pressure build. Okay?”

“Please,” you whisper.

He smiles against your cheek. “There’s my brave girl.”

His other hand eases a second finger in, slow and careful. You feel the stretch—a deeper fullness now—but your body takes him easily, slick and pulsing with need.

“Still okay?”

You nod quickly, moaning, “Yes—yes.”

Jason kisses the corner of your mouth, thumb stroking your hip now, guiding the pace from two angles—his fingers inside you, coaxing pressure against your G-spot, and the low, steady rhythm of praise in your ear.

“You’re so close, I can feel it,” he says, voice thick with awe. “The way your muscles are fluttering—your body’s almost there. Let go when you’re ready. You don’t need to do anything. You just need to feel.”

Your body arches, breath catching in your chest.

“Jason—!”

He doesn’t stop. Just murmurs against your temple, “I’ve got you. Just ride it out, baby. You’re doing so good.”

And then it crests.

It’s not sharp, not a sudden burst—but a blooming, wave-like unraveling that starts deep inside and rolls outward. Your whole body shudders, hips jerking against his hand as he holds you through it.

Jason stays right there—fingers slowing gradually, not withdrawing too fast, kissing your jaw, your cheek, grounding you in soft breath and warmth.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “That’s yours. That’s what it feels like when someone listens.”

You cling to him, chest heaving, tears stinging your lashes—not from sadness, but from something else. Release. Relief.

Jason cradles your head in his palm, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs. “Not because of what just happened—but because you let yourself feel. That takes more strength than people ever give it credit for.”

You nod, breath hitching.

Jason kisses your temple again. “You did everything right. And you’re allowed to feel proud of that.”

He still hasn’t moved his hand from your hip. Still hasn’t pulled away. Just steady, warm, here.

“Would you like to stop for now?” he asks. “Or keep going? No pressure either way.”

Your body, still humming, still sensitive, answers before your voice does.

“…I don’t want to stop,” you whisper.

Jason smiles softly, eyes glowing with that same gentle reverence.

“Okay, baby,” he says. “Then we’ll keep going. Slow. Just like this.”

Jason doesn’t move at first—he waits.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles into your skin. Your body is warm, still humming from your orgasm, but you’re not done yet. Neither is he.

His voice, when it comes, is a low murmur against your ear. “You still with me?”

You nod, blinking up at him.

His gaze stays soft. Careful. “Then I’ll ask something important.”

You nod again.

“Do you want to try penetrative sex now?” he asks. “You don’t have to. Not tonight. Not with me. But if you want to, I’ll take my time with it. You’ll set the pace. We can try with a toy or–.”

Your eyes meet his. Only patience.

“I want to try,” you say—soft, but steady. “W..With you..”

Jason studies you a second longer, just to be sure. “Are you sure? There’s no expectation to please me.”

You cup his face, “Please.. Can we..?”

Then he nods and reaches for the condom on the nightstand. “Okay. Then we go slow.”

He tears it open and rolls it on with practiced ease. You glance down at his cock—he isn’t fully hard yet. He catches the look, and offers a crooked, honest smile.

“Not there yet,” he says. “Wasn’t thinking about me. Was thinking about you.”

Then, gently, he dips his hand between your legs again. “I’ll get there. Let me just touch you a little more first. Make sure you aren’t too sensitive”

You part your legs easily now—sensitive but not overly, already fluttering open for him. When his fingers find your clit again—wet and aching—you moan.

Jason groans low in his throat, hips twitching against your thigh.

“That sound,” he mutters, voice thickening, rough. “You don’t even know what that does to me.”

You feel him harden—slowly, steadily—his body pressing closer now, like the sound of your pleasure rewired his every nerve. His forehead drops to yours.

“No shame in this,” he murmurs. “You make me want to take care of you.”

He shifts, positioning himself between your legs, his cock gliding slowly through your slick folds. Not entering yet. Just easing the weight of him against you, nudging you open.

“I’m going to go slow,” he says. “Tell me if anything feels off, or too much.”

You nod, arms looping gently around his shoulders. “Okay.”

He presses forward—slow, steady.

The stretch is real. A full-bodied sensation that makes you cling tighter. He groans low as your body takes him, inch by inch, warmth enveloping him.

“You feel so good around me,” he breathes, voice low and raw. “So warm. So perfect.”

You exhale sharply, your body arching instinctively into his. He’s deep inside you—thick and grounding in a way that makes your legs tremble. The stretch is steady, complete. Not overwhelming—just everywhere.

Jason stills, letting you adjust, his body pressed flush to yours.

“You okay?” he murmurs, forehead brushing yours. Kissing the corner of your mouth.

You nod, voice thin. “Yes. Just—full.”

His mouth curves faintly. “That’s good. That’s what I want. Full, but not too much.”

He waits until you give him permission. His hips begin to move.

The first few thrusts are shallow—testing, controlled. Almost clinical in their restraint. But even like this, you feel it. Every careful glide, every slow retreat, the soft pressure of muscle and heat moving inside you. Your body answers, tightening without thought.

You whimper softly.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let it happen. You don’t have to perform. Just feel.”

He finds a rhythm—not fast, not rough. Just intentional. Each stroke lands a little deeper, his pelvis rocking flush to yours. Your legs part wider, the angle shifting, and the friction intensifies.

“Does that feel better?” he asks, watching your face.

You nod, breathless. “Yes. M..more. Please..”

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he says, voice low and reverent, his hand sliding up your thigh to steady your hip. “We’ll go a little deeper.”

He pushes forward again, the glide smooth and weighted. You feel every throb, every deliberate roll of his body inside yours. He groans softly, bracing one hand beside your head, the other slipping beneath your knee to tilt your hips just slightly.

“That help the angle?”

You nod quickly, breath catching. “Yeah—it’s..a lot… Not too much though...”

