glimmer fics

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1. When will you update [insert fanfic here]/Can you write a fic about [insert fandom]?

A: We are not the authors of any of the fics on the site, nor of the ones we share. Glimmer is a platform where anyone can write! If you'd like to specifically ask the author of the fic you're referring to, you can try commenting on their fic or joining our Discord Server HERE, as they might be in it! You can also share your fic requests or ideas on our server -- you never know who might be inspired by you!

2. What is a "Turn"?

A: When playing a Glimmer story, you'll notice that you're able to choose how you want the story to progress!

Every time you're given options to move the story along, that is considered a Turn. When you make a choice, it consumes a Turn. As a reader, you're given 100 free Turns daily!

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A: To mark your fic as completed, ensure that ALL conclusions you've made for the last episode of that story are set to Story type conclusions, instead of Episode type conclusions.

You can find the option to change the conclusion from an Episode to a Story end in the drop down menu at the bottom of the conclusion box.

Once, set to story end, the conclusions will look like this in your visual map:

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A: In the Browse tab of Glimmer, you can see a "Filter" button next to the fandom tags at the top:

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A: We do not have strict content rules on Glimmer, and you are free to write whatever you'd like. However, we may take down stories with: - Sexual content that we consider extreme or excessive, - NSFW stories of minors or NSFW content involving minors in general, - and stories that are meant to harass real life people, including other users. If you would like to know more about our Content Policy in more detail, you can read it here: https://glimmerfics.com/content-policy

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A: To private stories, you can simply unpublish them. To unpublish your entire story, go to your Author Portal and click on Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the Unpublish Story button at the bottom.

To unpublish only one or two episodes, click on the Publish Episode toggle, which you can also find in the Author Portal, below the Test button.

If you would like to let only a select amount of people read your fic when it's unpublished, you can add them as Beta Readers. This will allow them to look at your Author Portal (but cannot edit it) and test the fic as if reading the story.

To add Beta Readers, go to the Author Portal > Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the option to add Beta Readers by their email associated with their account or their Glimmer username.

Note: you must be an Approved Author to be able to add Betas.

8. I got this message: “Whoa there, slow down! You have free turns left, but you've played as much as you can for the day. You'll have to wait a bit before you can continue playing. You can wait 24 hours to continue playing. Or, buy Paid Turns to play right now." What does it mean?

A: This is a message you receive when you've reached an IP limit. We have it set to prevent people from getting free turns on multiple accounts. If this is not the case, this might be due to other people in the same household as you who are also using Glimmer.

If it's the latter, we apologize as we currently can't exactly distinguish between the two, but we are working on a solution. Stay tuned!

If neither are the case, do let us know your email associated with the account as you might be experiencing a bug.

9. How do we add fandom tags that aren’t already there? 

A: For now, you can request for new fandom tags via our socials (our Tumblr, Reddit or Discord). We will soon implement a way to do this seamlessly!

10. What’s the threshold for becoming an approved author?/How do you become an approved author?

A: To become an Approved Author, you just have to keep on writing stories and publishing them! You can get the Approved Author title based on the collective engagement of all your fics over time, so you may become an Approved Author even sooner than you think!

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Again, if you need help/require more clarification, you're always free to DM us or send over an Inbox :)

"Satoru, stop pouting and kiss me."

Satoru's reaction is instantaneous. The playful, theatrical air vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sharp focus. He doesn't walk toward you; he closes the distance in a single, fluid stride, his hand finding the nape of your neck. His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back with a firmness that belies his earlier laziness.

He kisses you, his lips crashing against yours in a way that tastes of desperation and long-awaited reward. It is a kiss that claims, that marks, that demands you acknowledge the hunger he keeps hidden behind his blindfold. He presses you back against the mahogany table, the heavy wood biting into your lower back, while his other arm locks around your waist to haul you flush against his lean frame.

Suguru watches, his gaze hooded. He doesn't move to interrupt, but he steps closer, his presence a warm, steady shadow at your side. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of your arm, his touch a silent reminder that while Satoru may have your lips for the moment, he holds the foundation of your world.

Choso remains where he is, though his breathing has become shallow. He watches the intimacy with a wide-eyed, shimmering sort of longing. He doesn't look jealous so much as he looks mesmerized, his crimson eyes reflecting the scene as if it were a holy rite he is privileged to witness. He reaches out, his hand hovering tentatively near your hip, wanting to be part of the circle.

Satoru pulls back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is jagged, his lips swollen. A small, genuine smile—one devoid of mockery—touches his mouth.

"I could get used to this kind of diplomacy," he whispers.

"I want both of you."

