#sin letters

Could you do an all x reader ask for the Eltingville club where they take turns on the reader and try to one up eachother?

⋆

eltingville ep. ノ

✦ Title: Glory Hole

cw : gangbang (m!4 x gn!reader), semi-public sex, reader-insert with neutral genitalia, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, overstimulation, biting, bruising, and knife play, canon-level misogyny, fatphobia (Bill toward Josh), incel-coded dialogue, and general toxic masculinity, multiple creampies (implied)

an : bill is unfortunately my favorite 💔

© dovenskin

Bill’s basement always smelled like stale soda, BO, and melted plastic. The couch was sticky, the table cluttered with Magic: The Gathering decks, grease-smudged dice, and crumpled fan letters. Pete was already scowling, slouched against the busted pinball machine.

“I’m just saying,” Pete grunted, arms folded, “none of you are doing it right if they’re not screaming your name.”

“Oh please,” Josh snapped, red-faced under his Dune tee. “You don’t even last long enough to make someone scream. You just cum and quote Cronenberg.”

Pete shot him a glare. “You think jackhammering with approval issues counts as skill?”

From the couch, Jerry mumbled, “It’s not about being rough. It’s about being attentive. Like... making sure they’re comfortable—”

“Comfortable?” Bill barked from his metal lawn chair, swinging his head around, half-eaten Slim Jim in hand. “This isn’t a fucking spa day, Jerry! Christ. No wonder people avoid you. They don’t want a heated towel—they want to be ravaged. Dominated. That’s why I’m the only one in this club who’s had actual sex.”

He puffed out his chest like he expected applause.

Pete rolled his eyes. “We’ve all done it, Bill. With the same person, too. The difference is some of us do it better.”

Bill opened his mouth to fire back, but that’s when you came down the basement steps.

You hadn’t expected to walk into this. You were dressed for comfort—maybe a little too warm for a basement this humid—and when all four of them turned to stare, you froze.

“…What?”

Bill’s smirk came first, slow and curling like a lit match. “Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jerry sighed.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” you asked.

Josh cleared his throat. “Hypothetically. Performance stuff.”

Pete shrugged. “Just wondering who’d fuck you the best.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“C’mon, friendly competition,” Pete said, grinning. “No harm, no foul.”

Your brows knit. “There is harm. And there will be foul, because you losers don’t know how to act. Am I just a fucking toy to you?”

Bill started to speak, but you cut him off with a sharp glare. “Don’t answer that. Not one of you better say a word or I’m going home.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Can we do this or not? Quit your bitching already.”

You shot him a look. Jerry stepped forward, voice gentler. “We promise not to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

That small, tentative smile of his made you hesitate. Made you cave—just a little. Which is how you ended up here: half-naked in a filthy basement, your skin prickling from the cold and four sets of eyes crawling all over you like vultures at a con table.

“I’ll go first!” Josh declared, already halfway upright.

Bill groaned. “If you don’t crush them with all that fat, it’ll be a miracle.”

Pete and Jerry laughed. Josh ignored them.

“Keep laughing,” he muttered. “I’ll be the one to satisfy while you three sit there with limp, lopsided dicks.”

He placed a hand on the small of your back and guided you to the futon like he was offering you a Star Trek captain’s chair.

“Lie down, will ya?”

JOSH

Josh stripped like he was defusing a bomb. His fingers fumbled at the buttons of his gray blazer, yanking it off like it had insulted him. The black shirt underneath clung to his round belly, pits stained and soaked. You caught the unmistakable whiff of sweat and knockoff cologne as he tossed it aside and stared at you like you were a rare mint-condition variant.

His khakis strained at the zipper. Converse laces flopped loose. His brown ponytail clung damp to the back of his flushed neck. Glasses slid halfway down his nose as he drank you in—sprawled on the futon, legs open, breath hitching.

He looked like someone watching a forbidden scene from a fan-edited VHS. Reverent. Horny. Horribly sincere.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. His voice cracked halfway through. “You’re… I mean, fuck. You look…”

His eyes traveled your body like it was a treasure map.

“You look better than anything I’ve ever jerked off to,” he breathed. “And that includes the Slave Leia bust I keep under my bed.”

You smirked. Barely. He was already gripping your thighs, maneuvering you like a wrestling coach setting up the “victory position”—which, apparently, meant knees to chest and Josh on top, breathing like he’d just finished a 5K.

His cock was flushed and thick, twitching in his hand. He lined himself up, trembling like a joystick during a boss fight.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Oh my god, you’re real. You’re really letting me—fuck—”

He pushed in, slow and shaky, like he was afraid he’d blow too soon. You were tight, warm, wet—and he felt everything. His whole body shuddered as he sank deeper, big hands under your thighs, gasping like he’d leveled up in real life.

“Holyshitfuckholyshitfuck—you’re tight—you’re so fucking tight—Jesus—”

He started thrusting, but it wasn’t coordinated. It was frantic, sweaty, slapdash fucking—powered by adrenaline and sheer nerd desperation. His belly pressed against you, glasses fogging with every grunt. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest.

“Bet none of them’ll fuck you like this,” he panted. “I’m giving you everything. All of it. I’m gonna make you scream my name—gonna stretch you out so good they won’t even fit after this—”

His pace was sloppy but overwhelming, hips smacking with wet, anxious urgency. You moaned—and his eyes widened.

“Shit—did you just—did you clench? F-fuck—”

You clenched again. He twitched.

“I’m coming,” he gasped. “I’m—I’m fucking—oh my god—fuuuuck—”

Josh came like it hurt—loud, trembling, choking on every sound as he jackhammered through the orgasm. He rutted into you helplessly, groaning into your neck, stomach slick and pressed to yours as every spurt dragged through you like a death rattle.

Then he flopped to the side—half on the futon, half on the carpet—gasping like he’d just respawned.

He adjusted his glasses with one shaking hand and grinned at the ceiling.

“Top that, assholes.”

PETE

Pete didn’t wait for an invite. He rolled his eyes, walked over, and shoved Josh off the futon with a grunt and a boot.

“Move. That was pathetic.”

Josh landed with a thud and a winded “Hey!”

Pete didn’t respond. He was already undoing his belt, smirking like he’d been waiting for this moment all week. “Let me show you how a real man does it.”

He slapped your thigh—loud and sharp—earning a side-eye, but you turned over anyway. Pete grabbed your hips and pulled you up, flush to him. His cock was already out—thick, flushed, twitching—and you barely had time to brace yourself before he spat. Hot. Messy. It hit your lower back and slid down.

Two fingers shoved the spit in, fast, rough. No finesse. Just brute prep and attitude.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at you. Already wrecked… guess Joshzilla wasn’t completely useless.”

You whimpered as his fingers curled, tugged, then withdrew.