“That’s what I want. Not too sharp. Not painful. Just… pressure.”

The pressure builds slowly. Not sudden. Not explosive.

It creeps in—thick and warm and deep in your belly. Your breath hitches with each stroke, your fingers curling into the couch cushion as your body begins to hum.

Jason kisses your cheek. “Still with me?”

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. It’s just…it’s getting stronger.”

“Good,” he rasps. “You’re climbing. That means your body’s doing what it’s supposed to.”

He keeps the rhythm steady. No rushing. Each thrust landing heavier now, dragging along the front wall of your body—the place pleasure pools but was never truly reached before.

“I want to try something to help,” he murmurs, voice brushing your skin. “Okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

Jason shifts. His free hand slides down to your lower belly. He presses his palm flat just above your pubic bone—gentle but firm—and presses down.

You gasp. Loud. Embarrassing.

“That,” he says softly. “That just helps me reach the right spot. Brings your front wall closer to where I am inside you. Not magic—just anatomy.”

Then he thrusts again. And you feel it. Your legs jolt.

“Oh—Jason—”

“There it is,” he breathes, not letting up the pressure. “That’s your body showing us where it likes to be touched. Not from the outside—but this helps bring attention to it.”

You can’t answer. Every movement now sends a bolt of sensation through your stomach, into your hips, up your spine. Your hands cling to his back as your thighs tremble, and Jason never stops touching you—never stops watching.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “So good for me, baby. Let it build. Don’t chase it. Just ride it.”

He gives you time. Never rushes. You hover on that edge—hips twitching, thighs shaking—for what feels like forever. Every slow, deep thrust adds to it. Every soft moan you let slip earns gentle praise and another firm press of his palm.

Then, your breath stutters.

“Jason—I think—” Your voice shakes.

He leans in, voice at your ear. “You’re right there. Just let go.”

So you do.

Your body tenses, clamps around him, and a sharp cry tears from your throat as you come—slow and hard and deep. It rolls through you in waves, pulling your spine off the bed, and Jason holds you through it, groaning as you flutter and pulse around him.

“Fuck, baby—you feel unbelievable—”

But he doesn’t finish.

Not yet.

He slows, rhythm easing as you tremble beneath him, kissing your jaw as the last of it shudders through you. His hand slides from your stomach to your thigh, stroking gently.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough—but still soft.

You nod, slowly. “Still sensitive, but… yeah.”

Jason lifts his head to look at you.

“Can I finish?” he asks. “Or do you want to pause?”

Your voice is tired, but honest. “Finish. I want you to.”

He smiles—something quiet. Grateful. Then pulls your hips higher, angling slightly as he starts to move again.

This time it’s faster. Needy. Less careful—but never rough. His thrusts go deeper now, chasing release, your slick heat wrapping tight around him.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re still so tight—so fucking wet for me.”

Your breath catches at the sudden heat—but you don’t stop him. You want this. To feel him give in the way you did.

His rhythm stutters.

“Baby—I’m gonna—” His jaw clenches, hips jerking once, twice more—and then he comes with a deep, guttural sound, spilling into the condom as he trembles above you, breath harsh.

He stays there a moment—forehead to your shoulder, chest heaving.

Then he exhales, kisses your jaw, and pulls back slowly.

“Hold on, doll,” he murmurs, careful as he withdraws. “Let me take care of everything.”

He discards the condom, wipes you down with the towel he set aside earlier, then walks you to the bed, pulling the blanket over both of you.

He tucks your head to his chest, his hand stroking your arm softly.

You’re quiet—eyes half-lidded, ear pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It feels impossibly safe here. Like nothing outside this room exists.

Jason shifts slightly beneath you, just enough to tilt his head toward yours.

“You feel alright?” he murmurs.

You nod against him. “More than alright.”

He exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, almost not.

“That’s good.”

You stay like that for a while—warm, quiet, wrapped in soft sheets and softer silence.

Then his voice returns, low. Thoughtful.

“Want to know something?” he asks. “Not sexy. Just science.”

You hum. “Always.”

“Oxytocin,” he says. “It’s a neurochemical your body releases during things like sex, cuddling, even eye contact. Especially when it feels safe. Especially when it’s… good.”

You shift, just enough to look up at him.

Jason keeps stroking your arm, eyes gentle. “That warmth you feel right now? That safety? Some of it’s the oxytocin. It’s called the bonding hormone. It builds trust. Connection. But it doesn’t care who it bonds you to. Just when.”

You blink slowly, letting that settle.

He continues, voice calm but clear. “If someone makes you feel good—physically, emotionally—your body wants to bond. Which means even if someone treats you badly, but gives you just enough, it can trigger the same response. That’s why some people stay in relationships where they’re not really happy. The body’s looking for safety. And sometimes, it lies.”

You frown faintly. “You mean like…”

“Like if your ex made you feel unwanted, but gave you praise right after sex. Or affection when he felt guilty. Your body probably clung to those rare moments—because it was starving.”

You go still.

Jason looks down, brushing your hair gently back from your cheek.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “Your body was trying to protect you. Trying to find safety. It just didn’t know the difference between scarcity and real care.”

You swallow hard.

“But now it does.”

His thumb traces slow, steady over your arm. “Now it knows what it feels like to be touched without being rushed. To be seen without being used. That matters. Your body’s going to remember this. Not just the orgasm—the pacing. The respect. The choice.”

“…So this is how it’s supposed to feel?”

Jason’s lips twitch—something soft. Something proud.

“Yeah, baby,” he says. “This is what it can feel like.”

You rest your head back against his chest. The silence is warmer now.

And this time, when your body sighs—sleepy, calm—you know exactly why.

So.. Um.. Hey.. how y'all doing.. are we still here..

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