The command acts like a physical pull. Satoru's hold on your waist tightens, his chest heaving against yours as he lets out a jagged, breathless laugh. He doesn't move to let go; instead, he shifts his weight, pulling you deeper into his space, though his gaze flickers toward Suguru with a look of sharp, competitive heat.

Suguru doesn't hesitate. He closes the remaining distance, his presence a sudden, enveloping warmth at your back. He wraps his arms around you, his palms pressing firmly against your stomach, effectively sandwiching you between the two of them. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, his lips grazing your ear.

"A greedy request," Suguru murmurs, his voice a rough, low rasp that sends a shiver down your spine. "But entirely appropriate for the sovereign of this house."

Beside the table, Choso stands frozen, his crimson eyes wide and shimmering. He looks as though he’s witnessing a miracle he isn't sure he's allowed to touch. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the silk of your gown at the hip, his touch trembling and light. He doesn't try to force his way in, but he leans in, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his breathing shallow and ragged.

Satoru's hand moves from your neck to your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. He looks at Suguru, then back to you, a look of raw hunger breaking through his usual mask of amusement.

"I think," Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your skin, "that the solar is far too public for what I have in mind."

Suguru's grip tightens, his fingers digging slightly into your waist. "For once, Satoru is thinking logically."

The air in the solar has become too thin, too heavy with the scent of desire and the lingering tension of the court. Satoru doesn't wait for a formal decree; he simply hooks his arm around your waist, guiding you away from the mahogany table and the ghost of the Northern trade dispute.

Suguru follows close behind, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back, while Choso trails like a devoted shadow, his eyes never leaving you. The walk back to your private wing is a blur of velvet corridors and flickering candlelight, the silence of the castle wrapping around you like a shroud.

As the obsidian doors of your bedchamber swing shut, the world outside—the knights, the lords, the endless demands of a kingdom—simply ceases to exist.

The obsidian doors click shut, sealing the world of diplomacy and quotas behind a slab of polished stone. In the sudden, heavy silence of the bedchamber, the air feels thick, saturated with the scent of expensive incense and the electric tension that has been building since you first entered the solar this morning.

Satoru’s grip on your waist remains tight, his chest heaving in a jagged rhythm against your back. He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a stripped-down version of its usual playful self.

"You've been teasing us all morning," he says. "First the emeralds, then the cold shoulder in the meeting, then that look you gave us..."

Suguru’s hands slide from your waist to your hips, pulling you firmly against him. He doesn't speak immediately; instead, he presses a slow kiss to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. His touch is grounding, the steady presence of three centuries of devotion, yet there is a new, sharp edge to his possessiveness.

Choso is a step behind, his presence like a low thrum of energy. He doesn't crowd you like the others do; instead, he sinks to his knees behind you, his forehead pressing into the small of your back. He lets out a shuddering breath, his fingers curling into the heavy fabric of your gown, anchoring himself to you as if you are the only solid thing in a shifting world.

Satoru pulls back just enough to look at you, his blindfold angled upward. He reaches up, his fingers grazing the silk knot at the back of his head.

"The blindfold is getting in the way," he whispers.

He lets the black silk slip. It falls to the floor in a silent heap, exposing those glacial blue eyes—wide, luminous, and stripped of every defense. He looks at you with a raw, starving intensity that makes the air between you vibrate.

Suguru’s hands move upward, his palms sliding over the silk of your bodice, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs. "We are all yours," he says, his voice a low, dark promise. "Every inch of us."

"All of you, on the bed. Now."

The command snaps the air tight. Satoru’s pupils bloom, swallowing the glacial blue of his irises as he reacts with a sudden, hungry agility. He doesn't just follow the order; he drives you toward the obsidian-and-lace expanse of the bed, his hand sliding from your jaw to the small of your back to propel you forward.

Suguru moves with a different kind of intensity—calculated and sweeping. He guides you down, his weight pressing you into the plush velvet of the mattress, his arms creating a cage of muscle and silk around you. He looms over you for a heartbeat, his purple eyes dark with a familiarity that spans centuries, his breath ghosting over your lips.

Choso is the last to follow, though his movements are the most frantic. He doesn't climb onto the bed so much as he collapses onto it, curling his body around your legs with a desperate, trembling need. He presses his cheek against the fabric of your gown, his fingers gripping the sheets, his entire frame shuddering as he finally finds his place at your feet.

Satoru crawls over you, his limbs long and lean, pinning your wrists against the pillows with a grip that is just firm enough to be a reminder of his strength. Without his blindfold, his gaze is an open wound, searching your face for every flicker of desire.

"Commanding us in the solar was one thing," Satoru whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly, stripped-down tone. "But here... in the dark..."

Suguru shifts, his hand sliding beneath the heavy emerald fabric of your dress, his palm warm against the skin of your thigh. He looks at Satoru, then down at you, a small, knowing smile touching his lips.