“You like that, huh?” he said, voice thoughtful but mocking, like he was inspecting a new action figure. “Didn’t expect you to still have anything left.”

Then came the pressure. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance—and without warning, he slammed in.

You yelped. Pete grunted, fingers bruising your hips as he held you in place, buried to the hilt. He stayed there a beat, panting, then leaned over you—his hoodie brushing your spine, his breath hot on your neck.

“This what you wanted?” he sneered in your ear. “Bent over for a bunch of basement freaks? Getting stuffed full like some kind of fan service side quest?”

You moaned. His hand cracked down on your thigh again. Stinging heat.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped.

“Good.”

Then he moved.

No teasing. No rhythm. Just raw, mean, relentless thrusts—hips slamming into you like he was trying to leave bruises. His jeans were halfway down, belt buckle clinking every time it slapped your ass. Sweat darkened the collar of his hoodie. The whole basement stank of arousal and effort.

And then he did something that made your blood run cold.

While still inside you, Pete reached into the front pocket of his hoodie and flicked something open with a soft click.

Your breath caught.

Cold metal kissed your back. Thin. Dull. But unmistakable.

A pocket knife.

He didn’t cut you. He just dragged the flat side up your spine. Slowly. Deliberately. Until the tip rested at the base of your neck.

“Could slice you open right now,” he murmured. Calm. Cruel. “Just one little push.”

You were trembling. He loved it.

“Bet you’d taste as good as you feel.”

Then he bit you. Hard. Teeth sunk into your shoulder, your neck, your back—deep enough to leave marks, maybe scars. You moaned, helpless, and he groaned into your skin.

“You sound so fucking good like that,” he breathed. “Like someone who gets it.”

Another slap to your thigh. Another punishing thrust.

He kept fucking you like he was punishing himself for liking it too much. Every breath came out through clenched teeth. Every motion was laced with something unstable. He muttered filth under his breath—too low to catch all of it—but you caught pieces.

“Fucking perfect.”

“Should’ve gone first.”

“God, this hole—tight—tight—tight—”

You started clenching around him. He twitched.

“No—don’t—fuck, don’t do that—”

You clenched again.

He growled. A full-body shudder ran through him.

“You little—fuck—”

He slammed in hard, deep, and stayed there—hips flush, cock twitching as he came. Hot, fast, angry. His teeth were still at your shoulder. One hand twisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he wanted to pull you apart.

Every pulse of it poured into you.

When it was over, he pulled out with a grunt and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. His eyes lingered on your back—on the bite marks, the knife track, the twitching heat between your legs.

He didn’t say thank you. Just zipped up and muttered:

“Should’ve saved the knife for Bill.”

Bill scoffed from his lawn chair. “Thought you said a real man would do it right. That was weak.”

Pete flipped him off without turning around. “Stick it up your crusty ass.”

“You wish.”

Bill nudged Jerry, who was watching you with flushed cheeks and his hands in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’ll let Romeo go next,” Bill drawled, tossing his Slim Jim wrapper at the table like a smug bachelor. “I’ll clean up after.”

Jerry stood, hard in his jeans and pale as printer paper.

Pete rolled his eyes. “Have fun writing them a sonnet while you’re at it.”

JERRY

Jerry had been quiet the whole time. Watching. Red in the face, thighs clenched, hands folded like he was in a church pew instead of a basement full of sweat, spit, and ego. When Bill waved him forward with that condescending smirk, Jerry hesitated—just for a second—then stood.

Obvious hard-on straining against his jeans.

He stepped toward you with shaky hands and wide eyes, like he was approaching an altar, not a mattress. He didn’t touch you right away. Just knelt between your legs, sweater sleeves rolled up, fingers flexing like he was warming them before a delicate job.

You looked down at him. He looked up at you.

“Can I…?” he asked, voice quiet. “Can I take my time?”

You nodded. His whole body relaxed with a sigh, like he’d been holding his breath since you walked in.

He touched you carefully. Reverently. His palms skimmed your thighs like he was memorizing you through texture—thumbs stroking circles into your skin, breath trembling. Then a kiss to the inside of your leg. Soft. Then another, closer.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud. “I—I mean, you always are, but…”

He trailed off. Swallowed hard. Slid his fingers between your legs.

First one. Then another. Then three. All slow. Measured. His touch wasn’t bold or skilled like Pete’s. It wasn’t desperate and sloppy like Josh’s. It was… careful. Grounded. He studied your face with every motion, like he was waiting for a signal, a sound, a twitch to tell him what you needed.

“You’re still so sensitive,” he breathed, almost apologetic. “Does that feel okay?”

You moaned, and he flushed brighter. His hand moved smoother. More confident. Then, when he was sure you were ready, he pulled his fingers away and stroked himself—already flushed, leaking, twitching in his palm.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Then he pressed in. Slow. Inch by inch. Face twisted in awe.

You were warm. Soft. Tight.

He made it halfway before groaning out, “Holy shit,” and resting his forehead against your chest.

Once he was fully inside, he just… stayed there.

Breathing. Feeling. Soaking in the closeness.

“Okay?” he asked, eyes darting to yours. You nodded. He kissed your collarbone, then began to move.

His rhythm was steady. Gentle, but deep. Each thrust was measured—focused. Intent. Like he wanted to carve the feeling of you into memory. His hips rolled smoothly, pressure just right, pace gradually building as you gasped underneath him.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispered. “You take me so well. It’s like… like you were made for me.”

He adjusted your hips just a little, and it changed everything—angle, pressure, depth. You moaned louder. He sucked in a breath, moaned right back, and leaned in to kiss you. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t horny. It was grateful. Like you’d given him a gift he didn’t deserve.

“You feel incredible,” he panted, pressing into you deeper. “You—you’re everything.”

You clenched around him, and he whined—not high-pitched, not embarrassing. Just raw. Needful.

“Say my name.”

You did. His hips stuttered.

“Again.”

You repeated it.

He threw his head back, fucking harder now—pace losing control, sweat dripping down his chest. The sound of your bodies slapping together filled the room. His grip tightened. His face twisted like he was fighting not to break.

And then he broke.

He gasped—deep, desperate—and came inside you with a cry. You felt every pulse, every twitch. He held you through it, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He just stayed there. Close. Warm.

When he finally slid free, he kissed your cheek. Soft. Almost bashful.

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then Bill’s voice cut through the air like a fly buzzing in a light fixture:

“How romantic,” he snorted. “Jesus, can we move it along, Romeo?”

Pete and Josh were already back on the couch. Pete cracked open another Mountain Dew, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “This oughta be good.”

Jerry helped you lie back gently, then stood—adjusting his jeans, still flushed, still dazed.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, ignoring Bill’s theatrics. “Do you need water, or…?”

You didn’t have time to answer before the metal chair screeched.

