Love your work!
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?
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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.