#this is kinda old and the hands look like shit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

000000-000000-000000 · 3 days ago

Note

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x Reader)

eyeless jack x f!reader nsfw — CW med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that��exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you’re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

280 notes · View notes

hedwig221b · 5 hours ago

Note

Kinda random but do you know any fics where Derek calls Stiles baby or sweetheart (or something similar) and Stiles gets all flustered?

Can I offer you, like, my entire collection lmao 😭💖 It's baby, sweetheart, angel, kitten, sunshine... I love pet names

tbh when you mention sterek and pet names, siand is the first who comes to mind. Like, truly, a sterek pet name connossieur, and the one who got me addicted to 'kitten' as a pet name for Stiles

Tax Evasion by standinginanicedress

Stiles chews on his thumb a bit harder, and for a second he thinks about saying no. He thinks about letting the whole thing go and just going back to his life, the safe and easy way out. He considers just settling for someone who’ll never really get him, some boring guy who touches him the wrong way and buys him flowers sometimes. He’s been doing it for years upon years, now, and really, what’s a little bit longer? And then, what’s the rest of his life? What’s the worst that could happen, he wonders? Trying something is better than not trying at all.

Stars and Their Meanings by standinginanicedress

"You’re older,” Stiles begins counting, on his index, “you’re bad news,” on his middle, “you were recently accused of murder,” ring, “and we have not a damn thing in common,” his pinky. “I mean, come on. You just want to mess around with me if you want me at all.” “Mess around with you?” Derek shakes his head, like that blows his mind. “What is that supposed to mean?” Stiles waves his hand. “Like, ohh, you’re a bad boy, and I’m the Sheriff’s son, so it’s all so hot. I get it.”

Helen of Troy by standinginanicedress

Stiles can fake laugh, fake smile. He can play coy and he can be demure and barely eat anything in front of them, and he can sit still and do his little song and dance of feigning interest. But this is a little out of his scope. They want him to fully become someone else. They want him to be who everyone wants him to be, and it scares the shit out of Stiles, because he doesn’t know if he can do it for hours and hours while cameras watch his every single move. It’s a lot. It’s more than he bargained for.

You're My Sanctuary by lilmissdaydreamer

The Argent Wolf Sanctuary. It’s been Stiles’ dream since he was five years old to work with the wolves, ever since his mother took him up there to see the magnificent creatures on one of their ‘full moon runs’ that the Sanctuary does once a month. The wolves are beautiful and much larger than Stiles would’ve thought, or at least, the newest wolf is. The owner had said he’s a special breed. Stiles just didn’t realize quite how special he is.

You Were Already My Baby by SterekLoverForEver

Stiles would like to preface that he is NOT dating Derek. Even if Stiles wishes with all his heart, he knows he never has a chance with Derek. Stiles has seen such a positive change in Derek in almost 2 years of knowing him, and he doesn’t want to get in the way of his progress. Stiles has seen the hard work and dedication Derek has put in, Derek has become the most kind and special alpha the pack loves and relies on. Stiles knows that Derek has worked on uniting the pack together as well as developing a bond with each member of the pack. Derek has been able to level with each member and have their own unique friendship because he wants to be someone each member can turn to. While Stiles and Derek’s friendship may look different from the others, it’s only a friendship. So despite what others may say, Stiles would definitely know if he was in a relationship with the most perfect specimen that is Derek Hale. Or 6 Times (I couldn't help myself) Stiles Didn't Know He and Derek Were Dating + 1 Time He Did

Stay by wulfarchival (wyrmwolf)

In which Stiles just wants to loose his virginity and goes to The Jungle to do just that. But instead gets himself a hot Dom and a werewolf boyfriend. Except, he just doesn’t know about the werewolf part. Yet.

Baby by Little Spoon (JaydenNara)

When Stiles was fifteen, he dubbed Derek Sourwolf, and unfortunately for Derek, the name stuck. In retrospect, Derek didn't really mind all that much, especially if it was a breathless whimper in his ear. Funny thing is, Derek didn't have a pet name for Stiles.

The Arrangement by Arver7

Through blackmail and lies, Stiles and Derek are forced into a marriage neither of them wanted. If they each want to survive each other, they must learn to coexist. But the more they get to know each other, the more they seem to care about each other. But will the lies stop them from falling in love?

54 notes · View notes

bwobgames · 2 days ago

Text

“Woah… a real ghost…”

“You seem well educated, why are you scared of ghosts? Or even believe in them?”

“Well, its hard not to! Everyone says they are real and scary!”

