༊*·˚ I use IbisPaint X; art. My notes app; writing T^T ༊*·˚
•°. *࿐ so many things to love •°. *࿐
*a few communities I’m interested in*
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ if you want to request work from a certain fandom, just ask! I like a lot of things! ੈ♡˳
❥Music: show me anything and I’ll probably like it.
❥Games: any indie or horror game, really, and anything that’s aesthetically appealing.
❖ Omori ❖ Date Everything! ❖ The Alters ❖ Horizon ❖ Resident Evil ❖ Cryptid Coffeehouse ❖
❥Media: ▹ JJBA ▹ Arcane ▹ Dorohedoro ▹ Cyberpunk: Edgerunners ▹ JJK ▹ Castlevania ▹ Dungeon Meshi ▹ Lord of Mysteries ▹ Inside Job ▹ Great Pretender ▹ Lost in Starlight ▹ Record of Ragnarok ▹ Devil May Cry ▹ Couage the Cowardly Dog ▹ Interview with the Vampire ▹ Sinners ▹ The Apothecary Diaries ▹ any Studio Ghibli film ▹ adventure time ▹
You barely got the apartment door shut before Herm invaded your personal space, a trail of water following him from your bedroom. Not touching, just hovering in that jittery way he had when his nerves were replaced with attitude.
His suit is discarded, goggles are who knows where, and his hair is more damp than usual. The only thing he’s wearing are some swim shorts that are a little too small for his frame; they’re completely soaked through. You can see the outline of his print through them, clinging to his thigh.
Herm’s pouting. One day off from work leaves him to his own vices, mulling over your absence.
“Nice of… You to be— come home,” he muttered as he slouched over more than usual. His eyes were glued to the puddle at his feet, completely ignoring your gaze.
“Did not think you’d remember where you live,” he says sarcastically.
This fully articulated sentence perfectly accentuated just how wrapped up in his own thoughts he was; he was growing more agitated by the second.
“No, no. You’re… busy. Right. You’ve got work, and people, and things, and I’m just… I’m just here. Waiting… for you.”
You dealt with another long, grueling day littered with deadlines and your boss breathing down your neck for 10 hours straight just to come home to your favorite hero feeling more dreadful than you. Your head spun wildly; you weren’t in the mood for this right now.
With bag hitting the floor, you had him by the jaw in a heartbeat, tilting his face upwards to meet your lidded eyes.
“Hermy, look at me,” you said wearily, voice low.
He did. Immediately crumbling with hardly any pressure.
“I’m not— I’m not saying it right,” he muttered, eyes avoiding yours. “I’m not trying to be— like this, I just— you haven’t been… You haven’t…”
Yes, this was a bit sad to see, but you couldn’t help but notice the rising in his shorts from your grasp.
“You haven’t given me attention lately, so I just— thought…” he cracked out, audacious attitude diminishing.
Leaning in, lips brushing his ear, “You think I’m tired of you?” Your calm, slightly frustrated demeanor caused the water pooling beneath him to grow larger, his shorts to grow tighter.
How could you ignore the lanky, hung, pathetic man sulking in front of you any longer?
You took him by the wrist and pulled him toward the bedroom. He stumbled after you, cautiously and with a bit of guilt for feeling so needy.
Pushing him onto the bed and straddling his moist body, you pinned his wrists above his head.
He let out a sharp breath as he felt the fabric of your pants roll over his raging hard-on through his shorts.
“I’m not tired of you,” you said, low and certain.
“I’m tired, in general. Work is killing me, baby. But you?”
You leaned close, hovering over his lips, just far enough away to feel the heat radiating off his flushed cheeks.
You slur out, “You’re the only thing I think about all day.” as you plant a kiss on his temple.
He inhaled like you’d knocked the air out of him.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I thought you were just getting… bored? With me. Or tired of my— my whole… me.”
Your smirk was deep against his skin.
“So you decided to misbehave just to get my attention?”
“— didn’t mean to.”
“Oh, I think you absolutely meant to. And look at the mess you’ve made around the house,” You tease.
He flushed deeply, trying to twist away, but you tightened your grip and he froze. Herm could easily escape your hold if he wanted to; you both knew it. Yet, he acts so incapable of refusing you.
“I wasn’t being a br— br—”
He tried again, voice breaking mid-word.
“I wasn’t being a brat— right?”
No response. You simply cocked an eyebrow whilst staring him down.
