#i live!

No self-awareness, no experience. The moment you give a green light, this man just shoves his way in like a battering ram. You were at least expecting some degree of foreplay or buildup, but you don't get that. He has the audacity to tilt his head and hm?when you jolt and hiss.

Oh. It hurts you? You probably just didn't relax enough. That's okay. You'll feel better soon. You don't even get time to tell him that it's because he has no self-awareness of his size before you're tensing up and gasping again when it just slides out and slams back in. You see stars, and not in a good way.

You stutter out something about being too big. But big is good, right? That's what he's always heard. So it's just a matter of you getting to adjust. That'll definitely happen as he goes. No worries.

You're pretty sure your cervix hates you for making the decision to sleep with this boy, a choice you're sort of coming to regret as you find yourself pulled close to him with a harsh grip on your waist — that, too, is something he seems lacking self-awareness of, the fact that he's probably literally going to leave little bruises all along your waist.

It does feel a bit better as he moves and your body adjusts, insides expanding to allow more room… but no matter how much you do, it's not fully enough. You can still acutely feel him inside, the way it bulges and pushes against your walls, the friction as it drags back and forth, the way even at the peak of your own arousal, the tip keeps slamming into that so painfully sensitive spot. Even your toys never touched that part, you weren't even aware until now that you possessed the capacity to feel it so acutely.

At least when you tell him, he apologizes, says it won't happen again… but he seems far more pleased by the ego boost of this, apparently new to him, information. You get the sense that it will, in fact, happen again.

And it does. You blame yourself, honestly, for finding yourself in this situation again, but he's just so cute… only this time, you quickly find that being on your stomach makes it infinitely worse, and his hand on the back of your head, unintentionally shoving your face into the pillow and muffling your attempts to tell him to slow down, does not help.

God, why did you let it come to this… your thoughts are barely coherent from the sheer overwhelming sensation, your brain practically short-circuiting, unable to do anything but process the feeling.

But it stretches you out so good and presses against the good spot too, so unfortunately, you end up with admittedly one of the strongest orgasms of your life, spasming and squirting and making the lewdest of sounds. So, it clearly was good, this is reassuring for him, positive reinforcement. He's too occupied with basking in pride with this accomplishment to notice your groaning at first — but don't worry, once he does notice, he'll dote on you, of course. He cares about you very deeply, you know.

And later, you're still feeling the involuntarily spasms as your poor abused hole tries to adjust to the slight gape left behind, and here he is passed out beside you so blissfully. The bastard gets to just pretend like he didn't try to impale you from the inside.

He really does try. He cares about you, you know. He doesn't want it to hurt. It's just, you know, he doesn't really do a lot of thinking in that moment, and unfortunately, his brain just commands him to breed and he can't think about anything else, so, it's his brain's fault, not his fault. Yes of course those are two different things. Besides, you're the one that enticed him, so, realistically, you must take responsibility as well.

But no matter how many times you say it, he seems to simply get lost in the ego boost and then he... forgets. And admittedly, you too seem to consistently keep coming back, against your better judgement.

He forgets when he has both hands locked into your hair, wrapped around your head, so lost in the wet, warm feeling that he's jerking your head like it's some kind of toy — your jaw hurts, every thrust feels like it's going to tear your throat apart, and it goes so far down that you're fighting your gag reflex every single second. And worst of all, you can't tell him to stop, can't get a word out when his cock is relentlessly pounding your skull.

He just forgot. He forgets when he flips you onto your front side and pulls your hips up, forgets that you said that position is the absolute worst because of how deep it goes — but see, from his perspective, it feels best because he gets to fully bottom out inside, and it’s just so good, you wouldn't understand.

He forgets when he's got his arms wrapped around you, laying on your sides as you're railed like his life depends on it, far too harshly and with far too little warning, but you can't pause the lewd nosies and squeals long enough, and your only attempts to tell him to slow down and not go so deep are so slurred you can't even blame him for not understanding.

He forgets you said how sore you are, how you need one day off at least. You just look so nice, and you didn't say anything (you retort that you didn't get the time, dammit) when he started, so he wasn't thinking, and besides, he was very gentle this time, aren't you proud of him for learning how to not go so hard?

He really does try. When you're walking all funny and clutching your lower stomach and grimacing in pain, he's got this heating pad and bottle of painkillers he bought just for you, and he's quick to pull it out. He really cares about you! Besides, the faster you recover, the sooner you'll stop being mad and glaring at him (it hurts his feelings, this is important), and the sooner you'll get to have sex again (he depends on it now, this is in large part due to your actions, so you have some responsibility to take).

And 16803962 years after the tournament, my specialist boy gets the reference I’ve been envisioning for god knows how long!

Tagged by @theluckywizard and @greypetrel -- thank you both! <3 Tagging forward at the end! I am mainly working on OC Kiss Week stuff right now (I have three half done and I am running out of time!) but here's a bit of an older WIP that I've been fiddling with recently. The whole thing is set around the Landsmeet and its consequences, but this snippet is from the night before:

(Zevran/Tabris | 357 words | No warnings)

“We need to sleep.” 