“Also, ugh, I was forced to tell you sorry for being ‘creepy’ or whatever. I’m not creepy though!”

“It’s normal for girls to look at other girls and appreciate how attractive they are!”

“It’s true, I was the same at your age. Comes in every girl’s life”

She ignores the fact that she is married to a woman.

“But at the end you end up with a guy regardless, yeah?”

“…Maybe”

“I’ll have to end up with Fede, which is kinda gross but I’ll get over it probably”

“Wh- What do you mean you ‘have’ to? Is someone forcing you to marry him?”

“No, no, it’s not like, planned or anything, it’s just…”

“We know each other for a long time, and our parents know each other for a long time and are good friends and they love to say we’re like a couple and plan stuff for when 'our families become one' and …”

“I’m not like, being forced to marry him or anything but like. Seems like things are heading that way”

“It wouldn’t be awful really, he’s my friend so we already get along, And! I get to stay at home all day while he fucks around in his dad’s business! I’ll be set for life!”

“And then what”

“Huh?”

“Once you achieve the life of your dreams, the perfect life”

“What comes next?”

“Uh. Kids?”

“Would that make it better?”

“Well, I wouldn’t get bored with kids…”

“And you’ll be happy with that?”

“Of course! It’s the dream! Everyone wants that!”

She’s right, of course. Anyone would want that life.

The correct life.

The one she’s been following, set for her, sacrificed for her.

Her parents might’ve been strict, but they taught her well, she will never fault her for doing what they thought would make her happy.

(But did they ever really do it for me?)

They taught her to take shortcuts, to cut all possible loses, to cut the floor beneath another person if necessary, to lie, to cheat.

To live with the sacrifices of others.

To love numbers, to live numbers, to see people as numbers.

To recognize the opportunity of a lifetime when it’s presented to her.

She could always recognize people like her by the way they smile.

Too perfect, too controlled. Too aware of their teeth.

Unlike her uncle’s smile. Yellow and crooked. Unbothered.

She was not unhappy, by all means she cannot say she was miserable.

Having high quality health care at her hand is more than most of the population could ever wish for. Not having to worry to survive until the next pay is a relief as well.

She is with her best friend, working together, being successful.

She has reached the top.

But she’s hungry.

She can differentiate right from wrong, she has let her family into an idyllic state of never worrying about money again. She is what everyone desires.

So there must be something deeply wrong when she’s still hungry

A hunger that is only satiated when she brushes her own hair. When she chooses her own clothes. When she’s in charge of decisions. When she can stand her ground in an argument.

A hunger that only grows with every stolen glance, with small touches, with an unbothered smile, an understanding voice.

Something that beckons to her to run away, to forget everything and start anew, to call her uncle and finally have that camping trip he offered. To say No to the ring.

But she can’t.

Because it’s not right.

It’s not what’s supposed to happen. It’s not what’s supposed to make her happy. It’s what she was taught. It’s what made her who she is.

It’s what everyone says.

And they’re all full of shit.

“I don’t think you’d be wrong to share the rest of your life with your friend, as long as you keep things as they are”

“Forcing yourself to a role you didn’t ask for is… detrimental in the long run”

“You’re young, surely someone as tenacious as you won’t bend down to the whims of some old rich guys, yeah?”

“Huh…?”

“You’ll get it when you’re older. I know you got a heart in there somewhere”

“I know it wants more than what they can offer.”

“Oh, it’s dinner time. Let’s go. It’s rude to keep people waiting”

“Wuh, uh ah, yes!”

Sometimes she really wishes things were different.

That she didn’t make so many mistakes.

That she noticed the lie sooner.

She grieves her youth.

<-PREV START NEXT->

#detective beebo overnight train #Traeme más personajes Charlie vengo inspirado #I enjot her. I shall make her. playlist #thats how you know it got to me

66 notes · View notes

stubz · 2 days ago

Text

"Dude, I had the most craziest dream."

"Was it you being brutally injured and still living due to immortality again?"

"No-well yes, kinda, we went on a field trip to earth and it was a animal sanctuary or something. All the animals get out. It's mostly hippos."

"Ooooh noooo..."

"Yeah, so we end up trapped in the giftshop with the kids and workers and I'm holding the door up while a hippo is trying to break in and I'm telling Dora to hand me a broom-"

"A broom? What's a broom going to do against a hippo?"

"Let me finish, it was either a broom or a fire extinguisher-"

"Ahh."

"-and Dora is acting like the 7 year old valley girl she is and not listening to me. So after like screaming at her to hand me the freaking thing she does so only to snatched by a hippo that breaks through the window."