And Bill stood.

BILL

Jerry had barely pulled out when Bill shot up like someone lit a fire under his ass. His metal lawn chair crashed behind him, forgotten. He was already peeling off his flannel, muttering curses under his breath like he’d been holding back a volcano the entire time.

“Jesus Christ,” he spat, pacing once, twice. “Are we done reading fucking sonnets to their holes now? What is this, a Hallmark special? You guys treating this like a sleepover when I’m about to redefine their goddamn spine curvature.”

Josh snorted from the floor. Pete cracked open another soda.

Bill ignored them.

His glasses were fogged from sweat and fury—he ripped them off and tossed them onto the cluttered table, knocking over a Mountain Dew can in the process. His black tee rode up over his pale, sweaty belly as he shoved his jeans halfway down his thighs, boxers bunched awkwardly beneath.

Acne across his chest. Damp hair sticking to his forehead. The distinct stench of Axe body spray and bitterness.

“This is the main event,” he muttered, climbing over you like a storm cloud with a hard-on. “This is real.”

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t prep.

He just shoved in.

One long, rough thrust that knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“Fuuuuck—” he gasped. “Jesus fucking CHRIST. You feel better than I ever—fuck—”

Your body clenched on instinct, still sensitive, still aching—and he twitched hard inside you, already panting like he’d run a marathon.

His hands were under your knees, spreading you wide, forcing eye contact. His pupils were blown out, glassy, like he was drunk off you. Off the idea of you. Off the conquest.

“Look at me,” he growled. “You better fucking look. I want you to see who’s wrecking you.”

You did.

And it wasn’t pretty.

His thrusts were frantic—angry. Like he was trying to erase the memory of every other guy before him. Like every slap of his hips was revenge. He leaned in close, nose almost touching yours, hair hanging limp around his face.

“You think Josh made you cum?” he hissed. “Think Pete’s little psycho routine gets you off? Think Jerry—fucking Jerry—knows how to make you feel like this?”

He bit down hard on your neck. Not sexy. Not playful.

Possessive.

“You’re squeezing me on purpose,” he growled. “You think that’s funny? Trying to make me lose control?”

You clenched again.

He yelped—and slapped his palm against the mattress.

“Shitshitshit—don’t—don’t do that! I swear to fucking god—”

He snapped his hips forward. Again. And again. Brutal, desperate. He was unraveling by the second, sweaty bangs sticking to his cheeks, mouth hanging open in something between a grimace and a moan.

“You think you’re in control?” he panted. “You’re not. I am. I’m—fuck—I’m in control—”

He wasn’t.

Not even a little.

His thighs were trembling. His rhythm was breaking down. He was panting into your mouth like he needed your breath to survive.

And then—

He broke.

Bill came with a choked, wet gasp—biting your shoulder as his body locked up. You felt him twitch and pulse inside you, loud and unfiltered, rutting like a dog in heat even as his legs gave out. His breath hitched with every thrust, like he was trying to keep it going, trying to prove a point.

Even as he was falling apart.

When it was done, he collapsed on top of you. His sweat slicked between your bodies, breath hot on your neck. He didn’t move for a long time.

Then he shoved himself up, muttering, “Whatever. Fucking—told you.”

He reached for his jeans with shaking hands. Didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. His voice came out hoarse and low, almost sulking.

“I still won.”

He jammed his glasses back on, crooked and smeared, flannel tossed over his bare chest without bothering to button it. He turned away like he didn’t care—but the tension in his shoulders, the pink flush across his ears, the way his hand curled into a fist near his thigh?

It said everything.

He wanted to win.

And he wasn’t sure if he did.

⋆

pete dinunzio ノ

cw : smut, dubcon , power play , horror roleplay , knife kink , blood , biting , rough sex , chasing,

an : i did make reader a female just for the final girl aspect, hope that’s okay!!

✦ Title: Hunted

© dovenskin

The moon hung low and heavy behind tangled branches, casting silver shards of light across the forest floor. The air smelled of damp earth and pine—sharp, clean, and thick with the tension of anticipation. You could feel it in your bones before you even saw him.

A silhouette stepped from the shadows, masked but unmistakable—Pete DiNunzio, your personal nightmare come to life. His dark eyes glinted with cruel amusement beneath the crooked hockey mask. Clutched in his hand was the gleam of a real knife, its blade catching the moonlight as if eager to carve into you.

Your breath hitched as you adjusted the tattered remnants of your costume—the battered “Final Girl,” an icon of every horror flick you’d obsessively rewatched for hours. The torn flannel tied around your waist, the ripped denim shorts, and the bloodied white tank top barely clinging to your skin. Weeks of planning this night, this roleplay. Tonight was his birthday.

You sprinted forward, your boots pounding against the forest floor, leaves snapping beneath your steps. Behind you, Pete’s footsteps matched yours—methodical, relentless. The thrill of being hunted coursed through your veins, fiery and intoxicating.

Branches scraped your skin as you darted left and right, adrenaline sharpening your senses. But even in this chase, there was trust—a silent understanding between you two. This wasn’t just a game. It was a dance on the razor’s edge.

Suddenly, a heavy hand closed around your wrist. You yelped, spinning to face him, your pulse pounding in your ears. Pete’s dark eyes locked onto yours, wild and hungry beneath the mask.

“Gotcha.”

He pressed you back against a sturdy pine, the rough bark scratching your arms through the thin fabric of your shirt. The knife’s cold edge traced slow, deliberate lines across your collarbone, sending shivers of electric anticipation down your spine.

His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, “You’ve got nowhere left to run, baby. Time to pay for all that teasing.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing, and nodded once—your permission sealed with a quick, tense breath.

Without hesitation, Pete slid the blade under the strap of your tank top, cutting it free with an expert flick. The fabric slipped down your body, revealing skin flushed by the night air and your rapid heartbeat.

Snick. The fabric split, your bra falling loose and catching at your elbows. The cool air kissed your nipples.

His eyes darkened with desire as the knife found the waistband of your shorts, the cold steel sliding beneath the fabric. He traced a slow, sharp line, slicing clean through the material, and you gasped as the shorts fell away, leaving you exposed beneath the moonlight.

“Perfect,” he growled, his voice thick with lust and hunger

Then, with a sudden motion, the blade grazed your upper thigh—a shallow cut that stung sharply, a drop of ruby-red blood blossoming on your skin.

Pete’s breath hitched, his voice low and rough as he groaned, “Fuck, look at you… bleeding for me.”

He bent down, lips brushing the warm skin as he licked the blood away, marking you as his prey. His teeth sank briefly into your neck, and you trembled under the fierce, possessive kiss.

“You’re mine tonight,” he whispered fiercely.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as his fingers trailed fire across your skin. You pressed your body into his, lost in the wild rhythm of predator and prey.

