ˑ𖦹. 𝚅𝙸𝚇 .٠✶

⌇₊˚⋆ new to this x reader thing.

[vixxxwrites]

I'm feeling like my posts don't get that hype here, might go back to posting on ao3

[vixxxwrites]

Eternal Thirst: Part 2

Vampire Hunter X Vampire Male Reader

🔞 top y/n (vampire). bottom elias (hunter). mxm smut. sequel vibes. blood play (consensual/intense). foreplay. blowjob. edging. dirty talk. rimming. supernatural stamina. fangs. biting kink. rough sex. creampie. 🔞

❨

Weeks had dragged on like an eternity since that fateful night in the cathedral, but for you, time was a mere illusion. Elias, the vampire hunter who'd once vowed to end your kind, had become your secret obsession. By daylight, he maintained his facade—honing silver blades in hidden armories, consulting dusty tomes on undead lore, even attending clandestine meetings with other hunters who whispered of a "great purge." Yet, as shadows lengthened, he hunted you not with weapons, but with a hunger that mirrored your own. Stolen encounters in fog-shrouded graveyards, rain-slicked rooftops, and derelict basements—each one leaving him marked, breathless, and returning for more. The irony was delicious: the man sworn to destroy monsters had become enthralled by one.

Tonight's rendezvous was in an abandoned warehouse on the industrial outskirts, where the city's pulse faded to a distant thrum. Rain pattered against the corrugated roof, a rhythmic backdrop to the anticipation coiling in your veins. You perched on a stack of crumbling crates, senses attuned to the night—the metallic tang of rust, the faint ozone of storm air, and then, him. Elias appeared in the doorway, silhouette framed by flickering streetlights, his long coat dripping water onto the concrete floor. His crossbow hung limp at his side, bolts removed—a token gesture of truce, or perhaps temptation. His face was a mask of resolve, but those eyes—storm-gray and fierce—betrayed the storm within.

"You're late," you drawled, voice a silken echo that carried across the vast space. "Getting cold feet, hunter? Or just savoring the chase?"

He strode in, shedding his coat to reveal a fitted black shirt that hugged his battle-hardened frame, sleeves rolled to expose veins pulsing with mortal life. Water beaded on his skin, tracing paths down his neck like invitations. Elias was no fragile prey; he was built like a weapon—broad shoulders from wielding axes, scars mapping tales of near-deaths, a jaw set in perpetual defiance. But you'd seen the cracks: the subtle tremble when your touch lingered, the way he'd bite his lip to stifle moans, revealing a vulnerability he loathed admitting.

"Don't flatter yourself, bloodsucker," he retorted, voice gravelly from the chill or perhaps restraint. He stopped mere feet away, close enough for you to scent his arousal beneath the rain—musk and adrenaline, a cocktail that made your fangs ache. "I'm here, aren't I? Against my better judgment."

You vanished in a blur, reappearing behind him, arms encircling his waist to pull him flush against you. "Your judgment's been questionable since you let me pin you that first time." Your lips brushed his ear, fangs teasing the lobe without piercing. He stiffened, a sharp inhale betraying him, but he didn't resist—leaned back instead, just enough to press his ass against your growing hardness.

Foreplay unfolded like a ritual, deliberate and drawn out to savor his unraveling. You spun him to face you, backing him against a cold metal pillar, hands roaming with possessive intent. Unbuttoning his shirt slowly, you exposed inch after inch of toned chest, fingers tracing old scars—reminders of hunts gone wrong, now badges of his survival. "These marks... I could add to them," you murmured, leaning in to lick a droplet of rain from his collarbone. Elias shivered, hands coming up to grip your shoulders, nails digging in as if to ground himself.

"Try it," he challenged, voice husky, eyes half-lidded with want. "But make it count." His pride flared even in submission—a hunter's spirit, unyielding yet yielding to you.

You sank to your knees, the concrete rough but irrelevant to your immortal form. Unzipping his pants with agonizing slowness, you freed his cock—thick, veined, already throbbing and slick at the tip. "Beautiful," you whispered, blowing cool breath over it, watching him twitch. Elias groaned, head thunking back against the pillar. You teased relentlessly: tongue circling the head, lapping at the slit to taste pre-cum, then long, flat licks along the shaft. "Y/N... fuck, stop toying," he growled, hips canting forward.