"Oh shit! Does she die??"

"No. She gets scooped up by it's snout and basically rides it like a mechanical bull before I grab her by the ankle and chuck her back inside and have to fight the hippo."

"How'd that feel?"

"Fighting a hippo? Awesome.

"No I mean chucking Dora by the ankle."

"....I love her...but it was satisfying. Oh and then I woke up."

"What's a hippo?" it was that moment that the two remembered that they were not alone at the lunch table.

"It's a large mammal on Earth."

"Sounds pretty terrifying based on your dream." Quip mumbled through his lunch.

"They are." both humans replied. "but they're cute looking." Added Max. He showed them a photo on his phone.

"...how is that dangerous?? It looks like a fatter cow." Quip snorted.

"Couldn't you just outrun them? Their legs are so little." cooed Op.

"Is it a herbivore?" curiously asked Glip.

"They sometimes eat meat but mostly eat plants and stuff. Also they're fast."

"Really?" they all ask.

"Let's see...8 km/h in the water and 30 to 40km on land. Oh and the average human is 24km on land and 1 to 3 in the water."

"Oh quizknack."

"So they are like a cow?"

"If cows killed 500 humans a year and could snap you in half with their jaws then yeah."

"..." "..." "..."

"Really makes you rethink the I want a hippopotamus for Christmas song." muses Kim.

"WHY WOULD YOU WANT ONE OF THOSE DEATH EATERS FOR CHRISTMAS?!" hisses Quip

#humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans in space #the adventures of kim and max running a space child centre #this is the dream i had the other night #'Dora' is our resident valley girl #and probably would sass me during a hippo attack #thus causing her to get nearly mauled by one and forcing me to yeet her to safety and fight a hippo #it'd be a dope way to go though #'preschool teacher fights hippos with a fire extinguisher to protect children - went down swinging'

56 notes · View notes

matts-girlfriend · 3 days ago

Text

No One But You- Chris Sturniolo

final part.

1 2 3

warnings: angst, arguing, tension, swearing, smut, fluff??

word count: 1.1k

You didn’t think he’d be here.

Not him.

You’re standing by the kitchen counter, half a red cup in your hand, when your eyes catch on someone across the room—and suddenly the air gets thinner.

It’s him.

Chris.

And he looks the same and different all at once.

Hair a little longer. Hoodie you don’t recognize. But those eyes?

They’re the same ones that used to undress you with a glance and hold you like they’d never let go.

Maybe I

Lost my mind

No one noticed

He sees you.

Freezes.

And you?

You run.

It’s getting old (I’d kinda like it if you’d call me)

All alone (‘cause I’m so over bein’ lonely)

The cold bites at your skin as you stand on the sidewalk, arms folded tight like you can barricade your heart. You hear the door swing open behind you. Footsteps. Hesitant. Heavy.

Then his voice.

“Y/N—wait!”

May have lost it (I need a virtual connection)

I have lost it (be my video obsession)

You don’t. Not at first. You keep walking because stopping means acknowledging it still hurts. That he still hurts.

But then—

“Please.”

And you stop.

No one tried

To read my eyes

No one but you

Wish it weren’t true

You turn slowly, blinking against the wind and everything behind your eyes. He’s standing on the porch, breath rising in clouds, eyes locked on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

“I’m not gonna yell,” he says quietly, walking toward you. “I’m not gonna give you some bullshit excuse.”

You say nothing, but your heart thuds so hard it almost echoes.

Maybe I (I’d kinda like it if you’d call me)

It’s not right (‘cause I’m so over being lonely)

“I just need you to know—maybe I lost my mind. Maybe i’m an idiot for not realizing sooner that it was you. No one cared. Except you.”

He’s in front of you now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to break you all over again.

“I pushed you away because I didn’t know how to be loved like that. By you. You looked at me like I was someone worth staying for, and that scared the shit out of me.”

Make you mine (I need a virtual connection)

Take our time (be my video obsession)

You laugh bitterly. “So you ran.”

He flinches. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every fucking second since.”

You want to stay mad. You should stay mad. But there’s something in his voice—raw and cracking and full of things he never said—that slices through your armor.

“I’m so fucking over being lonely,” he says, voice lower now, closer. “I tried moving on. I couldn’t. I’d kiss someone and imagine it was you. I’d fall asleep and dream about December, about your hand on my chest, about how I didn’t want you to move your head ‘cause if you did, it might all disappear.”

He reaches out, gentle, fingers brushing your arm.