The knife clattered to the ground unnoticed as Pete’s mouth found yours—hungry, demanding, and utterly consuming. His tongue tangled with yours, rough and teasing, while his hands explored every curve, every inch of you.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark pools of lust as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock was hard, throbbing against your damp skin.

“Ready to finish what we started?” he growled.

You nodded, breathless and desperate.

Pete fell to his knees like a starving man and licked a stripe up your thigh, teeth grazing skin. His mouth met your center with a groan, and your hand flew to his hair, gripping tight. He ate you out sloppy—groaning into you like it was his last meal, fingers digging into your ass to pull you closer.

“Fuck—Pete—”

“Shut up and take it,” he muttered between licks. “God, you taste so good.”

Your knees buckled. He kept going until you were gasping, thighs shaking, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth.

When he finally stood, mouth wet and chin shiny, his cock was already out, thick and hard and twitching against his stomach.

He grunted, lifted your leg around his waist, and slammed into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The bark scraped your back. Your nails dug into his shoulders. Pete was relentless—thrusting fast, deep, like he had something to prove.

“You were made for this,” he growled, fucking into you like he wanted to rearrange your guts. “Made to be ruined.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into taut muscle as he drove into you with relentless power. Every movement was sharp and unforgiving, the world narrowing to the heat of his body against yours.

Your breath hitched as waves of pleasure and pain crashed over you—every thrust sending shivers through your core.

The rough bark bit your back. The sweat on his chest slicked your breasts. And when you finally came, it was with your head tossed back and his hand clamped over your mouth so no one heard you scream.

He came with a broken grunt seconds after, shuddering hard, forehead buried in your neck. His hips stuttered, spilling into you with a rawness that sent another wave of heat crashing through your core.

For a long moment, the two of you stood tangled against the tree, the only sounds the rustling of leaves and your ragged breathing.

Then Pete leaned back just enough to kiss your neck, murmuring, “Happy fucking birthday to me.”

eltingville ep. ノ

cw : nsfw, smut,oral (m & f receiving) , reverse cowgirl, doggy style, unprotected sex,

✦ Title: Fuck The Nerds

an: josh and pete’s are fem, bill and jerry are gen

© dovenskin

BILL DICKEY

you know he's loud. whiny as hell. you're kissing those crusty lips, chin scraping his busted stubble while your hand’s working him through his jeans, slow as hell. too slow. he's bucking up into your palm, groaning into your mouth, trying so fucking hard to get more friction, more pressure, more anything—like he’s not already getting more than he’s ever had in his life.

when he finally shimmies off those ratty jeans—finally—his dick flops out, borderline below average, thick head already leaking like a broken faucet. you glance up, and he's just staring down at you, chest heaving, face red, pupils blown wide like a kicked puppy. eyes begging. you say anything about it and he'd throw a tantrum, but you see it all over him. that silent, twitchy "please touch me" energy.

first few open-mouthed kisses, one lazy tug on his cock, and he's already fucking losing it. squirming. whining. hips jerking up into your hand like he’s trying to chase the high. fingers in your hair, not pulling—just there, like he thinks he's helping. hasn’t even been two minutes and he’s making noises like he’s never been touched before. (he hasn’t.)

and honestly? you weren’t expecting much. guy’s in his twenties and still a virgin, spends more time gatekeeping horror trivia than touching grass. not like most girls would even want to be near him—let alone have their mouth on his cock. but here you are. and he’s already shaking like you’ve ruined him.

your hand’s working his cock now, slow strokes, thumb rubbing over the fat tip just to hear him make that choked little noise again. he’s a mess already—moaning like he doesn’t care who hears, squirming like your touch is too much. hips stuttering, body twitching, hands useless at his sides like he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with himself.

and then, somehow, somehow, this loser finds it in him to talk.

“heh… fuck… knew a bitch like you couldn’t resist me,” he pants, voice shaky but smug, like he really believes it. “figured you’d come crawling the second you got a taste of a real man.”

he’s grinning through it—cocky, sweaty, half-delirious—and it’s almost cute how proud of himself he looks, flushed face all smug, like this is his moment.

and then you sink your mouth over his cock.

just like that. no warning. all warmth and spit and tongue, taking him halfway down in one go, and he fucking chokes.

his cock twitches violently in your mouth, thick head pressing against your tongue, and he lets out the most pathetic whimper you’ve heard all night.

“f-fuckfuckholy shit—”

his hand grabs at your hair but it’s not dominant, not controlled—he’s scrambling, holding on like he’s about to fall apart. his whole body goes stiff, thighs trembling, breath catching like he’s seconds from unraveling.

“nghh—shit, shit, don’t move—” he hisses, voice breaking into a whine, “fuck, i’m gonna—gonna cum already, fuck—”

so much for that cocky attitude.

you pull back just enough to suckle the head, tongue circling, slow and mean, and he fucking loses it. eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open, a high, strangled moan spilling out like you’ve knocked every thought from his greasy little brain.

he’s barely holding it together

JOSH LEVY

he’s already breathless before you even sink down on him. hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind, fingers twitching every time your skin shifts under his touch. cock twitching too—he’s so fucking hard it almost hurts. and the moment you start sliding down, the moment your cunt stretches around him, he lets out this wrecked little moan like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

“holy fuck… holy shit,” he gasps, head thrown back against the pillow. you’re facing away from him, which just about kills him—he can’t even see your face, can’t kiss you, can’t do anything but watch the way your ass bounces and your back arches while you ride him like he’s nothing but a toy.

he whimpers. he’s fucking whining, trying not to buck up too hard, trying to hold back so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. he’s babbling now—soft, breathless praises like, “so good—feels so good, fuck, you’re amazing—” voice cracked, high, completely overwhelmed.

you lean back just a little, give him a better view, start grinding your hips down with a slow, heavy roll and he loses his goddamn mind.

“fuckfuckfuck—don’t stop, please don’t stop,” and when you look over your shoulder at him, all flushed and trembling and needy, he’s staring like you hung the moon. like he’s never seen anything better in his life.

“you’re taking me so good, josh,” you say, sweet and mean at the same time, and that’s it. his fingers dig into your thighs and his hips twitch helplessly under you.

“yeah?” he gasps. “y-you like it? i’m doing good?” he’s begging for the praise, desperate to be told he’s making you feel good. he’s shaking, barely holding on, hips bucking up like he wants to be deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

“you’re doing perfect, baby,” you coo, grinding down hard and circling your hips just to watch him fall apart. “your cock feels so good—stretching me out so nice, you’re making me cum so hard, josh.”

he whines, like it physically hurts how much he likes hearing that, how bad he wants to be good for you.

and when you start bouncing again, picking up the pace, ass slapping against his thighs while you fuck yourself stupid on him—he starts panting like a dog, sweat beading at his forehead, mouth hanging open, voice shaking.