But edging was your game—sucking him deep, throat contracting around him, then pulling off with a wet pop, denying the build. Your hands joined: one stroking his base in firm twists, the other cupping his balls, rolling them gently while your fangs scraped his inner thigh. "Patience isn't your virtue, is it?" you taunted, nipping just hard enough to draw a pinprick of blood—a tease of the play to come. The metallic scent hit you, sharpening your hunger.

Elias's hands knotted in your hair, pulling you back onto him. "I need more... your mouth, all of it." You complied, deepthroating him fully, nose to his groin, humming vibrations that made his knees buckle. The warehouse filled with obscene sounds: slurping, gagging, his ragged breaths and curses—"Shit, yes, like that... gonna come if you—" You stopped again, edging him to the brink thrice more, until he was a trembling wreck, pleas tumbling out.

Rising, you flipped him to face the pillar, pants shoved to his ankles. "On your hands," you ordered, and he braced, arching back with a needy whimper. Your tongue delved first—rimming his hole with broad, wet strokes, pushing inside to taste him fully. Elias moaned loud, pushing back shamelessly. "Your tongue... god, deeper, please." Fingers followed: one, then two, scissoring and curling to hit his prostate, prepping him while your free hand stroked him languidly.

The blood play escalated as you stood, aligning your cold, hard cock against his heat. Thrusting in slow—stretching him inch by torturous inch—he cried out, walls clenching. "Too big... fuck, move." You did, building to a brutal rhythm: deep, punishing snaps, one hand on his hip bruisingly tight, the other jerking him off. Fangs found his neck, sinking in—not fatally, but enough to draw a steady flow. Blood welled hot and rich, flooding your mouth as you drank, the euphoria amplifying every thrust. Elias screamed in ecstasy, pain-pleasure blending, his free hand reaching back to clutch your thigh. "Bite harder... drink me, take it all," he begged, the loss making him dizzy, submissive, his cock leaking profusely.

Blood trickled down his back, staining his skin as you lapped and sucked, the coppery essence fueling your frenzy—thrusts erratic, possessive. Elias came hard, spilling over your fist with a broken groan, body spasming around you. You pounded through, the bite sustaining your stamina, finally unleashing deep inside—a hot creampie flooding him, mixing with the mess.

Pulling out, you turned him gently, licking the neck wound clean in aftercare and moaning in satisfaction, kissing him with blood-smeared lips. He tasted himself on you, moaning weakly into the kiss.

"No more pretending," you whispered, holding him as he steadied. "You're mine eternally."

Elias leaned into you, eyes fluttering. "Yours..." But as vulnerability peaked. His hand, hidden in the folds of his discarded coat, gripped a concealed silver dagger—blessed and razor-sharp. In a swift, he drove it toward your chest. "Or not," he whispered, voice cold and resolute, the blade slicing deep into undead flesh. Pain exploded as silver burned like fire, your hiss echoing through the warehouse. Blood—your own now—welled black and viscous. Elias pulled back, dagger dripping, eyes hard with triumph and unwanted regret. "I told you—hunters don't submit."

[vixxxwrites]

Locker Room Rival Teammate X Male Reader

⚠️ 18+ for prolonged hate-fueled tension, verbal brutality, physical shoving, bruising kisses, grinding, full rough sex (anal), sweat, blood from a split lip, and zero post-nut tenderness. Enemies who finally snap. Explicit, angry, consensual, and messy. ⚠️

You’ve hated Jax Calder for exactly ninety-three days.

That’s how long it’s been since he walked into the gym like he already owned it: 6'4", inked-up arms, buzzcut sharp enough to cut glass, and a mouth that never learned the word “team.” Coach introduced him as the transfer shooting guard who’d “push us to the next level.” Translation: the asshole who was going to try to take your starting spot and your captaincy in the same semester.

Day one he looked you dead in the eye and said, loud enough for the whole squad to hear, “Hope the point guard here can actually keep up.”

You smiled, all teeth. “Hope the new guy learns how to pass before he gets benched.”

And that was it. War.

He undercut every play you drew up.

He laughed when you missed a free throw in practice.