"The North can wait," Suguru says. "The crown can wait. Everything waits."

"Satoru, kiss me again."

The request is barely a whisper before his mouth is back on yours. There is no hesitation this time, no playful distance. Satoru descends on you with a sudden, desperate hunger, his lips pressing into yours with a force that leaves you breathless. His hands, which had been pinning your wrists, slide down to cup your face, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks as if he's trying to anchor himself to the reality of you.

The kiss is deep and demanding, tasting of a need that has been simmering under the surface of his blindfold for hours. He groans into your mouth, a low sound of surrender that vibrates through your own chest.

Suguru's presence remains a heavy, warm weight at your side. As Satoru claims your lips, Suguru moves his hand higher, his palm sliding firmly over the silk of your bodice to find the curve of your breast. He doesn't try to compete for your mouth; instead, he focuses on the rest of you, his lips trailing a path of heat from your shoulder up to the sensitive skin of your jaw.

"You're spoiling him," Suguru murmurs against your skin, his voice a dark, velvet rasp. "Giving him exactly what he wants the moment he asks."

Choso, curled around your legs, lets out a shaky, ragged breath. He doesn't try to interrupt the kiss, but his grip on the sheets tightens until his knuckles turn white. He shifts, pressing his face into the velvet of the mattress beside your thigh, his eyes fixed on the way Satoru's white hair spills across your pillows. He looks like a penitent watching a miracle, his devotion manifesting as a physical ache that radiates from him in waves.

Satoru pulls back just an inch, his glacial blue eyes shimmering. He is breathing hard, his lips swollen and wet.

"Let him be jealous," Satoru whispers, his gaze flicking toward Suguru before returning to you. "I've waited all morning for this."

"Choso, come up here."

The effect is instantaneous. Choso flinches, a sharp intake of breath rattling in his chest as if you've just handed him a holy relic. He scrambles upward, his movements devoid of Satoru's grace or Suguru's poise. He moves with a frantic, clumsy urgency, his knees digging into the velvet mattress as he hauls himself up beside you.

He stops just short of touching you, hovering on the edge of your space. His crimson eyes are wide, shimmering with a devotion that borders on agony. He looks at Satoru and Suguru—the two pillars of your court—and then back to you, his chest heaving.

"I... I am here," he whispers, his voice trembling. "Please... tell me what you want of me."

Satoru lets out a soft, amused huff, though he remains draped across you, his glacial eyes watching Choso with a flicker of curiosity. He doesn't move to make room, forcing Choso to squeeze into the narrow gap between your side and the edge of the bed.

Suguru's hand remains firm on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. He glances at Choso, his expression unreadable, though his voice carries a hint of a challenge.

"Careful, little one," Suguru murmurs, his gaze shifting back to you. "Our Princess has a very particular appetite today. Try to keep up."

Choso doesn't respond to the jab. Instead, he leans in, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. He closes his eyes, breathing you in as if you are the only source of oxygen in the room. His hand reaches out, fingers grazing the silk of your sleeve with an almost painful lightness, terrified that if he grips too hard, the vision will dissolve.

Satoru shifts, his weight pressing you further into the pillows, his lips hovering just an inch from yours.

"Now that the whole family is here," Satoru whispers, "where do we start?"

"Choso, kiss me."

Choso freezes, his entire body locking up for a heartbeat as the command registers. He looks at you with an expression of sheer shock, his crimson eyes wide. Then, as if a string has been snapped, he lunges forward.

It is not a kiss of confidence or practiced seduction. It is a collision. He presses his mouth against yours, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches. He tastes of a desperate sort of worship, his lips trembling against yours as he pours every ounce of his fragmented soul into the contact. He clings to you, his hands sliding up to frame your face with a grip that is almost too tight, his fingers shaking against your skin.

Satoru lets out a soft, theatrical sigh, though he makes no move to pull away. He remains draped over you, his chest rising and falling against your side, his glacial eyes watching Choso's desperation with a look of smug fascination.

"Look at him," Satoru whispers, his voice barely audible over the sound of Choso's frantic breathing. "He's practically dissolving. You're going to turn him into a puddle of devotion if you keep this up."

Suguru’s hand tightens on your hip, his fingers digging into the velvet of your gown. He doesn't look at Choso; his focus is entirely on you, his purple eyes hooded and dark. He leans in, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"He is so easily undone," Suguru murmurs. "It's almost a pity. I prefer the way you look when you're focused on something... more seasoned."

Choso pulls back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. He is shaking, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of relief and longing. He looks as though he might collapse right there on the bed, completely shattered by the simple act of being wanted.