“Don’t do that,” he muttered, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes, and his voice cracked sweetly.
Angling his chin up again, you muttered, “So you won’t mind a punishment, then.”
He forced down the water pooling in his mouth the best he could with a meek, “H-how?”
You silenced him with a slow, watery kiss as your hands snaked their way to his waistband. Herm’s whole body tensed at your gentle touch in anticipation.
“You think I don’t know when you want me?”
“I just… you have not— w-were not— you weren’t looking at me.”
“And now,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his cheek, “I’m all yours.”
Your dominance electrified him. Whole body pliant, releasing a tiny sound that even Sonar would struggle to hear.
Eager fingers slipped up his spine, just to watch him arch helplessly at the sensation.
“I love when you do that,” you breathed.
“When you melt before I touch you properly.”
Herm tried to glare at you; It lasted all of two seconds.
“Not— I’m not melting…”
“Oh, but look at how pathetic you are,” you said, dragging moist lips across his throat. “I haven’t even fucked you stupid yet.”
Below, Waterboy’s drenching your clothes and writhing into your body. The damp fabric clung to your contortions, amping him up even more. His throbs were pulsating against you, making your need much more fierce.
Lifting off of him to strip, skin moistened and glowing in the dimly lit room, Herm gazing at you like a piece of art. Once he realized your pants were past your ankles, he snapped out of the daze to discard his shorts.
“Tell me the kind of punishment my bratty little hero wants,” you coo while trapping between your thighs.
Ready and waiting on a bedside table, your strap lies exposed in the glow of the dim room.
“I want— need you to f-fuck me. Please?” Herm croaks out. “With this,” reaching for the 8-inch rod of silicone next to him. Within seconds, you’re strapped up and ready to satisfy your boyfriend beyond oblivion.
“Let’s go slow, yeah?” You announced while circling your thumb against his tight entrance. This simple touch already elicited a spew of mewls and grinds against the mattress.
After a few minutes of working him, your strap prodded his ass, itching to get inside. “Ready, baby?”
“R-ready! Please just hurry… please~”
With hands planting his slim waist to the bed, you eased into him with a squelch. Your length dragged agonizingly slow against his clenching walls. The feel of Herm sucking you in and taking it so well made your core ache.
As he fucked himself into your tense body, your hands coiled around his throbbing dick, slick with excess water and precum.
“You like me fucking you up like this, Waterboy? I bet you can’t even contain yourself, huh?” You alluring mocked.
Herm couldn’t even respond; he was ass up, face down, sputtering and slobbering into his pillow. This overwhelmingly pathetic and hot display fogged the bedroom to the degree of a rainforest climate.
Through the sighs, moans, and wetness, you heard a meager little “Can- cum? Please?” Muffled from the pillow.
“What was that, baby? You’re so pathetic, I barely even heard—“
Raising up, exasperated and desperate, Hermy pleads, “Please, please let me cum for you! I can’t take it, but I— hah~ know it’s too quick, but need— I need it!”
Eagerness taking you by surprise, you deepened your stroke. The best part about Herm was how quickly he could cum, though it’s always been a sensitive subject for him.
“Show me how good my strap is making you feel, baby. Come on~ cum for me” with a coaxing grasp on his quivering dick and a steady thrust in his ass.
After a slew of mumbled curses and tears, your hands quickly felt a flooding sensation; Herm goes limp under your heaving body.
Easing out of his throbbing ass and releasing his softening dick, you snuggled next to him, content with your work.
“So, Herm, still think I don’t care about you?”
Rolling over to face you, he litters kisses across your chest. Your welcoming arms embraced him, securing him tight as his high wore off. When his eyes met yours, neediness was still plastered over his dripping face.
“Can I—“ he stops himself, gaining more gusto. “I want to make you feel good too,” he speaks into your skin.
I’m a huge scent person with a strong sense of smell, so I often think about what my favorite characters smell like. I’d imagine Waterboy— like realistically— would smell like wet metal, mildew, or just anything kind of unpleasant; he’s marinating in a rubber suit for Christ’s sake. Ideally, though, I’d want him to embody a rainy day in autumn. Like wet leaves, damp soil, earthy and raw vibes. Or maybe a more sterile type of liquid like ultrapure water or saline(?). Idk I’m just rambling, but ughhh that would be so intoxicating.