He “accidentally” elbowed you in the mouth during a rebound drill hard enough to split your lip.

He started calling you “Princess” in front of the freshmen.

You started calling him “Solo” because he played like the other four guys on the court were scenery.

Every single practice became a personal duel. You set illegal screens on him. He boxed you out like he was trying to put you through the floor. Coach screamed himself hoarse telling you both to “cut the alpha bullshit.” You both pretended to listen and then went right back to trying to destroy each other.

Off the court it was worse.

He’d blast trap music in the weight room until you yanked his phone cord out of the wall.

You’d drink the last of the protein shake he left in the fridge and write “Princess was thirsty” on the empty jug with Sharpie.

He left a printed-out article about “overrated point guards” taped to your locker.

You replaced his mouthguard with one you’d chewed bubblegum into.

The team started taking bets on who would throw the first real punch.

But underneath the venom was something neither of you ever said out loud: the way your stomach flipped every time his body slammed into yours under the basket, the way his sweat smelled after suicides, the way you both found excuses to stay late—him shooting free throws, you running extra ladders—until the gym emptied and the lights dimmed to half-court.

Tonight the gym is a tomb.

You lost to State by twelve because Jax ignored your cut and took a contested three with twenty on the shot clock. Coach benched him for the last eight minutes and screamed at you for not “controlling your teammate.” As if anyone could control Jax Calder.

Everyone else is gone. You’re unlacing your shoes with shaking hands, still tasting blood from where your teeth cut the inside of your cheek, when his shadow falls over you.

“Nice leadership tonight, Princess,” he says, voice flat and poisonous. “Real captain material, letting the team hang you out to dry.”

You stand up slow. “You ignored the play. Again. That loss is on you.”

He steps closer, close enough you can see the small scar through his left eyebrow, the one you gave him two weeks ago on a “box-out.”

“Don’t put your weak-ass play-calling on me. Maybe if you could actually fucking finish at the rim I wouldn’t have to carry.”

“Carry?” You laugh, sharp. “You shot four for nineteen, Solo. The only thing you carried tonight was your own ego.”

His jaw flexes. “Keep talking.”

“Or what?” You shove him in the chest, hard. “You gonna cry to Coach again like last time?”

He shoves you back, palms slamming into your sternum, and suddenly you’re both moving—pushing, grabbing, slamming each other into lockers. Metal dents. A shoulder strap on your bag rips. Your forehead knocks his and the sting is bright, perfect.

Then it changes.

He’s got you pinned, forearm across your throat, breathing hard through his nose, and you can feel him—hard—against your thigh. You hate that your body answers instantly. Hate that he notices. Hate the way his pupils blow wide.

“You fucking piece of shit,” he rasps, and crashes his mouth into yours.

It’s not a kiss. It’s an attack.

Teeth scrape. Lips split. You taste blood and hate and three months of wanting to kill him or climb him, you’re no longer sure which. You bite his lower lip hard enough that he hisses and shoves a thigh between yours, grinding up viciously.

You wrench his practice jersey over his head, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave welts. He yanks yours off and slams you face-first into the lockers, the cold metal shocking against your cheek.

“Still think I can’t finish?” he whispers against your ear, already working your shorts down.

You shove back against him, elbow catching his ribs. “Prove it, then.”

There’s lube in his locker—he’s had it for weeks, the damn bastard—and he doesn’t bother with gentleness. Two slick fingers, a third, stretching you rough and fast while you brace one hand on the bench and curse him out. When he lines up and pushes in, it burns white-hot and perfect.

He sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust shoves you against the lockers, the clang of metal matching the slap of skin.

“Fucking take it,” he spat out. “This what you wanted every time you ran your mouth?”

You reach back, nails digging into his thigh, urging him deeper. “Harder, asshole. I’ve had worse from the training sled.”

He laughs—short, vicious—and gives you exactly that. The angle shifts, hits just right, and your smart mouth dissolves into a broken groan. He knows it, the bastard, and doubles down until your legs shake and your palms squeak against the metal.

You come first, clenching around him with a snarl that’s half his name, half a curse. He follows seconds later, buried deep, teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle the sound.

For ten long seconds the only noise is both of you panting like you just ran suicides.