“Don’t leave me. Not again. It can’t be that easy.”

Come on, don’t leave me it can’t be that easy, babe

If you believe me I guess I’ll get on a plane

Your lip trembles. You hate that he still makes you feel everything at once.

“I don’t trust you not to leave,” you whisper.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I’d get on a plane. I’d crawl. I’d do anything. Just give me a chance to stay this time.”

Fly to your city excited to see your face

Hold me, console me and then I’ll leave without a trace

You should walk away. But you knew you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

So instead, you said the same old saying he knew all too well.

“Take me home.”

��

His hands are shaking when they touch you.

Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

Your back hits the door of his room as he kisses you—slow, aching, breathless. There’s no rush. No frantic clothes-tearing or pretending this means nothing. Every touch is soaked in want and grief and hope.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers against your skin.

You answer by pulling his hoodie off.

Come on, don’t leave me it can’t be that easy, babe

If you believe me I guess I’ll get on a plane

And suddenly he’s everywhere. Mouth on your collarbone, fingers tracing the places he used to know. Reverent. Careful.

“I missed you,” he breathes against your neck. “Every part of you. Even the way you’d hog the covers. Even your stupid sad music obsession.”

Fly to your city excited to see your face

Hold me, console me, then I’ll leave without a trace

You gasp when he palms at your thighs, kissing your stomach like a prayer.

“I wanna take my time,” he mutters. “I wanna learn your body all over again.”

You pull him down on top of you, skin to skin, hearts thundering.

There’s no music playing, but there’s a rhythm to it still—like muscle memory, like coming home.

He whispers your name when he enters you, eyes fluttering closed.

Come on, don’t leave me it can’t be that easy, babe

If you believe me I guess I’ll get on a plane

You cup his cheek. “I’m here.”

Fly to your city excited to see your face

Hold me, console me and then I’ll leave without a trace (maybe I)

His hips move slow at first. Deep. Like he’s trying to memorize what you feel like.

You arch into him, soft moans tangled in his name. “Chris…”

“Fuck, ma—feels like I’ve been holding my breath for months.”

Come on, don’t leave me it can’t be that easy, babe (it’s not right)

If you believe me I guess I’ll get on a plane (make you mine)

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s messy and wet and honest.

You wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him closer, and he buries his face in your neck as he moves faster, chasing the edge you both need so desperately.

“I love you,” he pants into your ear, like he can’t hold it back anymore. “I should’ve said it then. I’ll say it every day now. I love you. I love you. I fucking love you—”

Fly to your city excited to see your face (take our time)

Hold me, console me and then I’ll leave without a trace

You fall apart under him, trembling, nails digging into his back, and he follows with a strangled moan of your name.

The room is silent afterward, except for the sound of your breathing. His arm curls around your waist. You don’t pull away.

“I don’t want this to be another goodbye,” he murmurs into your hair.

“It’s not,” you whisper.

You lift your head to look at him.

“Stay.”

And he does.

a/n: okay i’m finally done dragging this, now i’m gonna disappear for a few months and come back when i think of how to work the au. Love Mari.

taglist: @cherryystemm @chrepsi @sturniqloo @whore4chris @jcsturniolo11 @kayla-hearts4sturniolo @crazbubs @poolover123

45 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 3 days ago

Text

what we burn for

one-shot

Pairing: Dean x Viv

Warnings: angst, kissing, dry humping (kinda?)

Word Count: 1,865

a/n: bit different to what i usually do. i made this for @emeraldcrs because she's actually a sweetheart who made me an edit i wasn't expecting at all (and it made me so happy, i cried!!!) and i wanted to show her how much i appreciated the picture AND her. so... i wrote this lil one-shot for her. hope you like it, viv! <3

The spell fizzled out like everything else she touched these days—half-formed, smoke curling in on itself, then gone. No flash of light. No gust of power. Just the dim flicker of candles and her own breath, short and sharp in the dark.

Vivien wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smudging ash and dried blood down her jaw. Her palms were still warm from the magic, but the chill of the stone floor crept into her knees, reminding her how long she'd been kneeling in the circle. Three hours.

Three months. Three months since he'd left. Three months since she told him not to. Three months since he did anyway.

She stood slowly, every joint aching from stillness and spite, and blew out the centre candle with a whisper of breath. The wind outside howled through the eaves, shaking the old academy's bones. The candles flared. Then—

Footsteps.

Her entire body tensed before she even turned. She knew the weight of those steps. The drag of his boots. The hesitation masked in swagger.