It's only his name because of his aloof, meek demeanor— He doesn't take himself seriously. Once the two of you start dating and he gains some confidence, you both brainstorm better-fitting names. “Drench,” “Permeator,” “Spritz,” and other water-related names fill your conversation.
💧Needs reassurance like it’s oxygen
Even a glance at another person sends him spiraling. “Is- tired? Them.. me? Tired of me?”
Followed up with him leading you into the janitor’s closet for whispered affirmations.
💧Beverages at whim
He makes tea for you every evening with water from his body. You try not to think about the intricacies of where this water is even coming from— it's the thought that counts… right? Just ignore the heaving sounds coming from the kitchen.
💧Slippery when wet
When you kiss him in public, he creates huge puddles around both of you. You tease him with a “Aw, am I making you wet?” That reddens his rosy cheeks soo much.
💧Loves physical touch
Though he's careful with spreading his wetness, he can relax around you. When he's alone with you, the gloves come off. For once, he can dampen someone's skin intentionally with a tender hold.
💧Grindinggg
Herm gets really worked up when he can feel you. He usually holds on to your legs at home (so your hands don't get all wrinkly) while you lounge on the couch. As your warmth transfers to his body, he craves more. It starts as a simple touch, then erupts into whining and grinding on your calves as a needy brat looking for release. He loves when you look down at him trying so hard to get some friction.
💧He turns into a messy, babbling puddle when you're firm
Gentle commands have him soaking, forgetting how to talk completely. “Stay still,” “Look at me Hermy,” and your supportive “Focus” lines leave him pliable like putty in your hands.
💧*Big* overstim fan
He loves for you to push him to his limits; Anything to please the person who doesn’t judge or belittle him. When he becomes incoherent from pure bliss, he starts spouting fountains in your hands. Sloppy clean up, sure, but it’s so worth it to have him completely at your mercy.
💧Bondage is freeing
In conjunction with overstimulation, Herm loves being helpless—bound by your leniency. He's all too familiar with latex as his powers call for the material to compose his suit; latex bonds feel the best, most customary, to him.
💧 Degradation kink
It's fine when you do it because you're hot and it comes from a place of mutual understanding— your dominant, playful teasing is endearing. Though, blatant harassment from the team is a different story. You've had to soothe him a few times in the break room from the petty insults thrown at him due to his clumsy conduct.
💧Shocking amount of strength
He can pick you up and fuck you with ease. The first time he did it, you were too shocked to process how good this new angle felt. He has to readjust frequently only due to his soaked hands.
whewwww I’ve been gone for a while; sorry ;-; I’ll try to be more active as things are finally normal-ish for now. New job, new connections, going into a new semester of uni soon. It’s all coming together after a shit show year.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. !! Hector x GN Reader Halloween HCs !! ࣪ ִֶָ☾.
[suggestive content]
*working on art for this soon^^*
(Sorry, stores are already selling Halloween stuff, so it got me in the mood)
🖤 He’s Been Planning Since August
* Autumn is Hector’s favorite season. As soon as the temperature dips, he gets in the mood via plastering homemade decorations around the house with your help.
* Blankets, pumpkin-themed beverages and foods (all made by Hector in his love for you), and season appropriate movies/ shows to watch endlessly.
* You both visit a pumpkin patch, picking out pumpkins that somehow resemble the other to carve whilst watching movies.
* You sit in a blanket fort as Halloween night ends. He falls asleep in your lap, still wearing his costume, murmuring, “I wish the night could stretch on forever. Just like this.” As you caress his dark curls.
🕷️ Favorite Halloween Pet Names for You:
* “My Specter”
* “Beloved Haunting”
* “The One I Bleed For” (Literally, If You Ask)
* “My ruin” (dramatic and said in a seductive whisper)
* “My Little Revenant”
🎭 “I made this for you, my love.”
* He spends weeks crafting you a custom mask upon your request- one that reflects how he sees you: powerful, elegant, unearthly.
* It’s shaped with delicate horns, filigree like spiderwebs, and hints of gold leaf. He refuses to unveil it until Halloween night. It’s a “tribute to a perfect creature who needs no improvement. It’s simply adornment,” in his words.
✨He Has a Mask Kink (Let’s Be Honest)
* Something about you in a mask; concealed, untouchable, made into something spectral- it drives him insane.
* He gets quiet around you when you wear one. The kind of quiet where his hands twitch and his eyes burn with restraint. “You shouldn’t hide your face from me. Unless… you want me to earn the right to see it.”