Then he pulls out, steps back, and the spell cracks.

He grabs his towel, wipes himself off like he’s erasing evidence. Doesn’t look at you.

“This never happened,” he says, voice flat again, already rebuilding the wall.

You lean against the lockers, shorts around your thighs, shoulder bleeding where he bit you. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect record of being a selfish prick.”

He pauses at the door, knuckles white on his bag strap. For one second you think he might say something real.

Then he’s gone.

The locker room smells like sweat, sex, and loathing.

Tomorrow you’ll both act like nothing changed.

You’ll still hate him.

He’ll still hate you.

But the war just moved to a different battlefield.

Disclaimer: 100% original characters. Pure fiction. Everyone is 21+.

Note : I wrote this two months ago wow.

[vixxxwrites]

Beanbag Tease pt.1

Best Friend X Male Reader

⚠️ 18+ for simmering sexual tension, light kissing, subtle grinding, clothed exploration. No full sex—just the agonizing prelude. Slow, sensual, with a dash of angst. ⚠️

The apartment's quiet at this hour, the kind of late-night hush where every creak of the floorboards feels amplified. The TV's on mute now, some forgotten indie film frozen on a close-up of rain-streaked windows. It mirrors the mood outside—stormy, unpredictable. You're both sunk into that massive beanbag in the corner of your living room, the one Ezra always mocks as "your sad attempt at adult furniture." He's got his back against your chest, legs tangled casually with yours, pretending to fiddle with his phone like he has been for the past half hour. But you've noticed the way his thumb hasn't scrolled once in minutes.

Ezra's the type who's always got a quip ready—sarcastic, self-deprecating, with that dry humor that hides how much he overthinks everything. Grew up in a big family where he was the overlooked middle kid, so he learned to deflect with jokes. Tonight, though, his usual banter's laced with something tighter, like he's holding back a punchline he doesn't want to deliver.

You shift slightly, your arm draped over his side, fingers brushing the hem of his tank top. It's innocent enough—or it would be, if you hadn't been inching closer all night, not just tonight. He has given you clear signs before. But at the same time he keeps deflecting. "You're awfully quiet for someone who roasted my playlist for twenty minutes earlier," you murmur, voice low, breath warm against the back of his neck.

He snorts, but it's forced, his body tensing just a fraction. "Yeah, well, someone had to point out your obsession with 90s grunge is basically a cry for help. Get some therapy, man." Classic Ezra—deflect with humor. But he doesn't pull away, and you catch the slight hitch in his breathing when your fingers slip under the fabric, tracing lazy patterns on the warm skin of his hip.

"Therapy? Nah, I'd rather annoy you into submission." You press a little closer, your chest fully against his back now, hips aligning in that not-quite-accidental way. He's warm, solid, and you feel the subtle shift as he adjusts, like he's deciding whether to lean in or bolt.

Ezra tilts his head back slightly, enough to glance at you from the corner of his eye—those sharp green eyes that always see too much. "Submission? Bold assumption. You couldn't handle me if you tried." There's a challenge there, but his voice wavers at the end, betraying the facade. He's always been the denier, the one who laughs off compliments, brushes away vulnerability like it's lint on his shirt. "We're just chilling, Y/N. Don't make it weird."

You chuckle softly, hand flattening against his stomach now, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths quicken under your palm. "Weird? This from the guy who crashed here three nights last week and hogged all the blankets every time." Your thumb dips lower, skirting the waistband of his shorts, not invading—just teasing the boundary. He sucks in a breath, subtle but audible in the quiet room.

"Blanket hogging is a survival skill," he retorts, trying for his usual snark, but it lands softer, breathier. He shifts his hips back—barely, like it's an accident—but it presses him right against you, and you both know it's not. "Grew up with siblings who treated bedding like a war zone. Old habits."

You take the opening, rolling your hips once, slow and deliberate, the friction light through clothes but electric. "Old habits like pretending you don't feel this?" Your lips brush his ear as you speak, voice dropping to a whisper. "Come on, Ez. You've been flirting back for weeks—years. those late texts, the way you linger when you say goodbye."