She didn't look when the door creaked open. Just said, voice flat, "You're late."

"You always were a shitty host," Dean muttered from behind her.

Vivien exhaled through her nose. "And you always did love making an entrance."

She heard the door click shut. Heard him breathe—tight, shallow. Smelled the dried blood before she saw it. He was hurt. Again. She didn't turn around.

Dean stepped closer, boots echoing on the stone. "You summon something?"

"Nothing worth keeping."

There was silence then. The kind that grew teeth. It stretched between them like a trap, daring either of them to spring it.

Finally, she spoke, low and sharp: "Why are you here?"

"You left pie on my windowsill," he said. A pause. "Three months ago."

Her jaw clenched. "So you came running?"

"I bled on three continents since then, Viv. Don't flatter yourself."

She turned at that.

And there he was.

Bruised cheekbone. New scar at the hinge of his jaw. Flannel half-soaked from the rain. Eyes that wouldn't meet hers, not yet. That same unbearable smell—gunpowder, leather, and everything she couldn't forget.

"You look like shit," she said.

"You still talk too much," he replied.

But his voice cracked a little.

And she saw it—just for a second—the grief buried under his smirk. The loneliness. The ache.

Vivien crossed her arms. "You left without a word."

Dean looked at her, really looked at her, and the candles flickered again.

"I had to," he said.

"No, you didn't."

Another silence.

Then: "I didn't know if I'd make it back."

"You didn't even say goodbye."

"I didn't think you'd want me to."

She flinched. Just a little. But it was enough. She hated the way his voice dropped when he was about to lie to her.

"I didn't think you'd want me to," Dean said again, quieter this time, like if he softened it enough it wouldn't hit so hard.

Vivien let the silence stretch until it hurt.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you don't know exactly what you mean to me."

His jaw flexed. His hands—cut up and raw—curled into fists at his sides. "I'm not pretending anything."

"Oh please," she snapped. "You disappear for months, come back bloodied to hell, act like nothing happened, and I'm just supposed to what—bake you another pie?"

Dean's mouth opened. Closed. He looked away.

"That's what you do, right?" She kept going, voice sharper now, breath catching. "Come back when you feel like it. Bleed on my doorstep. Take what you want and leave again."

"That's not fair," he bit out.

"Isn't it?"

"No," he growled. "You don't get to stand there and act like I don't think about you every goddamn day I'm gone. Like I don't check your warding sigils from the road. Like I don't go out of my mind thinking about whether some goddamn vamp's gonna sink its teeth into your throat the second I'm not here—"

"Then stay, Dean!" She shouted, the words ricocheting off the stone walls. "Stay, just once. Choose something that doesn't end in blood!"

"I can't!"

The crack in his voice stopped her cold.

"I can't stay, Viv," he repeated, softer now, voice fraying. "Not when I'm the thing that brings the blood."

Vivien stared at him, chest heaving. The magic still hadn't settled—she could feel it fizzing in her palms like carbonation under her skin.

"You think I don't bleed without you here?" She whispered. "You think my world just... stops falling apart because you're not around to see it?"

Dean looked at her like she'd just torn open something inside him. Something he'd locked down tight.

"You left, Dean," she said. "And I waited. Like a goddamn fool, I waited. Every hunt, every spell, every night I woke up choking on air because I thought maybe this time, you weren't coming back—"

"Vivien."

She froze.

Not Viv. Vivien.

He only said it when he was bleeding on the inside. When he meant every word that followed. When he didn't want to.

Dean took one step toward her. Just one. But it hit harder than any blow.

"You think I don't want to stay?" He asked. "You think I don't want to crawl into that bed upstairs and forget every bad thing that's ever touched us? You think I don't dream about it?"

He swallowed hard.

"But I don't get to have nice things, Vivien. I never have. And I sure as hell don't get to have you."

Silence, again.

But this time it wasn't sharp. It was suffocating.

Vivien took a slow, shaking breath.

"You already do."

She said it so quietly, Dean almost didn't hear it. But the words landed like a match in dry grass. And when he looked at her—really looked—he saw it.

The way her chest heaved like she'd just run ten miles. The shimmer of unshed tears in those ever-shifting eyes—stormlight and steel. The faint, trembling pulse in her throat like her body couldn't decide if it wanted to fight him or fall into him.

Dean took another step forward.

She didn't move. Not away.

He reached up, slowly, fingers brushing a streak of soot from her cheek. His hand lingered there, rough knuckles against her skin, warm and shaking.

"You think I don't feel it too?" He whispered.