🩸 Bite Me, Please
* He’s definitely the type to present his neck and whisper, “If you were a vampire, I wouldn’t even resist.”
* Bonus if you wear fangs for your costume; he just goes feral.
* “Go on,” he dares, half-breathless. “Mark me. Make me yours.”
🌑 If You’re at a Halloween Party/ Event
* All the obsessive energy he tries to keep in check? Halloween turns the dial to maximum yearning.
* His voice gets low. Every movement is deliberate. His hands, usually careful, start to linger.
* He whispers things like:
“If we don’t leave soon, I will disgrace myself at this social.”
“Tell me to behave, or I won’t.”
“Do you have any idea what you do to me in this outfit?”
🖤 He Writes Dirty Little Poems… and Hides Them Around the House
* On Halloween night, he slips one under your pillow. It’s handwritten in velvet red ink, sealed with a wax stamp of his initials inside a heart.
* The contents? Full of sinful metaphors and confessions: “Let me be your grave, my love, a place you fall into willingly- where you leave your breath, your bite, your release.”
🦇 Costumes? You’re a Matched Set
* Hector insists you wear coordinated costumes, but he’s not tacky about it. He insists it be something symbolic.
* He always takes the more understated, dramatic role and lets you shine. He insists. “I’m but your shadow, my beauty” he protests when you try to alternate roles.
* As the night winds down, he pulls you close, whispering, “You’ve been teasing me all night, haven’t you? With every glance and every slight change in your voice. Are you trying to undo me?”
🕯️ Candlelit Evenings, Just the Two of You
* You carve pumpkins (the ones you didn’t pick exclusively for each other) together in his candle-filled workroom. He gives all his pumpkins elegant, tragic expressions.
* Yours ends up a little lopsided, and Hector stares at it for five solid minutes before reassuring:
“No, no. It’s perfect. It’s… charmingly grotesque.” (Anything you do is utter perfection in his eyes)
🍷 You Catch Him Working on a Mask That Resembles You
* One night, close to Halloween, you enter his studio unannounced. You see it: a mask, half-finished, bearing your features. Slightly stylized. Beautiful.
* He’s immediately flustered. “It’s- it’s nothing. Just a study. I wasn’t… I mean, I was, but I-”
He averts his gaze. “I wanted to capture you, as I see you. That’s not… strange, is it?” (It’s a bit strange, but you still find it endearing)
[This one is just for him to admire when your presence is not near.]
* When he’s completed it, the mask sits atop a shelf encased in a glass box to be preserved for all of eternity; your beauty everlasting.
🌒 Clinginess
* After all the heat, all the teasing, all the breathless promises- he’s soft again. Bare-faced. Wrapped around you like he’ll die if you leave the bed.
* He murmurs:
“You haunt me, even when you’re right here. I’ll never stop wanting you, my love.”
♡ ♡ ♡ thx for reading my silly ramblings >_< ♡ ♡ ♡
Brightly illuminating the chamber, the Hexcore pulsated steadily as a heartbeat. It’s light flickers across Viktor’s sharpened figure, accentuating his newfound divinity.
His lanky, yet sturdy, frame towers above you sprawled in a pitiful heap across the floor. Gilded veins of palpitating energy snaked under his robe, further surrendering your sanity.
Viktor’s metallic hand kept its humanly tender touch as he cradled your weary face, his frigid thumb tracing circles over your bottom lip.
“Do you feel it?” His voice thrummed low, resonant, laced with that strange vibration that reverberated in your chest. “The rhythm, it calls to you. Let it in.”
Between his enchanting voice, and the sickening lull of the core, your thoughts begin to escape you.
The words weren’t mere sounds; they were fortified inside you, moving through your very being with each beat of the Core. When his thumb slid into your mouth, your body answered before your mind did— lips accepting, tongue curling around the digit automatically. A meager sound escaped your throat as you closed your mouth around the slick metal.
“That's it, my dear. Taste what you will become.”
Your faltering mind pays little attention to this utterance. Instead, your body accepts the replacement of his thumb for two longer digits poking and prodding your agape mouth. You couldn't help but choke on the sheer length and weight of his index and middle fingers, lips dripping from drool.
Viktor’s free hand slid down your spine, pulling you against the hard plane of his body until you could feel the heat of his arousal under his robe. “Delectable,” he whispered, velvety voice curling around the word. “Such devotion… such hunger. Show it to me.”