“fuckfuck i’m gonna cum—i can’t—i can’t—y-you’re so—i’m—” and he’s gone.

his hips jerk up into you once, twice—and then he spills, thick and messy inside you, crying out like he just saw heaven.

and even through it, he’s still moaning out broken little compliments: “s-so good… fuck, you’re perfect… never felt anything like this…”

you don’t stop until he’s twitching under you, eyes rolled back, mouth slack—wrecked. and you just smile, still grinding slow and deep, like you knew he’d break this easy.

PETE DINUNZIO

pete’s obsessed with your reactions. doesn’t even care about getting off himself — not when he’s got your thighs trembling and your pussy dripping all over his face. he’s eating like a man possessed, tongue deep, nose buried, goatee slick with spit and slick. he’s not gentle. not careful. he’s messy.

and when you cum the first time, crying out, thighs clamping around his ears? he doesn’t slow down. doesn’t stop. he leans in. doubles down.

“yeahhh, there it is,” he groans, mouth still on your clit, voice dripping with that filthy Staten Island accent. “that’s it, baby. lemme hear you. fuckin’ sing for me.”

you’re whining, overstimmed, hips twitching — but pete’s not done. his fingers are inside you now, thick and calloused, pumping deep and curling up just right. and his mouth? oh, he’s still there, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue working tight little circles. and then—

teeth.

he grazes the tip of one sharp canine right against your clit — just enough to make you gasp, your whole body jolting. he doesn’t bite, not really. just brushes it. flirts with that edge between pain and pleasure.

“oh? that gotcha?” he grins, voice cocky, lips shiny, chin wet. “fuckin’ love that. could make ya jump just like that again. real easy.”

and then he does it again, a soft nip to your inner thigh — not enough to draw blood, just enough to make you squeal. he groans when he hears it. tongue flicking fast, fingers picking up pace, curling inside you while you writhe, barely able to form words.

“nah-uh,” he teases, voice low, almost a growl. “you don’t get to cum again til you ask nice. c’mon, sweetheart. lemme hear it. beg for it. tell me how fuckin’ good i make you feel.”

you’re panting, desperate, squirming under his mouth, right there, and he pulls his fingers out just enough to keep you aching for it — still playing with your clit, licking so slow it’s unbearable.

“nuh-uh,” he smirks, “not good enough. say it right. beg for my fuckin’ tongue. tell me how much you need me.”

and when you finally break — voice cracked, sobbing, pleading — “please, pete, please, it feels so good, i need it, i need you to make me cum again—”

that’s when he gives it to you.

hard.

fingers slam back into you, fast, deep, soaking wet, and his mouth devours your clit. he nips, sucks, tongues it like he wants to ruin you — and he does.

you cum so hard your vision whites out. you’re screaming, shaking, thighs clenching, body twitching like you’re short-circuiting. pete’s groaning into you like he’s getting off just from the way you taste.

“that’s fuckin’ right,” he growls, voice ragged, still mouthing your clit while you twitch. “good girl. good fuckin’ girl. look at this pretty pussy fallin’ apart for me…”

and you think he might stop now — but he’s still going. fingers still moving, tongue still teasing. and those teeth? right back where they started — gentle, dangerous, fucking addictive.

“think we’re done?” he mutters, lips hot against your slick, “we ain’t stoppin’ till i’ve got my fill.”

JERRY STOKES JR

when he finally gets the tip inside, he goes still, chest heaving. you’re so warm, so wet, and he can feel everything. his voice shakes when he speaks:

“you okay, angel? you—you good?”

you nod, maybe whisper something like yeah, jerry, please — and his whole body just shudders.

“fuck. okay. okay…” he breathes, barely getting the words out. “jesus christ, you feel s-so fuckin’ good…”

the pet names slip out without him even thinking. baby, babe, angel — like they’ve been sitting on his tongue for years, and now they’re finally pouring out with every breathless moan.

he starts moving, slow at first — hips rolling into you in soft, shallow thrusts, his fingers gripping your waist like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“oh my god,” he gasps. “oh my god, this is—this is insane…”

your pussy squeezes around him and his knees buckle. he leans forward, chest brushing your back, panting into your shoulder, whining into your skin.

“uugh—fuck, i’m not gonna last, you feel too good, i c-can’t—”

and then it hits him — that he’s really inside you, that you want this, that you want him. the way your back arches, the little moans you let out, the way your body responds to every stuttering thrust — it’s all too much.

he snaps.

hips start slamming into you, rougher now, messy, his rhythm totally undone. he’s rutting, desperate, whimpering with every thrust, his forehead buried against your spine.

“fuck, angel, fuck—please—lemme, lemme keep going, i c-can’t stop—”

he’s not even trying to be cool anymore. his voice is high, needy, wrecked, cracking every time you clench around him or moan his name.

“s-sound so pretty, baby, makin’ those little noises, lettin’ me—oh fuck, lettin’ me f-fuck you like this, jesus—”

you can feel how much he’s shaking — his whole body’s trembling, hands tight on your hips, breath hot against your shoulder, and his cock is throbbing inside you, every thrust sending shivers up his spine.

“d-don’t wanna cum yet,” he whines, “but you’re s-so tight, angelp, so wet, fuck, i c-can’t—I can’t—”

and when you moan his name again, tell him to keep going, maybe even beg a little?

he breaks.

cums with a loud, needy cry, hips jerking hard as he spills inside you, body spasming, nails digging into your skin just to anchor himself.

he stays buried in you after, panting, overwhelmed, whispering breathless, adoring things like:

“angel… i can’t believe you let me—i didn’t mean to—fuck, i’ll be better next time, i swear, just—jesus, you’re perfect.”

I imagine Jerry would secretly fantasize of doing it on cosplay but never rlly brings it up, so what if reader just surprises him with it for his birthday 🦡🦡🦡

⋆

jerry stokes jr.ノ

cw : Cosplay kink (Aerith Gainsborough), oral (m receiving), soft dom!reader, missionary, praise, gentle guidance, messy kisses, post-sex affection

✦ Title: Birthday Gift

© dovenskin

Jerry had no idea what you were planning.

All he knew was that you told him to sit on his bed and wait.

"No peeking," you’d said earlier with a sly smile. "It’s your birthday, and I’ve got a surprise."

He obeyed—because of course he did. Heart racing, palms clammy, sitting there like an obedient puppy He kept fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, shifting his weight. God, he hated how jittery he got about things like this—about you—but he couldn’t help it.

He was already in a daze when the door finally creaked open.

And then he saw you.

The pink dress, the little red bolero, your hair tied up in that sweet ribbon—Aerith, down to the last detail. You even had a basket of fake flowers swinging from your arm. And Jerry? He was toast.

His jaw slackened.