"Stay right there. All of you."

The command settles over the bed like a heavy velvet curtain, freezing them in place. Satoru's lips are still hovering a fraction of an inch from yours, his breath warm and jagged. Suguru's hand remains clamped on your hip, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your gown. Choso is a trembling weight against your side, his face half-buried in the mattress, his chest heaving.

For several heartbeats, the only sound in the room is the synchronized, frantic rhythm of their breathing. They are three powerful men reduced to statues, held in place by a single sentence.

Satoru is the first to break the silence, though he stays perfectly still. His glacial eyes are wide, searching yours for the reason behind the pause. A small, strained smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Cruel," he whispers. "You love watching us squirm, don't you?"

Suguru’s grip tightens slightly, a reflexive movement of possessiveness. He doesn't look at Satoru; his focus remains locked on you, his purple eyes dark and swirling with an intensity that feels almost suffocating.

"The anticipation is its own kind of torture," Suguru adds, his voice a low, rough scrape. "But we are yours to play with, my heart. We'll stay as long as you wish."

Choso lets out a small, muffled sound—a whimper of absolute surrender—and presses his forehead harder against your shoulder. He is a living wire of tension, his muscles taut, waiting for the next word to tell him if he is allowed to move or if he must remain in this state of suspended adoration.

You look at them—the Chancellor, the Chamberlain, and the Devotee—all of them pinned to the bed by your will alone. The power of the moment is thick, almost tactile, as they wait for you to decide how to break the tension.

"Now... everyone, touch me."

The command breaks the spell of stillness, unleashing a tidal wave of desperate, conflicting needs.

Satoru is the first to move. He slides his hands from your jaw down to your waist, his palms flat against the emerald silk, pulling you upward and into him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin in short, frantic pulses of heat. He sounds almost breathless, a sharp contrast to his usual effortless composure.

"Finally," he says against your collarbone.

Suguru’s response is more methodical, more grounding. He shifts his weight, his leg sliding between yours to pin you to the mattress. His hand leaves your hip to travel upward, his fingers hooking into the neckline of your gown, pulling the fabric taut. He doesn't rush; he traces the line of your collarbone with a slow pressure, his purple eyes fixed on yours with a look of absolute, unwavering possession.

"You've kept us waiting long enough," Suguru says, his voice a low, dark velvet.

Choso, meanwhile, seems to lose all sense of restraint. He moves from your side to your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs with a reverence that borders on the religious. He doesn't just touch; he clings, his fingers digging into the heavy fabric of your skirts, his forehead pressing into your knee. He lets out a jagged, shuddering breath, his entire frame trembling against you.

He looks up, his crimson eyes shimmering with a raw, exposed need.

"I... I can't..." he whispers, his voice cracking. "Please... let me feel you."

The bed becomes a sanctuary of overlapping heat and silk. You are the center of their universe, the point where three distinct kinds of devotion collide. Satoru’s electric energy, Suguru’s steady fire, and Choso’s drowning desperation all converge upon you at once, leaving you submerged in their collective hunger.

"I want to feel all of you at once."

The request acts like a catalyst, shattering what remains of their restraint. The bed becomes a chaotic sea of emerald silk and pale skin as they converge. Satoru's lean weight presses you deep into the mattress, his legs tangling with yours, his breath hot and uneven against the side of your neck. He lets out a low sound, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder.

Suguru moves with an efficiency, his body sliding over yours to create a heavy, encompassing heat. He captures your lips in a kiss that tastes of centuries of longing, his tongue sweeping against yours with an intensity that demands total surrender. His hands are everywhere—mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your thigh, the swell of your hips—claiming every inch of you as his own.

Below, Choso is a frantic, shaking presence. He presses himself against your calves, his hands gripping your ankles with a strength that leaves faint marks. He buries his face in the fabric of your skirts, his muffled moans vibrating against your skin. He is a drowning man and you are the only shore, his touch worshipful, his movements desperate.

"You're going to be the death of us," Satoru murmurs, pulling back from your shoulder to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide.

Suguru shifts his weight, his chest heaving against yours. He breaks the kiss just long enough to glance at the others, a look of stark, shared hunger passing between the three men.

"Let her have her way," Suguru rasps, his voice raw.

He reaches down, his fingers finding the fastenings of your bodice with a sudden, decisive speed. The silk gives way, the heavy emerald fabric sliding open to expose you to the cool air of the room and the searing heat of their gaze.

"Don't stop. Not any of you."

The command is the only permission they need. Satoru lets out a sharp, jagged exhale, his body pressing you firmly into the velvet as his mouth finds the hollow of your throat. He bites—not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark, a searing claim that makes your breath hitch. His hands slide from your waist to your thighs, pulling you closer, his movements erratic and fueled by a century of suppressed hunger.