Your mind reeled as his fingers gained pace, metal pumping against tonsils, with a guiding hand to stabilize you. Flattening his fingers on your tongue, he utilizes his free hand to seize your drool-covered chin.
“Open, and stay.”
Willingly, with eyes transfixed on this divine being, you oblige.
As a delicate command, Viktor declared, “On your knees. Show me how deep your devotion truly runs.”
Body trembling, you adjusted your feeble frame to balance on the cold stone floor. The violent hum of the Hexcore sent viscous vibrations between your thighs. Viktor inched close, his unrelenting grasp on your chin driving you wild in anticipation. “Kneeling suits you, my dear. You look nearly holy,” he purred.
With no control over your own thoughts, your vessel fully surrenders to your savior.
The last coherent memory you have is of your metallic messiah’s eager words, “Are you ready? Ready to rise. To serve and worship me as you were meant to.”
His clothing shifted; beneath them, the hard press of his arousal brushed your lips, the heat of him stark against the cool metal.
“Open,” Viktor commanded, voice almost gentle, almost cruel. “Show me your devotion.”
The Hexcore pulsed once, bright and slow, and with your eyes fixed on his glowing ones, you opened your mouth for him through blind allegiance. He cupped the back of your head, guiding you forward until the head of him rested against your lips.
“That’s it…” he whispered, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he eased himself inside, the taste of him salt and heat and power. “My clever little devotee. Every inch, every sound… all surrendered to me.”
The Core flared again, and your mind blurred with it, your body moving on instinct as Viktor’s voice poured over you like a hymn, coaxing: “Good… good… You belong. You ascend.”
Your heartbeat, in sync with the core, pulsated at a terrifying speed.
“Breathe… take it…” he murmured, his accent a low hymn. “With every breath, you draw in more of me. With every swallow, you rise closer to divinity.”
Your vision blurred at the edges. His voice no longer felt like sound but like instructions seared directly into your nerves. The world outside the chamber dissolved until there was only him— his scent, his taste, the Core’s glow behind your eyelids. When he pulled out, slick and glistening, he sent an invitation to your form.
Viktor guided you up by the throat, thumb brushing away the mess from your mouth. “Stand,” he commanded softly. “You have tasted. Now you will ascend.”
Your legs wobbled, but the power in his voice was a tether, pulling you upright. The Core’s glow wrapped around you like a mantle, the energy under your skin prickling. Viktor stepped behind you, his chest against your back, his metallic arm sliding around your waist until his palm rested flat on your belly.
“Feel it,” he whispered at your ear, lips barely grazing the shell. “My current in your veins. My will in your breath.” His hips pressed against you, the hard length of him rubbing against the curve of your ass through the thin fabric of his robes. “One last surrender, my dear, and you will never be lost again.”
You tilted your head back onto his shoulder as he bent you slightly forward, guiding you until your palms rested on the altar-like plinth where the Hexcore floated. Its light seared through your fingers, warm and tingling. Viktor’s voice dropped to a murmur, almost prayerful:
“By the Core’s pulse, by my hand, you are claimed, you are remade. In flesh and thought, you are mine.”
His metal hand slid lower, between your thighs, spreading you open while his other hand undid the remaining barriers between you. You gasped as he pressed himself inside, a claiming motion more than a thrust. The Core’s glow flared, matching the low moan that escaped you.
“That’s it…” he groaned softly, hips rolling with the rhythm of the Core. “Every sound you make, every tremor, feeds the ascension. My clever one. My beloved.”
He moved with long, unhurried strokes, the buzz of his power climbing with each push until you could feel it vibrating through your skin, pooling low in your abdomen. He murmured mantras against your ear— belong, rise, worship, ascend— each one punctuated by a thrust, each one another way to scramble your mind.
Your fingers dug into his non-human flesh as pleasure crested, the Core’s light enveloping you both. Viktor’s arms tightened around you, metal and flesh locking you in place as he whispered his final command:
“Now… offer yourself. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”
“Yes…” he growled softly, teeth teasing your neck. “Mine. Devoted. Ascended.”
As you reached the edge under his guidance, the Core’s pulse erupted into a blinding flare; Viktor’s climax and yours peaking together, sealing the ritual. His hands held you there, trembling, his lips pressing a tender kiss to your temple.
“Welcome,” he murmured, still buried inside you, voice like a blessing. “Welcome to the new order, my dear. My chosen.”