"Happy birthday," you said softly, your voice sweet with a touch of mischief.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You… you’re Aerith.”

You smiled. “Tonight? I’m yours.”

He flushed hard but didn’t look away—his eyes locked on you like you were some sort of ethereal being he’d never dreamed he’d get to face, let alone be wit. You took your time walking to him, watching the way his thighs tensed under his jeans, the way his breath sped up as you knelt in front of him.

“Wanna give you something special,” you murmured, already working open his fly.

“I—You don’t have to—” he started, but the second your hand brushed over him, the rest of the sentence melted into a gasp.

“I want to.”

You freed him from his jeans and boxers, thick and flushed, already twitching with need. You kissed the tip first—sweet, slow, teasing—and his breath stuttered. Then your mouth enveloped him, warm and wet and perfect.

Jerry let out a low, honest moan that caught in the back of his throat. One hand gently rested in your hair, barely there, like he didn’t want to mess this up by touching too hard. The other fisted in the sheets.

Your tongue dragged along the underside of his cock, your lips tight around him as you sucked slow and steady. His thighs trembled. He was already unraveling, hips rocking slightly before he caught himself, trying so hard to be good for you.

“You’re gonna… shit, I’m not gonna last,” he gasped.

You pulled off with a wet pop, giving him one slow stroke as you looked up at him.

“Good,” you said with a smile. “I want you nice and sensitive for what’s next.”

You climbed onto the bed, spreading your thighs beneath the flounced pink skirt. Your fingers curled into the sheets as he moved over you—carefully, reverently. He settled between your legs, holding himself up on shaky arms, eyes wide as he looked down at you.

“Go slow,” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “You’re doing so good, Jerry.”

He pushed in—inch by inch—watching your face the whole time, like he was afraid to hurt you, like every second inside you was a miracle. He gasped when he bottomed out, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “You’re so warm. You feel… incredible.”

You kissed him—open-mouthed, breathy, full of heat. When he started to move, it was with careful, measured thrusts. He bit his lip, brows drawn tight, watching the way your face twisted with pleasure beneath him. Every time you moaned, his rhythm faltered just a bit.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, voice ragged against your lips. “You. In this. Letting me—fuck—be with you like this.”

“You earned it,” you whispered.

His hips rolled harder, your thighs curling around his waist. You ran your hands along his back, moaning as he hit just right. He looked so focused, so overwhelmed, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“You’re so good,” he gasped. “So warm, so pretty—nngh—thank you, oh my god—”

“Just like that,” you whispered, kissing his jaw. “You’re doing so well, Jerry.”

He groaned, head tipping forward. “You’re gonna make me cum saying shit like that…”

“I want you to,” you breathed. “Wanna feel you fill me up. Want you to lose it for me.”

That broke him. His thrusts grew frantic, messy, and desperate—his whole body trembling with effort, breath stuttering. He buried his face in your neck like he couldn’t handle the eye contact anymore.

“I’m close,” he whimpered. “Please—let me finish in you?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding. “Cum for me, Jerry.”

He did—with a low, breathy grunt, body shaking as he spilled inside you. His arms buckled, and he collapsed gently against your chest, cock twitching with each wave of release. You held him through it, legs still wrapped around his waist, whispering praise into his ear.

“That’s it… you did so good. So fucking good for me.”

He stayed there for a while, breathing against your chest, still buried inside you like he didn’t want to leave.

“…Didn’t think I had that in me,” he mumbled, voice still hoarse.

You kissed his forehead, smiling against his sweaty hair. “You’ve got a lot more than you think.” You traced his jaw with your thumb. “And I’m gonna make you show me all of it.”

yamato ノ

✦ Title: Tied Up

cw : explicit content, dom!reader, restraint, edging, light humiliation, begging

© dovenskin

You had no idea how good he’d look tied up.

Yamato looked calm. That infuriating, ANBU-calculated calm. Even now—naked, wrists bound to the headboard, chest rising slowly like he was meditating through the tension—you could see the effort it took him to maintain it.

“I know what you’re doing,” you murmured, dragging your nails down the flat of his stomach. His abs twitched under your touch. “You’re trying not to react.”

He didn’t answer—just stared up at you, jaw tight, eyes flickering somewhere between challenge and desperation. You liked that. That balance.

His cock gave him away—hard, flushed, the tip already slick, resting against his stomach. No matter how neutral his expression stayed, his body was honest. His hips twitched when you pressed your thigh against him. His breath hitched when you kissed just under his ribs, slow and wet.

“I want to see you fall apart, Yamato,” you whispered against his skin. “Not play soldier. Don’t suppress it. Just feel.”

His eyes fluttered shut at your words. He let out a quiet, measured breath—controlled, even now. You moved lower, hands gliding down his sides. He flinched when your nails scraped lightly.

You kissed the top of his thigh, then the crease where it met his hip. His abs jumped. His fists clenched uselessly in the ropes.

“You’ve been so patient,” you whispered, licking slowly up the side of his shaft. “So good. I think you deserve a little reward.”

You didn’t warn him. You just leaned in and kissed the head of his cock—soft, wet, slow.

His whole body tensed, like a trap snapping shut. You sucked the tip into your mouth, lips tight, tongue swirling beneath it as you sank a little deeper, letting him feel the heat of your mouth.

Yamato arched subtly, barely, but it was there.

He made a low, guttural sound and turned his face away, like not looking at you would make it easier to endure. But you didn’t let up. You pulled back, licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock, letting the spit trail slowly down.

“Still not gonna say anything?”

He didn’t answer.

So you wrapped your hand around the base and took him deeper—slow, unrelenting, letting him feel every inch of your mouth, every warm breath and flick of your tongue.

His thighs trembled beneath you.

You glanced up—his jaw clenched, brows drawn tight. That mask of control was slipping.

You pulled off with a soft, wet pop, thumb circling the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want.”

“…Don’t stop,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

You smiled. “Getting there.”

You dipped back down—faster this time. Your hand twisted at the base while your mouth worked him over in slow, sucking rhythm. You pulled off between breaths to press slow, teasing kisses along his shaft, watching him twitch every time.

Then you started again—more pressure. More spit. More noise.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hips jerking upward before he caught himself. “Sorry—ah—”

You pulled off again, deliberately. “Did I say you could move?”

Yamato groaned, deep and rough. His wrists flexed in the bindings like he wanted to grab you, bury himself deep, but he didn’t. He stayed still. Obedient. And it made you ache.

“You’re so good when you listen,” you purred, stroking him lazily. “You want to come, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please.”

“Beg.”

He exhaled shakily, turning his face into the crook of his arm like he could hide the flush creeping down his chest.

“Please… let me come. I need it,” he choked out. “Please, don’t stop—I can’t—fuck—I need your mouth again.”