He freezes for a beat, then lets out a shaky laugh that's more exhale than sound. "Flirting? That's your ego talking. I'm just... being friendly." Denial, but it's cracking—his hand comes down to rest on your forearm, not pushing away, just holding, fingers tightening slightly. He's the type who intellectualizes everything, turns emotions into debates he can win. But here, in the dim light, his defenses are thinning.

"Friendly," you echo, amused, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The scent of his shampoo—something clean and citrusy—mixes with the faint salt of his skin. Your hand explores higher under his tank, tracing the ridges of his ribs, feeling his heart thud faster. "Is that why you shiver every time I do this?" You nip gently at his earlobe, and he makes a soft, involuntary noise—half sigh, half groaning—that sends heat straight through you.

Ezra turns his head then, enough for your lips to meet in a tentative brush—not a full kiss, just a graze that lingers. "You're playing dirty," he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and ragged now, no more jokes. His free hand reaches back, threading into your hair, holding you there as if testing the waters. "What if this fucks everything up? You're my best friend, Y/N. The one person who gets my life stories without judging."

The vulnerability hits like a gut punch—real, raw, stripping away the sarcasm. You pause, hand stilling on his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath. "It won't," you say quietly, sincerely, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But if you're scared, we stop. No pressure."

He hesitates, eyes searching yours in the low light, conflict written all over his face. Then, slowly, he gives in—turns more fully in your arms, lips meeting yours properly this time. It's sensual, unhurried: soft at first, exploring, his tongue tentative against yours. Your hand slides to his thigh, gripping gently, pulling him closer as the kiss deepens. He melts into it gradually, body relaxing against yours, hips shifting in subtle response to the building heat.

But as your grinding starts—slow, clothed rolls that draw quiet gasps from him—he pulls back suddenly, breath uneven, forehead against yours. "Wait... I can't." His voice cracks, eyes squeezed shut. "Not yet. If we do this and it crashes... I don't have anyone else like you."

The words hang heavy, the rejection settling in like fog. You nod, loosening your hold, though it aches to let go. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."

He nods too, but doesn't move away immediately—lingers in the space between, conflicted and wanting. The beanbag feels too small now, the silence too loud. If Ezra wasn't actually interested, you'd stopped long ago. But he only gave mixed signals which made it worse for both of you,

Eventually, he untangles himself, standing with a forced casualness that doesn't fool either of you. "I'm gonna... head out. Early shift tomorrow." A lie, but you let it slide.

The door closes softly behind him, leaving you alone with the echo of what almost was. He'll text in the morning, probably with some dumb meme to pretend nothing happened. But you both know the line's blurring, and next time... it might not stop.

⟢ Disclaimer: 100% original characters. Pure fiction.

⟢ Note : this will be a slow burn, I'll make more than one post about it. Also I've been dying to do some angst

[vixxxwrites]

Coworker X Male Reader

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction featuring original characters (OCs). Names, characters, and events are products of the author's imagination and are not based on any real person, living or dead. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.

🔞 top rafe (coworker). bottom y/n (male reader, coworker). mlm smut. office rivals tension. intense foreplay. blowjob. rimming. rough anal. creampie. marking. rimming. passion. raw, realistic frustration-to-fuck. 🔞

⚠️ Minors DNI! ⚠️

Additional Content Warning: Includes explicit rimming (ass eating). If oral-anal play isn't for you, skip or bail—it's intense, but all consensual.

The office lights buzzed low, the only sound besides the hum of the AC and your shared heavy breathing. It was after hours again—third time this week you and Rafe Voss were the last ones grinding through the project deadline. Rafe, with his sharp suits and sharper tongue, the guy who'd been gunning for the same promotion as you since day one. Ambitious as hell, always one-upping your ideas in meetings with that sarcastic edge that pissed you off and turned you on in equal measure. You? The outgoing type, quick with a comeback, flirting just enough to rattle him without crossing lines—until tonight.

"You always have to have the last word, don't you?" Rafe muttered, slamming his laptop shut on the conference table. His dark hair was tousled from running hands through it, sleeves rolled up exposing forearms corded from gym sessions he bragged about. He stood too close, that clean, spicy cologne mixing with the faint sweat of overtime.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing arms with a grin. "Someone's gotta keep you honest, Voss. Your ego's big enough without me stroking it."