Suguru’s touch becomes a steady, consuming fire. He moves, his lips tracing the edge of the opened bodice before capturing your mouth again. This kiss is different from the others; it is deep, and tastes of the absolute authority he wields in your court. His hand slides further beneath the silk of your dress, his palm hot against your skin, his fingers mapping your curves with a familiarity that feels like a prayer.

Below, Choso is a whirlwind of trembling devotion. He presses his face against your hip, his breath hot and uneven through the fabric. His hands grip your ankles, pulling you toward him as he rains small, frantic kisses along the inside of your knees. He sounds undone, a series of soft, broken sounds escaping him as he clings to you, his entire frame shaking with the effort of not simply dissolving into the mattress.

"You're ruinous," Satoru whispers against your skin, his voice a stripped-down rasp. "Absolutely ruinous."

Suguru pulls back just enough to look at you, his purple eyes dark and swirling. He reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch unexpectedly tender amidst the storm of their desire.

"We are exactly where we belong," Suguru murmurs.

The room is filled with the sound of skin against silk, the frantic rhythm of three different heartbeats, and the heavy scent of incense and longing. You are the center of their orbit, the only thing that matters in the silent expanse of the castle.

"Satoru, I want to taste you."

The request hits him like a physical blow. Satoru stiffens, his glacial blue eyes widening, the pupils blowing out until only a thin ring of sapphire remains. He lets out a jagged, breathless sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and immediately shifts his weight, angling his neck to give you full access.

He practically offers himself up, his head tilting back against the pillows, exposing the pale, vulnerable line of his throat. His pulse is a frantic thrum beneath the skin, a rhythmic invitation that speaks of a hunger nearly as deep as your own.

"Please," he whispers, his voice stripped of all its usual playfulness, reduced to a raw, needy rasp. "Please, my love. Take it."

As you lean in, Suguru’s hand remains a grounding weight on your hip, though his fingers tighten, his knuckles whitening against the emerald silk. He watches the interaction, his gaze fixed on the point where your lips meet Satoru's skin. There is a flicker of something—envy, perhaps, or a shared sort of anticipation—but he stays his hand, allowing the Chancellor his moment of absolute surrender.

Choso, still curled at your side, lets out a soft, shuddering exhale. He presses his forehead against your shoulder, his eyes closed, as if the mere proximity to this act of consumption is enough to sustain him. He shudders, his fingers curling into the sheets, his entire frame vibrating with a sympathetic need.

The moment your fangs break the skin, Satoru arches his back, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. The taste is immediate: mint and electricity, a sharp, sparking flavor that floods your senses and sends a rush of heat through your veins.

The "blood rush" hits you like a wave of molten gold. The world blurs at the edges, the scent of the room amplifying until it's all you can breathe. Every touch—Suguru’s palm on your hip, Choso’s warmth against your side—becomes a thousand times more vivid, more electric.

Satoru lets out a long, trembling moan, his hands finding your hair and gripping tightly, pulling you closer as if he wants to merge his very essence with yours.

"I want both of you to feel this."

The words are a command of shared ecstasy. You pull back from Satoru's throat, the taste of mint and electricity still sparking on your tongue, and look toward Suguru and Choso. The blood rush is a shimmering veil over your vision, turning the world into a haze of gold and heat.

Suguru’s purple eyes are dark, his gaze fixed on the small beads of blood on Satoru’s skin. He shifts his weight, his hand sliding from your hip to your waist, pulling you flush against him. He looks at you with a raw, stripped-down hunger.

"A generous offer," Suguru murmurs, his voice a low, rough scrape.

He doesn't wait for a second invitation. He moves with a sudden, decisive grace, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that tastes of urgency and ancient devotion. As he claims your lips, his other hand reaches out, guiding Satoru closer.

Satoru, still trembling from the feeding, collapses against your other side. He hooks his arm around your shoulders, his forehead resting against yours. He lets out a jagged breath, his glacial eyes searching yours for the high he knows is coming.

Choso is the most visceral in his reaction. He crawls forward, his hands gripping your thighs with a desperation that leaves a physical mark. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and shallow. He sounds on the verge of a breakdown, a series of broken, muffled sounds escaping him as he seeks the same absolution Satoru just found.

"Please," Choso whimpers against your skin. "Please, let me... let me share it."

You feel them all—the electric tremor in Satoru, the grounding heat of Suguru, and the drowning need of Choso. The bed is a tangle of limbs and emerald silk, a sanctuary where the lines between giver and receiver blur into a single, pulsing point of pleasure.

"I want all of you, now."