The desperation in his voice lit something low and hot in your stomach.

So you gave him what he asked for.

You took him in again—fast, deep, messy—moaning softly around him so he could feel it. Spit dripped from your lips, your hand moving in time with your mouth, twisting at the base.

And Yamato broke.

He came with a rough, bitten-off cry, back arching, wrists pulling at the ropes as his cock twitched on your tongue—hot and thick, spilling down your throat. You swallowed around him, sucking him through it while he gasped and trembled, completely undone.

You crawled up over him slowly, settling on his hips. He didn’t open his eyes at first—just lay there, wrists still tied, chest heaving, lips parted, flushed and wrecked.

And then, finally, he looked at you—eyes glazed, lashes damp. Shattered.

You leaned down and kissed his throat, voice low and warm.

“Told you I’d make you fall apart.”

HAIIIAA!!! Okay let's get straight to the point- josh body worship smut fic!?!? Thank you!! :3 i loveee love love yer fics!! // ur writing is so gorgeous!!! Thoughts abt josh hair-pulling smut fic...? I love his long hair and i think it's one of his key features!

⋆

josh levy ノ

cw : oral (m received), Anal/vaginal penetration (reader receiving),hair pulling ,body worship / praise kink, dom/sub dynamic (soft dom reader, subby/vocal Josh), overstim, cowgirl (i love doing josh in cowgirl/reverse 😞) mild degration

✦ Title: Pulling Strings

an: hiii thanks for requesting!! yesyes i love josh’s hair very yummy so delicious

© dovenskin

Josh Levy didn’t know where to put his hands.

Literally.

He’d been hard since you kissed him on the couch—sloppy, slow, hand tugging his ponytail just to hear him whimper—and now you were dragging him backward toward the bed like some sexed-up force of nature. And Josh? Josh looked like he’d just been hit with a sonic blast.

“Wait, w-wait—hold on,” he stammered, eyes wide behind smudged glasses. “You're serious? You’re gonna—You’re taking my shirt off? Why??”

You grinned. “Of course I am. I want to see you.”

“You—you want to see—?” His voice cracked. “Okay. No, yeah. That’s… okay. Uh. God.”

You tugged the Dune tee over his head. His chest was soft, his stomach round and warm, dotted with acne scars and patches of uneven hair—and you loved it. You kissed the center of his belly, lips trailing lower until your tongue licked just above the button of his jeans.

Josh let out a sound that could only be described as a cross between a squeak and a groan.

“F-Fuck, are you—You’re seriously—You’re going down on me?” He fisted the sheets like he was bracing for hyperspace. “Okay. I—I need a second. I need like a system reboot. You’re really gonna—fuck—okay—”

You unbuttoned his jeans slowly, tugging them down his thighs, revealing boxers already straining against a thick, twitching bulge. His thighs were warm and shaking, slightly spread already, like he was offering himself without realizing it.

“You’re gorgeous,” you said simply, pulling his boxers down.

Josh turned bright red. “I—wha—You—you don’t have to say that, you know, I’m—I know I’m not exactly—fuck—”

You took him into your mouth.

He yelled. Head thrown back, thighs tensing, mouth open like he’d been electrocuted.

“Jesus fucking christ— okay—OKAY—wait, wait, wait, wait, you’re—ohmygod—”

His cock was thick and heavy on your tongue, flushed deep pink at the tip, already leaking. You sucked gently, then deeper, running your tongue along the underside, one hand stroking the base while the other slid up his trembling stomach.

Josh moaned—loud, desperate, raw—like he’d never felt anything like it.

“You’re so—fuck, your mouth feels so good—I can’t—I’m gonna—I’m gonna embarrass myself, I swear to God—”

You reached up and grabbed a fistful of his ponytail.

Josh choked on his moan.

His hips jerked up into your mouth, eyes squeezed shut like the sensation short-circuited him. “Holy SHIT—do that again—pull it, please, pull it—”

You did. Hard.

“FUCK—”

You popped off him just to grin. “Didn’t think you’d be into that.”

“Are you kidding me?! That’s—that’s like number two on the list right after this,” he panted, eyes flicking down to your hand wrapped around his cock. “You could yank me around like a leash and I’d still say thank you.”

You pushed him back against the pillows, kissing down his stomach again. He writhed. Loud, eager, too sensitive.

And then—you climbed on top of him.

Josh’s eyes went huge.

“W-WAIT,” he wheezed. “Are you gonna—you’re gonna ride me? You’re gonna ride me? Are you sure? I mean—I’m—holy shit, I love you—”

You reached down and guided his cock to your entrance, slick and aching for him, and his voice broke.

“Oh fuuuck, waitwaitwait, oh my god, you feel so—oh fuck—”

You sank down slow, inch by inch, and Josh’s whole soul left his body.

Hands scrambling for your hips, eyes wide in disbelief, his breath stuttered out in high-pitched, needy gasps. You moved slow, just enough to make him feel every squeeze of your walls, every bounce, every clench. His head rolled back.

“Shit, oh fuck, I’m gonna come—I’m not gonna last—please—please keep going—I’ll do anything—”

You tugged his ponytail again. He sobbed.

“You feel so good,” you whispered against his ear. “So full. You like me riding you like this, Josh?”

“Yes, yes, please, you’re so good—so good, I’ve never—oh god—”

You rode him through it, dragging him up and over the edge until he came with a desperate, high moan, bucking hard beneath you. His thighs shook. His fingers left marks in your skin.

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, letting him feel just how much control you had—letting him worship you with those frantic, wide eyes and whiny noises. He was a mess under you: flushed, dripping sweat, hair stuck to his neck, completely undone.

When you finally collapsed beside him, both of you wrecked, Josh turned to look at you with glassy awe.

“…You could’ve been doing this the whole time?” he whispered. “I—I feel like I just hit a hidden bonus level. Can we do this again? Like. Forever?”

You laughed and brushed a hand over his chest. “Only if I get to keep pulling your hair.”

“Deal. And next time, I’ll—nghh, god—I’ll return the favor. Hardcore.”

He grinned like he meant it. And you knew he’d try. Awkwardly. Passionately. Sincerely.

Josh Levy might’ve been a blowhard nerd—but he was your blowhard nerd.

And right now? He was putty in your hands.

⋆

josh levyノ

cw : masturbation (m. receiving), spanking, teasing, dirty talk, handjob, mild spanking, ass worship, dom-ish reader , semi-private

✦ Title: Prime Ass-ets

an: both sfw snd nsfw

© dovenskin

Josh didn’t understand why you kept looking at him like that.

He was elbow-deep in a box of mint-condition Starlog issues, sweat beading down his neck, ponytail loose and frizzing in the heat of the Eltingville basement—and you were staring. Again.

Not at his hands. Not at his face. Not at the shelf of boxes model kits behind him.