“And you need to relax,” he informed her, nudging her thighs with his knee until she parted them for him. Zevran slid closer, twining his leg around hers, and pressed their foreheads together. 

“I’m relaxed,” she murmured, her lips skimming his. Zevran shifted again, pulling her body flush with his. 

“Then perhaps I am doing it wrong.” 

Wen kissed him, slow and far too careful, and broke away to rest against him once more. 

“Tonight,” she said, knowing very well that tomorrow might be the end for them and the rest of their little party, “if you want, I’d like—hold me. Will you?” 

Eddie’s shoulders sagged like someone had cut the strings holding him up. Relief—real, overwhelming relief—softened every sharp line of his face. He slipped the class ring onto Steve’s finger with trembling hands.

Steve stared at it. This had to be a dream. He was definitely asleep at the counter right now, drooling on the register.

“I-I’ll get you a real ring,” Eddie blurted out. He was chewing his lip, and the little glint of the piercing kept catching the fluorescent light, flickering each time he worried at it. “This is just a placeholder for now.”

Steve opened his mouth, prepared to say something–anything. Maybe that he was very flattered, and yes, he wouldn’t mind going out with Eddie, who was objectively hot in a chaotic rockstar god kind of way. 

But just because he was hot didn’t mean Steve was ready to get mated… That would be crazy. God, did Steve want to bite that lip ring and tug on that curly hair, though.

“You and the baby deserve so much more,” Eddie was saying. 

Steve felt his pulse jump into his throat. Seriously, what baby?!

He needed words—real ones, not the scrambled mush currently sparking in his brain. He didn’t get the chance.

“Oh, darling!” Claudia squealed behind him. Before he could react, she pulled him into a hug so tight he could barely breathe. “Congratulations! You didn’t say you had a boyfriend!”

Because Steve didn’t have a boyfriend. What he’d had was whatever that thing with Billy had been before Billy left for California. A messy, late-night, back-of-cars kind of thing—quick and hungry and never gentle. And after that? A few hookups that were more about loneliness than anything else. Mostly just some harmless flirting with customers to pass the time and hear Robin call him Dingus. 

“Oh, Dusty’s gonna be so excited!” Claudia gushed, hands fluttering. “And Joyce and I can help you with your dress!”

Fuck Dustin.

Steve had lost count of how many times that little menace had asked if he and Robin were dating. And when they weren’t—because, hello, she was a lesbian—Dustin immediately pivoted to:

“Okay, then, who ARE you dating? Why are you so weird about this? Do you want me to set you up?”

And he had, repeatedly. With everyone. Every Omega, every Alpha, every Beta in Hawkins who so much as breathed in Steve’s direction. He’d even tried to set Steve up with that weird Russian guy Steve was pretty sure was dating Murray. Or adopting Murray. Or being adopted by Murray. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what was going on there.

Point was: Dustin would be thrilled. His favorite Alpha and his favorite Omega? A match made in nerd heaven.

But once Dustin found out Steve hadn’t told him?

Oh, boy.

The pup was going to be furious. Red-in-the-face, waving-his-arms, “STEVE-HOW-COULD-YOU-KEEP-THIS-SECRET-FROM-ME?!” furious.

Steve’s head hurt just thinking about it.

“Oh, I’m so relieved you have an Alpha!” Claudia continued. “When I heard the news, I was just so worried about you and the pup. Hop, Joyce, and I were actually planning an intervention…”

He wasn’t pregnant. He couldn’t be pregnant. Male Omegas had the lowest fertility rates to begin with, and he hadn’t shared his heat with an Alpha in literal years. And the only Alpha he’d slept with recently had been gone for months. Sure, he and Billy hadn’t exactly been careful, but again—pregnancy outside of heat was basically a statistical myth.

Besides, Billy always—

No. No. No. 

It didn’t matter. 

Because the fucking point was: He. Was. Not. Pregnant.

It was weird enough that Eddie somehow thought he was pregnant, but Claudia, too? What the hell was happening?

And why—why—when he had the perfect opening to clear this whole mess up, did he instead grip Eddie’s hand like it was a lifeline? His palm was sweaty, his pulse was a frantic rabbit against his skin, but he squeezed Eddie’s finger as if terrified he’d let go. 

Why did he smile shakily and let Claudia hug him again like nothing was wrong? 

Why did he lean into Eddie—why did he breathe him in like he was oxygen and Steve had been drowning for years? Big, helpless gulps of the Alpha’s scent hit him all at once: smoky, bright, sugary, fizzy. Bonfire smoke clinging to worn denim, the sharp crackle of pop rocks under his tongue, rust and metal from guitar strings, and the warm press of soft, well-loved leather.

Chaotic. Messy. Absolutely unhinged.

But God—weirdly, stupidly, impossibly comforting.

Why was his Omega practically crawling up his ribs, desperately clawing onto this fantasy—this imaginary baby—just because an Alpha suddenly wanted him and his not-real pup? Why did it feel like every dream he’d ever shoved down into the deepest parts of his mind was suddenly dangling right in front of him?