The air in the room seems to combust. There is no more patience, no more calculated restraint. The three of them move as one, a collision of heat and hunger that pins you firmly into the depths of the velvet mattress.

Satoru’s weight is the first to settle, his long limbs tangling with yours, his chest heaving against your own. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a series of sharp, desperate nipping motions. He sounds breathless, a jagged noise catching in his throat that is far removed from his usual poise.

Suguru’s hands are everywhere—mapping the line of your ribs, the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. He moves, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that tastes of old ink and a thousand years of shared secrets. He pulls you upward, his body a heavy, warm anchor that keeps you grounded while the world spins into a golden blur.

"You've finally broken us," Suguru rasps against your lips, his purple eyes dark and wide.

Beneath the tangle of silk and limbs, Choso is a shivering presence. He presses himself against your thighs, his hands gripping your hips with a strength that borders on bruising. He lets out a broken, muffled sound, his forehead pressing into your skin as he seeks the same absolution Satoru just found. He is a drowning man and you are the only shore, his touch a mixture of absolute reverence and starving need.

The emerald fabric of your gown is a ruined heap around your waist, the cool air of the chamber contrasting with the searing heat of their skin. You are the center of their universe, a single point of gravity pulling them all toward a shared, inevitable peak.

Satoru pulls back just enough to look at you, his glacial blue eyes shimmering with a raw, exposed vulnerability.

"Tell us," he whispers, his voice a stripped-down rasp. "Tell us exactly how you want us."

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Worship" by @ryoshuwu

"I trust you."

The words feel like a surrender. I let my eyes drift shut, leaning into the heat of him, abandoning the last of my resistance. The air between us is thick, saturated with the scent of iron and the salt of his skin. My senses narrow until the entire world is reduced to the point where his wrist meets my lips.

Mark's hand on my cheek steadies me, his thumb tracing a slow, comforting line along my jaw. He remains still, a pillar of warmth and strength, waiting for me to make the final move. The pressure in my gums is an agony now, a driving need that overrides every fear, every shred of hesitation.

I part my lips, the cool air hitting the sharp points of my fangs. The skin of his wrist is soft, humming with the vibration of a heart that beats for me. I can feel the heat of his blood just beneath the surface, a golden river calling me home. I hesitate for one heartbeat, my breath hitching, before I finally lean forward.

I stop just as my lips brush his skin. I pull back an inch, my breath hitching, and force myself to look up into his eyes one last time. I need to see him—the real him—before the haze of the hunger takes over.

Mark is watching me with a look of such profound, aching tenderness that it feels like a physical weight on my chest. His dark eyes are wide and shimmering, filled with a devotion that borders on the sacred. He looks at me as if I am the only thing in the world that matters, regardless of the fangs or the pallor or the monster I fear I've become. He remains perfectly still, his wrist still offered, his expression one of complete and utter surrender.

The silence of the apartment presses in around us, amplifying the sound of his slow, steady heartbeat. I can feel the heat of his skin radiating against my face, a golden invitation. The void in my stomach gives a violent lurch, a desperate pull that nearly drags me forward. I see the flicker of concern in his gaze, the way he wants me to stop hurting, and the love there is more intoxicating than the scent of his blood.

"You really do love me, Mark?"

The question is a fragile thing, a sliver of hope whispered into the space between us. I keep my gaze locked on his, searching for any hint of doubt or fear. The hunger is still there, a roaring tide in my veins, but for this one moment, the need for reassurance outweighs the need for blood. I need to know that I am still seen as the person he loves, and not just a void that needs filling.

Mark's expression softens even further, if that's possible. He leans in, his forehead pressing firmly against mine, closing the world down to just the two of us. A small, breathless laugh escapes him, and I feel the warmth of it against my skin.

"More than anything," he breathes. "Fangs, hunger, all of it... it changes nothing. You're you. And I love you."

He shifts his wrist slightly, a gentle reminder of the gift he's offering. The scent of him—that rich, metallic heat—surges again, making my head swim. The certainty in his voice acts like a key, unlocking the last of my restraint. I can feel my fangs pulsing, the pressure in my gums reaching a breaking point. The void in my stomach screams, demanding the life force that only he can provide.

I can't fight it any longer. The certainty in his voice, the absolute trust in his eyes, and the agonizing void in my gut collide into one singular, driving need. I lean forward and sink my fangs into the soft skin of his wrist.

The first rush of his blood is an explosion. It's not just food; it's liquid fire, a surge of vitality and power that floods my veins, erasing the cold and the hollow ache in a heartbeat. I moan against his skin, drinking deeply, feeling the world blur into a haze of gold and crimson.