Nope. Your eyes were locked on his ass. Like you were about to eat it. Like you could eat it.

"Okay, seriously," Josh snapped, glancing over his shoulder. "Do I have a tag sticking out or something?"

You blinked, caught red-handed (and red-faced). "Nope."

"Then what the hell are you staring at?"

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you walked up behind him, slow and deliberate, and leaned in like you were about to share a secret. Your hand ghosted over the curve of his hip, then—boldly, shamelessly—you gave it a little squeeze.

Josh yelped. Actually yelped.

"The hell was that?!"

You grinned. "Can’t help it, babe. You’ve got the juiciest ass I’ve ever seen."

He turned red. "It’s just—fat. It’s not even—what are you even talking about?!"

"I like ‘em big," you said, voice low, teasing, chasing your words with a bite to your bottom lip. "I like ‘em chunky."

Josh’s jaw dropped. "Did you just quote—Madagascar?"

You leaned in closer, grabbing two greedy handfuls of his ass through his jeans. He squirmed, spluttered, tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go—not with you pressed up behind him and the cluttered basement wall right in front of him.

"I’m serious," you whispered into his ear. "You have no idea how hot it drives me. Every time you bend over—God, I can barely focus."

"You’re insane," he muttered, voice a little shaky. "Completely—"

You slid your hands under his shirt and dragged your nails gently across his lower back.

"Say it again," you purred. "Say I’m insane while I’m bending you over and smacking these thick cheeks—"

"WHAT?!"

Josh practically levitated.

You burst into laughter, leaning against his back while he sputtered, ears scarlet, glasses fogging. He looked like he was about to explode.

“Y-You’re serious?!”

“Dead serious. Bend over the table , why don’t you?”

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, totally short-circuiting, and you were so close to dropping to your knees right there in the musty basement.

Josh Levy might not have understood your obsession with his big, squishy ass.

But by the end of the night? He’d know exactly why you were staring.

— Nsfw

Josh had no idea how things escalated this fast.

One minute he was bent over a crate of forgotten Trek VHS tapes, mumbling about misprints and special editions. The next? You were behind him, hands on his hips, kissing down the back of his neck while he stiffened like a goddamn broomstick.

"Wh-What’re you—?"

You didn’t answer. Just reached around, stroked his cock through his jeans, and let out a hum so filthy it made his knees wobble.

"Josh," you whispered, dragging your teeth along the curve of his ear. "Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you like this?"

He tried to scoff. "You’re insane—this is insane—"

Smack.

He jumped.

You’d just slapped his ass. Not hard. Just enough to make it jiggle under your palm. Your hand lingered there a second longer, squeezing.

"You keep calling me insane," you murmured, stroking him again with your other hand, "but you’re the one walking around with a dump truck like this, totally oblivious."

"Dump—" Josh turned halfway around, scandalized. "My ass is not a dump truck."

"It is. It's a whole transport fleet, babe."

Smack.

Josh let out a low grunt, half frustration, half surprise. His face was flushed, his glasses slipping down his nose. You pressed a little harder against his back, palm dragging down the slope of his ass.

"I could do this all night," you said casually, like you weren’t already sliding your hand past his waistband. "Spank you. Stroke you. Just watch you squirm like this."

"You're—this is deranged—"

Smack.

"You’re hard."

"I’m—not—" He groaned mid-sentence as your hand slipped into his boxers and wrapped around his cock—hot, heavy, twitching with every jerk of your fist.

“Liar,” you whispered.

He braced himself on the cluttered table, shoulders tense. His hips jerked with every stroke. You kept your rhythm slow and steady, thumb teasing the tip, the way you knew drove him insane. Occasionally, you’d lean in and nip at the back of his neck, or drag your nails over the curve of his ass, just to hear him hiss.

"You like this, don’t you?" you teased. "Being bent over, stroked like this. Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?"

Josh grit his teeth. “I—it’s just sensitive, okay—”

Smack.

"Say it."

He shivered.

You tugged him a little harder. His legs wobbled.

"Say you like me touching your big, perfect ass while I jerk you off."

Josh groaned. Loud.

“…I like it. Shit. Okay? I like it. Just—don’t stop—”

You grinned.

"Good boy."

You pumped him faster now, watching his body jerk and twitch under your hand. He was so loud—those back-of-the-throat moans, the panting, the desperate whimper when your other hand slapped his ass again, just to feel it bounce.

"You're gonna come like this, aren't you?" you said sweetly. "Bent over, cheeks red, whining in my hand."

His head dropped to the table.

And then he did—trembling, breathless, voice cracking around a drawn-out moan that probably echoed through the whole damn basement.

You didn’t stop until he was wrung out and twitching, his cock still throbbing in your hand, his ass warm and red from all your greedy attention.

He collapsed forward, glasses askew, ponytail sticking to his neck with sweat.

You kissed his spine.

"I'm not done with you," you said, smug. "Not even close."

“every letter sealed with grace or desire…”

smut

eltingville

✖ college party — [Bill] · semi public , oral

✖ beta unit — [Josh] · dominance, teasing

✖ out freak the freaks — [Group] · freaky reader , chaos

✖ glory hole — [Group] · competition, use me

✖ birthday gift — [Jerry] · oral, missionary

✖ pulling strings — [Josh] · hair pulling kink

✖ fuck the nerds — [Group] · semi headcannons, whiny men

✖ prime ass-ets — [Josh] · handjob from behind, spanking

✖ hunted — [Pete] · in the forest, chasing

naruto

✖ tied up — [Yamato] · rope play, restraint

✖ consistency — [Deidara] · praise, control, fingering

✖ heatwave — [Jiraiya] · semi public, beach setting

fluff letters ꕀ

“these letters are softer — folded with care, kissed at the corners, but still stained with obsession.”

eltingville club

[all fluff]

🕊 let him suffer — [Bill] · misogynistic incel begs for forgiveness

🕊 don’t you get it? — [Bill] · crushing on dumb bimbo

🕊 hamster bill — [Bill] · ugly little hamster

deathnote

[all fluff]

🕊 who’s that girl? — [Light] stalking , kidnapping

🕊 stalker syndrome — [L & Light] head cannons

saiki k

[all fluff]

🕊 cotton candy hair (Black reader) — [Saiki] pink haired twin

🕊 i can make her leave — [Saiki] yandere behavior

the walking dead

[all fluff]

🕊 the girl of my dreams? — [Rick Grimes] sassy reader

NOASS (night owls and summer skies)

[all fluff]

🕊 strawberry cigarettes (delinquent reader) — [Gwen] get to know reader

🕊 girls in love — [Lauren & Gwen] manip. , yandere

upcoming ꕀ

(sinners are writing…)

the batman (2022)

john doe

black clover

tokyo ghoul

requests open / closed