Vivien's lips parted, but no sound came out.

"You think I haven't tried to bury it?" He said, lower now. Closer. "I've tried to fuck it out. Drink it out. Burn it out. Doesn't work."

She blinked, barely breathing.

"I still taste your name when I bleed."

That broke something.

She surged forward, fingers twisted in his jacket, and kissed him like it was the last thing she'd ever do.

And Dean—Dean grabbed her like he was drowning. One hand at her jaw, the other around her waist, dragging her flush to him as he kissed her back with every ugly, unsaid thing he never had the guts to speak.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't sweet. It was months of longing, of fear, of all those nights they'd spent apart wishing they were braver than this.

His mouth devoured her, their teeth clashing, breath ragged, her fingers tugging hard at his hair until he groaned into her.

And then—then—it changed. She whimpered. Just a tiny, desperate sound against his lips.

Dean froze.

Then pulled back just an inch, just enough to say, voice dark and low against her mouth: "Oh... you like that, huh?"

Her breath hitched.

Dean grinned—sharp, smug, wrecked—and shoved her back against the stone wall behind them. Not hard. But with purpose. Her gasp punched the air between them.

"Wrap your leg around me, Viv."

She did. Instinctively. Magic shivered in the air the second her thigh hooked around his waist.

Dean slid a hand between them, grabbed her thigh—firm—and shifted, pressing her down on the solid line of his own.

She gasped again, forehead falling to his shoulder. "Dean—"

"Shhh." His voice was rough silk against her ear. "Don't talk. Just let me."

He rocked up, slow and steady, dragging her against him like he needed this, needed her, and her nails dug into his back as her hips jerked once, then again.

Dean groaned into her neck. "That's it. C'mon, Vivien."

Another gasp. A choked little sob against his throat.

Her magic crackled—candles exploded in the room, snuffing out in a rush of wind.

He didn't stop. Didn't flinch.

"Let go," he whispered. "I've got you. I've always got you."

And when she came, shuddering against him, Dean held her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

i really, really hope you liked this, viv. i really love the russell aesthetic you made me and i just wanted to give you a lil something in return! <3

#dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #pfiahc writes #my writing #love my moots <3 #emeraldcrs #viv <3 #dean x viv #dean winchester x vivien

24 notes · View notes

stitch-away · 3 days ago

Text

🎱 outlook good 🎱

pairing: marcus moreno x male reader

summary: you and marcus are dorm mates in college. you find he’s bought a magic 8 ball with him

tags: MDNI soft dom marcus, unprotected p in a, oral, kinda cuddlefucking, coming out, cute teasing, college au

word count: 2k

a/n: this is for @clubsoft's have you ever tried this one? writing challenge. i got the position thirst and the item magic 8 ball. reader is lowkey silly in this one lol, it was fun to write!!

“a magic 8 ball? at college?” you chuckle, standing up from grabbing the ball from under marcus’ bed, “what are you, five years old?”

“give that back!” marcus whines, trying to snatch the ball back. you pull away, so he can’t reach it. “it’s… special, okay? just give it back.”

“you don’t actually believe in it do you?” you ask, a smirk playing on your lips, “it’s just a toy, marcus.”

“it’s not– i swear, it tells the truth,” marcus pleads, still trying to grab the ball. you laugh at him. “just give it to me and i’ll prove it.” you roll your eyes and hand it to him. his face lights up once it’s back in his hands.

“alright, dude,” you sigh, dropping back onto marcus’ bed, “show me what that thing can do.” marcus rolls it in his hands nervously, biting his lip before sitting down next to you on the bed. he looks down at you, his eyes lingering on the why your shirt rides up.

“okay, let’s ask it something easy first, yeah?” marcus says, “you ask first.”

“ugh, alright,” you groan, “is marcus a gullible fool?” marcus glares at you. “shake it.” he rolls his eyes and shakes it. he frowns.

“what does it say?” you ask, staying laid back on the bed.

“without a doubt,” marcus grumbles. you burst into laughter, sitting up and patting marcus on the back.

“shit, maybe you were right,” you chuckle, nudging him, “i guess it does tell the truth. your turn.”

“i could be mean and ask a question about you, but i’m kinder than you are,” marcus huffs, “do you really like superhero movies and you aren’t just being kind when you sit through them with me?” you raise your eyebrows but wait for the ball to answer. “as i see it, yes” says the ball.

“can’t believe you doubted me on that,” you chuckle, “give it to me. i wanna ask it a question.”

“nothing rude,” marcus mumbles, handing the ball to you.