A thick haze of smoke lingers in the attic’s already stuffy air. Dice clatter about the table, echoing like thunder when they make impact. Empty bottles litter the perimeter of the playing field as you, Chance, and Parker are hours into a session— tavern themed. You, the grotto master, and your favorite little pawn had planned this day months prior, meticulously world and character building.
Chance had tried to concentrate on his grotto master duties, but every time you so much as looked at him, he lost the thread. His notes sprawled like forgotten prophecies, his cloak half-slipped from his shoulders, and his hair was messy from sweat.
You loved how commanding he looked, his eyes low, attentive, and dedicated to the wonderful session he had created for everyone. Your eyes peruse his face, then travel to his large biceps made exposed from his rolled-up sleeves. Perhaps you lingered for too long, as you notice him become visibly flustered.
He coughed into his hand, cheeks red, voice pitched a little too high.
“O-okay… the barkeep offers you a drink. You, uh… You both take part in a— ” He blinked, clearly trying to remember what he wrote. “A drinking contest!”
Adjacent to you, Parker was sprawled in his chair, legs wide, smoke curling from between his fingers. He grinned, baring his teeth.
Chance’s voice nearly cracked when he spat out, “That’s— not how drinking works!”
Your laughter sent Chance’s face ruby red. He fumbled with his dice bracelets, nearly knocking them to the floor.
Chance, fumbling over himself, couldn’t even look you in the eyes. Instead, he nearly whispers “You rolled persuasion on me again, didn’t you?”
You leaned closer, picking up his die and spinning it between your fingers. “Do I need to roll, or are you already convinced?” you express as your hand creeps up his thigh.
His glasses slid halfway down his nose as he froze, lips parted like a character mid-dialogue who’d forgotten his line. You swore you could hear the stutter of his heartbeat over the hum of the old attic fan.
Before Chance could stammer out a reply, Parker leaned forward with that lazy grin of his, flicking ash into an empty bottle.
“Golly,” he interjected, tilting his hat back, “I can’t stand you two. Teasing the poor guy with nat 20s and your flirty little smiles, you dirty fucking cheater.”
He reached across the table, plucking the nearest bottle by the neck and sliding it toward you. “You want to play tavern rules? Then we drink.”
You lifted a brow, but the haze and heat made it too easy to agree. The three of you poured fresh shots into chipped, colored glasses, the table sticky with spills and… other unknown substances.
Chance adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers, trying to mask his nerves. “Th-there should be modifiers,” he muttered weakly, like maybe he could hide in the rulebook if he tried hard enough. “You can’t just—”
You clinked your glass against his before he could bury himself further. “Cheers, grotto master.”
Parker smirked when you didn’t flinch, slamming his glass down with a flourish. “See? Easy. I told you. Strategy.”
Chance’s glass hit the table a beat too late, and his cough gave him away. His cheeks flushed darker as Parker threw his head back and chortled.
“First round goes to me,” Parker announced theatrically. “Which means you, Chancey-boy, get the penalty.”
Chance nearly toppled out of his chair. “P-penalty?! That’s not tavern canon!”
You leaned back, savoring your lively company, the smoky air clinging to your skin. “It is tonight.”
The grin Parker shot you was sharp enough to split the haze. He tapped the table twice, then pointed directly at Chance.
“Kiss their cheek.”
Chance’s jaw tumbled open. “Wh—what?!” His voice cracked so hard it made Parker snort.
“It’s a simple penalty,” Parker said matter-of-factly, though his smirk lingered. “Lose the roll, pay the toll.”
You tilted your face toward Chance, inviting. His throat worked as he swallowed, glasses fogging faintly from the heat radiating between you. His lips brushed your cheek — the briefest touch — before he jerked back like he’d burned himself.
“Holy crit,” he whispered under his breath.
Parker’s laughter boomed, but when he looked at your flushed cheeks combined with a coy grin, the humor in his eyes had dimmed. There was something sharper beneath it.
Your turn to roll came, and when Parker lost the next round, you seized your chance. “Penalty,” you hummed, swirling the die between your fingers. “Kiss my hand.”
His grin widened, wolfish. He took your hand without hesitation, pressing his lips to your knuckles with a flourish worthy of any stage. But his eyes — locked on Chance’s — were deadly serious.
The air thickened, clinging sweet and heavy. The dice were forgotten, the game slowly dissolving into chaos.