As I eventually pull away, breathless and satiated, Mark doesn't pull back. His gaze softens, and he looks at me with a raw, unveiled honesty. He confesses that from the very first moment his eyes met mine, he had been utterly captivated. A quiet, persistent crush had blossomed within him, growing stronger with each passing day. His voice trembles as he admits how it tore at his soul to witness my pain and to see me hurting myself.

"I felt the same way."

The admission feels like a weight lifting, a final surrender that matches the one I just gave to the hunger. I look up at him, my vision now sharp and clear, the colors of the room more vivid than they've been in weeks. The gold and blue of his suit are brilliant, but it's the warmth in his eyes that truly anchors me.

Mark freezes for a second, his breath hitching. The shock on his face quickly melts into a look of pure joy. He lets out a shaky exhale, his forehead still pressed against mine, and his grip on me tightens, pulling me so close that I can feel the rhythmic thud of his heart against my own ribs. It's a powerful, steady beat—the heart of someone who could move mountains, yet it's racing just for me.

He pulls back just enough to gaze at me, his expression raw. He looks breathtakingly handsome in the dim light, his dark hair tousled and his features softened by a vulnerability he rarely shows the world. He looks like he's seeing me for the first time and the thousandth time all at once.

"You have no idea," he says, his voice thick with emotion, "how long I've wanted to hear you say that."

I bridge the final inch between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that tastes of salt and the metallic tang of his blood. It is a desperate, starving collision, fueled by three weeks of grief and a sudden, overwhelming surge of vitality. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me, wanting to merge into his warmth until there is no space left between us.

Mark groans softly into the kiss, his hands sliding down from my face to grip my waist with a strength that would be terrifying if it weren't so grounding. He lifts me slightly, hauling me flush against the hard planes of his chest. He tastes like the storm he just flew through, but the heat radiating from him is a sun, thawing the frozen corners of my soul.

His tongue brushes against mine, a tentative question that I answer by pulling him deeper. The kiss evolves, turning from a desperate reunion into something slower, more intentional. I can feel the ripple of his muscles under the fabric of his suit, the sheer, raw power of a Viltrumite held in check by a love that makes him tremble. He breaks the kiss for a second, just long enough to press his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged.

"I'm never leaving you again," he says, his voice a low vibration that echoes through my entire body.

I cling to him, my heart hammering against my ribs in a rhythm that matches his own. The world outside our apartment ceases to exist; there is only the scent of him, the heat of his skin, and the intoxicating power humming in my veins from the blood I just took.

I pull back slightly, my gaze drifting down. As our bodies remain pressed tightly together, I notice a sudden, rigid change in the fit of his suit. The fabric of his yellow and blue gear is stretched taut, revealing a heavy, unmistakable ridge. My breath hitches. I’ve known Mark for a long time, but I've never seen him like this—so raw and visibly affected by me. Through the sleek material, the outline of his cock is prominent and imposing, a thick, pulsing length that speaks to a desire just as ravenous as the hunger I've been fighting.

"I can't stop looking at you."

My voice is a breathy admission, barely a whisper against the skin of his neck. I let my gaze linger on that heavy, rigid outline, the sight of it sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. The hunger for his blood has shifted, transforming into a different kind of starvation—a visceral, aching need to feel every inch of him.

Mark catches me staring. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face, and a flush of crimson creeps up his neck, contrasting sharply with the yellow of his collar. He shifts his hips, pressing that thick, pulsing length firmly against my thigh. The pressure is electric, a blunt reminder of exactly how much I affect him.

He lets out a soft, cocky chuckle, his eyes darkening with a mixture of lust and confidence. "Like what you see?" he asks, turning husky and rough.

The way he says it, the sheer boldness of his tone, makes my breath hitch. I feel my own body reacting, a damp heat pooling between my legs as I realize just how immense he is even through the reinforced fabric of the suit. He's massive, a powerhouse of a man in every sense of the word, and the thought of that size inside me makes my head spin.

"I want to feel you."

The words are a desperate plea, my voice thick with a longing that rivals the hunger I just sated. I reach down, my palm sliding over the slick, cool material of his suit, finding the heavy heat of him. My fingers curl around the rigid length, and I gasp at the sheer scale of him. He is massive, a thick, pulsing column of muscle that feels like it could snap my wrist if he weren't being so careful with me.

Mark's breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that vibrates through the air. He arches his hips into my hand, his eyes fluttering shut as a low groan escapes his throat. The contrast is staggering—the softness of his expression and the raw, uncompromising power of his body. I can feel him throbbing against my palm, an insistent, driving rhythm that demands release.