“you think so little of me,” you smirk, “is marcus a closeted homosexual?” marcus’ face drops as soon as the words leave your lips. you don’t see the look on his face, too focused on the ball’s answer.

“shit, marky,” you say, “this ball says you gay as a goddamn rainbow. “it is certain.”” you show him the answer, finally seeing the look on his face. he’s strangely pale and he can barely look at you.

“jesus, dude,” you say, concern ripe in your voice, “it was just a joke– it’s just a dumb ball. it doesn’t mean anything. you’re not–”

“but i am,” marcus mutters. you freeze, just staring at him, mouth agape. he stares at the floor, not daring to look at you.

“marcus…” you breathe, “i… i didn’t know. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to out you using a magic 8 ball.” that makes marcus chuckle a little.

“honestly, that’s not a bad coming out story,” marcus says, a small smile curling on his lips, “it’s a little funny.” he shrugs.

“i’m the first person you’ve told?” you ask, shocked, “damn. i’m kinda honoured.” you lay back down on the bed, a smug smirk on your lips. “don’t sweat it, marky. i ain’t gonna tell anyone. it don’t bother me.” marcus turns round to look at you properly, a surprised look on his face.

“oh,” marcus says, “th– that’s good. uh, thanks.”

“i won’t tell anyone, unless…” you smirk, seeing the slight panic rise in marcus, “you tell me your celebrity crush.” marcus rips the pillow out from under your head and smacks you square in the face with it.

“you motherfucker!” he yells as you laugh, “you scared me!” you chuckle, grabbing the pillow and placing it back under your head.

“don’t avoid the question,” you smile, “tell me. who is it?” marcus blushes and turns away.

“luke perry,” he mumbles, “from 90210.”

“hah!” you clap your hands with a laugh, “i knew it! you are way too focused during his scenes.” you grab marcus’ shoulder, pulling him down to lay next to you. “loosen up. don’t you feel lighter now you’ve told someone?”

marcus turns his head to look at you, you faces only an inch apart. he blushes, turning his head to look back up at the ceiling.

“i… i guess so,” marcus shrugs. you turn, leaning against marcus. you bring the ball up to marcus’ face.

“you wanna ask a question about me now?” you ask, “it can be invasive. think of it as consolation.” marcus looks at you, frowning slightly before taking the ball. he hesitates and then smirks.

“do you jerk off at night while i’m in the room?” he says, shaking the ball.

“gross, dude! i told you i don’t!” you groan. marcus laughs as he looks at the answer.

“yes definitely,” marcus laughs, “i knew you did, you pervert!”

“no! that things a liar,” you laugh, grabbing the ball from him. as you grab it from him, marcus doesn’t let go and you end up pulling him onto you. marcus freezes and you smirk.

“hey handsome,” you chuckle, “lookin’ good up there.” marcus blushes and moves to get off of you. you grab his hips, keeping him in place.

“wait,” you whisper, “don’t.” you look up at him, his big brown eyes magnified by his thick glasses. he stills his movements, laying on top of you. you cup marcus’ cheeks, feeling the soft scrape of his stubble.

“you ever been with another guy before?” you breathe. marcus shakes his head, his heart racing and his growing shallow. “would you like to try?” he flinches, his body wracked with nerves as he processes what you’re saying.

“b–but you’re not…” you frown at him before he can finish his sentence. “oh, s–sure.”

“we can stop whenever you want,” you whisper, “i’m not here to pressure you into anything, okay?” marcus nods and you lean in to kiss him. you place a soft, slow kiss on his lips, restraining your tongue and simply letting him find his own pace. he moves his shaky hands to grab your waist, pulling you flush against his swelling crotch. he moans into your mouth as you grind up against him, deepening the kiss.

you break the kiss to pull off your shirt, looking at marcus for permission before removing his. he has a soft musculature, a body reflecting both his strength and soft nature at once. you run your hands down his soft chest, marvelling in the beauty of his freckled skin.

“you been with a girl before?” marcus nods. “okay then, we’ll make this easy for you. you’ll fuck me, okay?”

you shimmy out of your pants and underwear and marcus does the same. you stare, one day working your erection, as marcus reveals his cock. it’s big but not too big by any means. the tip is flushed purple and the shaft is warm brown and widens at the base. you bite your lip, stroking your cock as you imagine how good that’s gonna feel inside you.

“shit, marcus,” you breathe, practically drool as he lays down next to you blushing, “can i suck your dick?”

“you want to?” he asks, shocked that his roommate wants anything to do with his dick.