When Parker lost again, he didn’t wait for you to assign his dare. He pulled his chair closer, knees bumping yours, his smirk crooked and defiant.
“Penalty’s obvious. You sit right here.” He patted his thigh.
The heat of his hand lingered on your hip as he guided you onto his lap. The goofy theatrics were still there, barely, but the weight in his touch was anything but playful.
Chance’s cloak slipped from his shoulders entirely as he gawked, bracelets clattering in a panicked rhythm against the table.
“This—this isn’t how tavern contests are supposed to go!” he squeaked.
Parker leaned forward through the fog, voice low now, stripped of adornment.
“It is tonight.”
Chance’s eyes flicked between Parker and you in a panicked frenzy. His hands hovered over the table like he was about to cast a spell he didn’t understand, lips trembling as he tried to find words. “I-I don’t… we’re supposed to…”
Parker’s gaze snapped to Chance, sharp, possessive, and unyielding. The smirk fell away entirely, replaced by the intensity that made your stomach twist. One hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him, while the other leaned on the table, framing Chance like a prize he didn’t want anyone else to touch.
“You’re not rolling your way out of this,” Parker murmured low, every word meant for Chance’s flustered ears as much as yours. “Not from me, not from anyone.”
You extended a reassuring hand as it drifted over Chance’s forearm, brushing the tattooed underside of his wrist, and his reaction was immediate; he jerked slightly, breath catching. “H-holy crit…” he whispered, voice breaking, cheeks flaming brighter.
Parker’s free hand settled lightly on Chance’s shoulder, holding him in place with quiet authority, though his eyes never left yours. “House rules,” he added, voice clipped, commanding, the faintest trace of jealousy threading every syllable. “And the penalty? I decide.”
Chance’s dice bracelets clattered against the table as he tried to adjust his cloak over his shoulders in a futile attempt to hide, but Parker’s hand on his back made him freeze. He looked up at you, then back at Parker, stammering incoherently, a mix of panic and excitement.
The attic haze loomed over the curdled tension, curling around the three of you, and the line between the tavern contest and reality blurred entirely. Every glance, every brush of skin, every rasped breath was charged. Parker’s dominance and jealousy pressed down like heat, Chance’s fluster made him helplessly pliant, and you were at the center, guiding the energy, coaxing both of them into a game neither of them wanted to lose.
The next round, Parker decided Chamce deserved a penalty.
Chance’s knees trembled under the table. His lips parted tentatively toward you, a soft, uncertain sigh escaping as his shyness melted into nervous excitement.
You trailed a hand up his arm, enticing him, letting his personal space melt away. He did, finally, letting his lips brush against yours in a timid, fluttering kiss before recoiling, flustered beyond measure.
Parker leaned in, a low hum vibrating in his chest. “Not so fast,” he murmured, fingers grazing Chance’s jaw to tilt his head toward him. “You’re mine to keep in check tonight.”
Chance whimpered softly, words failing him entirely. He could barely process the heat from Parker pressing into his side, your teasing fingers sliding along his chest. He was entirely at the mercy of both of you, trapped between Parker’s dominance and your charming warmth; the effect was overstimulating.
As the drinks started to hit, you squeezed between the two nerds, hand tracing up Chance’s chest, along his arms, coaxing, teasing. He gasped, hiccupped, whispered little nerdy exclamations—“Holy crit!”— that only made Parker’s jaw tighten further.
“Not rolling your way out of this,” Parker said again, voice low, pressing a knee between yours. The haze made the world slow, each breath and movement deliberate, teasing, electric.
Dice lay scattered across the table, some rolling lazily over the edges onto the floor, empty bottles teetering as if forgotten mid-toast. The maps, character sheets, and snacks were all neglected in the haze of smoke, laughter, and heat.
Parker shifted, tugging you gently from the chair into his lap, the combined weight making both of you sway slightly. He was cross-faded by now, though he wouldn't dare admit it.
Chance froze for a moment, then blushed impossibly red as Parker’s hand rested possessively at your lower back. The three of you exchanged a look, half mischievous and half unspoken understanding.
Without another word, you all slowly slid to the floor, blankets and cushions hastily pushed aside, the table now just a forgotten relic of the “game” you all cared so much about.
In your drunken state, the floor was inviting, comfy even. Parker pressed you against him, hand trailing along your spine, while Chance leaned into your side, fingers tracing the nape of your neck. The physical closeness erased the attic boundaries, making it feel like the tavern contest had been a prelude to something far more intense.