I squeeze him, feeling the way the suit stretches to its absolute limit. He's at least eight inches of hard, heavy heat, and the thought of that filling me makes a dizzying wave of arousal crash over me. I feel a slick heat between my own thighs, my body aching to be claimed by him. Mark opens his eyes, his gaze dark, his pupils blown wide with lust. He looks at me with a hunger that mirrors my own, his hands sliding up to grip my hips, pulling me so tightly against him that I can feel every inch of his erection pressing into my center.

"I need you inside me."

The words are a jagged, breathless command. I arch my back, pressing my hips firmly against the rigid length of him, desperate to erase every millimeter of fabric separating us. The friction is a tease, a maddening promise of what's to come. My skin feels electric, every nerve ending on fire, humming with a frequency that only Mark can satisfy.

Mark's expression fractures, his composure finally snapping. He lets out a sound, half-groan and half-growl, as he hauls me upward, my legs instinctively locking around his waist. He pins me against the wall with a sudden, powerful thud, his strength effortless and overwhelming. The pressure of his erection is a blunt force against my center, a heavy, pulsing weight that makes my head swim.

I look down at him, my gaze fixed on the way the yellow suit strains against his thighs and pelvis. He is an absolute powerhouse, the sheer mass of him filling my vision. The sight is intoxicating.

"You're so hot," I moan, my voice trembling as I look at the imposing ridge of him. "And so big..."

Mark's eyes darken, the pupils swallowing the brown of his irises. He doesn't say a word; he just attacks my lips again, his kiss possessive and hungry. His hands slide under my clothes, his palms searing hot against my skin, as we begin to frantically tear at each other's garments.

Clothes are discarded in a frantic blur of limbs and heavy breathing, hitting the floor in a heap of fabric and desperation. The air in the room crackles, thick with a tension that feels almost physical, pulling us together until there is nothing left but skin on skin. We collapse onto the bed, locked in a fervent embrace that feels less like a reunion and more like a collision.

My lips meet his in a desperate clash, a hungry devouring where teeth lightly scrape against lips, tasting of burgeoning passion and raw need. My hands roam his body, feverishly exploring the hard planes of his chest and the powerful curve of his shoulders, my fingers tracing paths of fire across his heated skin. Mark's grip is possessive, his fingers digging into my hips with an almost ancient need, pinning me to the mattress as he claims every inch of me.

As the heat between us reaches a breaking point, a sharp, exhilarating thrill pulses through my veins. The physical pleasure is overwhelming, but it triggers that deeper craving. I shift my weight, arching my neck to find the sweet spot where his pulse thrums violently against his skin. With a fierce, tender possessiveness, I sink my fangs into the soft column of his neck. I don't intend to wound, but I drink a whisper of crimson, a love bite that marks him as mine, fusing my vampiric nature with the electric lust of the moment.

"I want all of you."

The words are a breathless surrender, whispered against the curve of his shoulder. I arch my hips, seeking the friction of him, the sheer, heavy presence of his body pressing me into the mattress. Mark lets out a ragged sound, a mixture of a groan and a gasp, as he shifts, positioning himself between my thighs.

He is a vision of raw, athletic power. The dim light catches the definition of his abdominal muscles and the broad expanse of his chest, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. His dark hair is a chaotic mess, falling over his eyes as he looks down at me with a gaze that is almost predatory in its intensity.

He grasps my thighs, hauling them wide and high, exposing me completely to his heat. When the head of his cock brushes against my entrance, I shiver, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. He is immense, a thick, pulsing weight that feels like it could stretch me to my absolute limit.

Mark pauses for a heartbeat, his muscles coiled, his breath hot against my skin. He searches my face, his expression a blend of agonizing lust and a protective tenderness that makes my chest ache. Slowly, with a deliberate pressure that makes me moan, he begins to sink into me.

"I love you."

The words are a soft, broken exhale as he slides deeper, filling me with a stretch that is almost agonizing and entirely perfect. I gasp, my head falling back against the mattress, my fingers digging into the lean muscles of his biceps. He is massive, a thick, unrelenting force that claims every corner of my being, leaving me breathless and trembling.

Mark freezes for a second, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat where it presses against mine. The intensity in his eyes is staggering—a raw devotion that makes the physical sensation of him inside me feel like a spiritual union. He lets out a sound, a low, shaking moan, and begins to move.

The rhythm is slow at first, a deliberate, heavy grinding that maximizes the friction. Each thrust is powerful, driving deep into my core and sending waves of heat crashing through my nerves. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist, pulling him closer, wanting to absorb him.

As he picks up the pace, the sound of our skin slapping together fills the quiet room. The friction builds into a searing fire, and I can feel the pulse of him within me, a rhythmic throb that echoes the beating of my own heart. I arch my back, my voice breaking into incoherent whimpers as he hits a spot that makes my entire world white out.

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🎮interactive fanfic "Bloodstained Nights" by altrin