“of course i fuckin’ want to,” you chuckle, rolling over to crawl down to his crotch, “hottest cock i’ve ever seen.” marcus raises an eyebrow. “okay, the hottest cock i’ve seen in person, not in porn.”

he just laughs, pushing your head against his thigh. you take that as an opportunity to pepper kisses to marcus’ inner thigh. you smirk as you hear his breath hitch. you look up at him through your eyelashes, your tongue flicking out, licking up to his balls. “please, can i suck your cock, baby?”

marcus lets out a loud, needy whimper, a sound that he didn’t even know he could make.

“fuck, dude,” marcus pants, rubbing a hand over his face, “fuck, yes– please suck my cock.” you smirk and immediately take his cock in your hand. you lick at the head, tasting the drops of precum he’s already leaking. you take the head into your mouth and marcus moans, his hips bucking deeper into your mouth. you hum proudly as marcus starts to come apart under your mouth. you take him deeper, not all the way, but enough to have him clawing at your scalp. he can’t help but take control, move your head in time with his hips.

“shit– that’s good,” marcus moans, “really fucking good.” you pull off his cock, smirking at him.

“i’m the king of blowjobs,” you wink, “just ask our neighbours.”

“you slut!” marcus laughs, pulling you up to kiss him. the way he just picks you up by your armpits and pulls you up with ease makes your cock throb.

“fuck, you’re strong, marky,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him again, “i thought your working out was a compulsive habit. not something that could be so sexy.” marcus rolls his eyes and just pulls you back in for a kiss. he grabs your ass, pushing your hips to grind together.

“taking control?” you chuckle against his lips, “you really are sexy.”

“mhm,” marcus hums, rolling you two to your sides, slipping his knee between your legs, “one girl i was with really liked this position. i hope you do too.” he slides his top hand down your waist and the other slips under your neck. it gives him perfect access to suck hickies on your neck.

“marcus,” you breathe, your hands cupping his neck. the soft pressure against your neck and the way marcus grinds his cock against yours, makes your eyes roll back. “you sure you’ve never been with a guy before?”

“oh?” he chuckles, much more in his element now, “am i that good already?”

“shut up and just put it in,” you whine. marcus presses a kiss to your chin and moves his cock to press against your hole. slowly, he begins his push inside. you grip his hair for stability as you try to adjust to the size of him. “marky– fuck.”

at your whimpers for him, marcus holds you closer. “i got you, baby. nice and slow, yeah?”

“mhm,” you nod, whining as you bury your face in his neck. he bottoms out and starts to thrust in and out, gentle and shallow.

“you okay?” he whispers.

“yeah,” you chuckle, kissing him on the cheek, “you can go faster.” marcus rubs his thumb on your waist as he picks up his pace. the position doesn’t let him thrust in too fast, allowing for a nice intimate pace.

“fuck,” marcus moans, hugging you tighter as he loses himself inside you, “you feel so fucking good– mierda.” you chuckle, reveling in the pleasure you’re bringing him.

“yeah, that feel good, marky?” you hum, “keep going. i want you to finish inside me.” marcus whines, bucking into you faster.

“r–really?” he pants, “won’t it be messy?” you turn your head to capture his lips, hooking your leg tighter round his waist. he gets the message, squeezing your waist as he pushes his stomach against your cock give you some much needed friction.

with a few more good thrusts and rubs against your cock, you’re both cumming. marcus sounds beautiful as he orgasms, whimpering and whining your name as he fills you with his cum.

“fuck, marcus,” you moan, your fingers tug at his hair as you ride out your orgasm, “for your first time with a guy… shit, that was good.” marcus chuckles, gently pulling out of you. he keeps holding you close, snuggling in and nuzzling your neck with his nose.

“thank you for that,” marcus whispers, “you didn’t have to, y’know.” you pull back to cup marcus’ cheeks, making him look you in the eyes.

“what the hell do you mean i didn’t have to?” you chuckle, “marcus, i wanted to fuck you. that wasn’t a sympathy fuck, you idiot. i love you.” his eyes widen, a smile curling on his lips.

“you do?” he asks, unable to contain his excitement, “i– i love you too.” he kisses you hard, full of suppressed feelings for you he barely knew he was harbouring.

“you’re my best friend, marcus,” you whisper against his lips.

“you’re mine too.”

#marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x male reader #HYETTO?WC #pedro pascal smut #pedro boys #pedrito #pedro pascal characters #ppcu fanfiction #writing challenge #ppcu writing challenge #smut writing challenge

21 notes · View notes