In bliss, you pondered how this night could get any better. After all, you were sandwiched between your favorite duo, Chance flushed and trembling on one side, Parker’s possessive weight pressing into you from the other.
Parker leaned in, chest pressing against your back, one hand trailing from your hip to the small of Chance’s spine, pulling him gently toward you.
Your drunken grotto master’s hands found yours first, trembling as he clutched your fingers, bracelets jingling softly with every movement.
“House rules,” the rulestickler murmured, voice low and husky, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Penalty still applies.” His hand drifted along your side, and you felt the press of him behind you, the possessive, hot weight of his jealousy making you flush.
Parker’s grip tightened at your hips, fingers tracing down your spine as his breath grew hot against your ear. “Not so fast… you’re mine to guide tonight.”
Your knees bent slightly, balancing the weight of both men. Chance leaned into your frame, pressing eager kisses to your jaw and shoulder, tracing up to your parted lips. Parker mashed into you from behind, presenting his growing erection to your clothed ass.
“Hey, Chance?” He slyly said through half-lidded eyes; his limber hands mapping every curve of your body.
“Mmm… Yeah?”
Your grotto master barely left your plush lips to respond, captivated by your desire.
“Y’know what an Eiffel Tower is?”
That question interrupted your make-out as you and Chance paused to take in Parker’s persistent gaze on your ass and waist.
Grinding back on your pawn's aching dick, you began to slide your clothes off with the help of your favorite guys; Undressing themselves followed suit.
Your knees bent slightly under the combined heat, balancing the weight of both of them. Parker pressed into you harder, pelvis tight against your now bare ass, fingers still tracing along your waist. “Stay still,” he murmured, voice husky, breath warm against your neck. “All of this— both of us— goes through you.”
Chance whimpered into your skin, little nervous gasps punctuating his words. He leaned fully into you, soft kisses tracing from your shoulder up to your lips, trembling and eager. You tilted your head, letting him, whisper a teasing, “Ready?”
His answer was a flustered gasp and a tremor of excitement. “Y-yeah… ohhhh god, so ready…” Hands wandering, lips pressing, every touch frantic but tender.
You relished when the pair talked with more authority; though, you still appreciated their typical goofy cadence.
Parker guided both of you with measured pressure, keeping you perfectly stacked, each movement deliberately calculated.
You slid your hands along Chance’s hair, brushing Parker’s chest, tugging them closer, laughing softly at the way both of them reacted; Chance babbling, Parker murmuring clipped possessive affirmations.
“Perfect,” Parker whispered, thumb tracing your waist, teeth grazing your earlobe.
“Mine… and his… all at once.” he moaned as he slid his long and slender dick inside.
Chance let out a little squeak when your mouth enveloped his length as he gasped, “H-holy crit… oh… this… this is insane…”
Parker moved with deliberate control, each thrust pressing you further into Chance’s trembling frame. His voice was ragged, yet composed, spilling low affirmations into your ear. “Steady. Take it. Both of us. That’s it. Just follow my rules.”
Chance’s hands tangled desperately in your hair as your mouth enveloped him, his bracelets jingling wildly with every twitch of his wrists. His hips bucked forward helplessly, losing rhythm as he babbled between moans. “C-can’t… oh gods your mouth is perfect for me.”
Your muffled laugh vibrated around him, making his glasses slip down his nose. Behind you, Parker bit back a groan, hips rolling with devastating precision, every inch of his dominance pressed into your spine. His hand splayed across your stomach, grounding you, keeping you perfectly stacked between the dorks.
The room echoed with the mix of sounds; Chance’s frantic whimpers, Parker’s low groans, and your own muffled cries twisted between them. Smoke hung thick in the air, the sweet haze turning every gasp into something heavier, more intoxicating.
Chance spilled first, trembling, forehead pressed to your shoulder as a choked moan slipped free. Parker followed not long after, groaning deep as he bit down against your neck, shuddering through the release. You tipped over with them, caught between the heat of both, unraveling in their grip until your legs gave out.
The dissolved party lay strewn across the dingy attic floor.
“Oh, Chance! Look at them! They're so beautiful!” Parker cooed in blissful delight at your fatigued structure.
Chance peeked up from where his face was pressed against your chest, glasses crooked, cheeks burning bright. His breath hitched, but a crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Y-yeah… total crit success,” he whispered, bracelets jingling as he tightened his hold on you.
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