His eyes narrowed, but there was heat there—not just anger. "Stroking it? That's your move now?" He stepped forward, crowding you against the table. The rivalry had simmered for months: stolen glances in the break room, "accidental" brushes in the elevator, late-night texts about work that edged into personal territory. Tonight, the dam broke.

You stood, chest bumping his. "If you're gonna talk shit, back it up." Your voice was steady, but your pulse thrummed—outgoing confidence masking how bad you wanted this.

Rafe's hand shot out, gripping your tie to yank you in. The kiss was brutal—no gentle buildup, just lips crashing, teeth clacking, his tongue invading like he owned the space. You gave as good as you got, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer until you tasted the coffee on his breath. It was passionate, yeah, but dirty—born from frustration, the kind where you hate how much you need the other person.

He broke first, shoving you back onto the table, papers scattering. "You've been driving me fucking insane," he growled, hands working your belt open with rough efficiency. "Strutting around like you don't know what you're doing to me."

You laughed breathlessly, helping him shove your pants down. "Admit it—you love the competition. Makes winning sweeter." Your cock sprang free, hard and aching, and Rafe's gaze dropped, hunger plain.

"Shut up and let me show you." He dropped to his knees—Rafe Voss, the office shark, on his knees for you—and took you in hand, stroking firm before leaning in. His tongue traced the underside, slow at first, then he sucked you deep, lips tight, no teasing. You groaned loud, hand in his hair, guiding him deeper. "Fuck, Rafe—yeah, like that." Saliva slicked everything as he bobbed, throat working around you, gagging slightly but pushing through, eyes watering but locked on yours. Realistic mess: drool dripping, your hips thrusting involuntarily, him pulling off to catch breath with a string of spit connecting you.

But he wasn't done proving a point. "Turn over," he ordered, voice wrecked, standing to flip you if you didn't move fast enough. You braced on the table, ass up, heart pounding. Rafe spread you, thumbs digging in, and dove in—no hesitation, tongue flat against your hole, licking broad stripes before pushing inside. You shouted, knuckles white on the edge. "Shit—Rafe, that's—" Dirty, intense, his stubble scraping sensitive skin, fingers joining to stretch you open while he ate you like it was revenge. Passionate in the way he groaned into you, like he couldn't get enough, the office echoing with wet sounds and your unabashed moans.

"Fuck, you taste good, so clean." he muttered against you, pulling back to bite your thigh—hard, leaving teeth marks. "Been thinking about this during every goddamn meeting."

You pushed back, demanding. "Then stop thinking and fuck me already. I can take it."

He stood, pants shoved down, cock heavy and leaking. Lube from his wallet (prepared asshole), he slicked up, pressing the tip against you. "Say it—tell me you want this as bad as I do."

You glanced over your shoulder, competitive fire in your eyes. "Worse. Now do it."

He thrust in—deep, no easing, the stretch burning into pleasure as he bottomed out. You both froze for a second, breaths syncing, then he moved: hard snaps of hips, table creaking under the force. "God—tight as fuck," he panted, hand wrapping around to stroke you in rhythm. Passionate grips: his other hand on your neck, not choking but holding you in place, pulling you back onto him. Dirty realism: sweat dripping, bodies slapping, your moans mixing with his grunts—"Harder, Rafe—make me feel it tomorrow."

He did, angling to hit prostate dead-on, over and over, until you were shaking. "Gonna mark you inside out," he rasped, teeth on your shoulder, biting down as you came—untouched, spilling over the table with a yell. He followed, thrusting erratic, filling you with hot spurts, grinding deep to keep it in.

Collapsed over you, breaths ragged, he kissed the bite mark softly—a rare tender moment. "This changes things," he murmured, pulling out slow, watching the mess.

You turned, pulling him into a slower kiss. "Good. Office just got interesting."

Round two on the couch—your turn to blow him, deepthroating until he begged, then riding him slow and filthy, drawing it out until another creampie left you both wrecked. By morning, the rivalry felt like foreplay.

Yet he left you to clean the mess alone, saying it was your fault. What a dickhead.

[vixxxwrites]

Boyfriend X Male Reader (Anniversary Smut)

🔞 established relationship. top bf (liam). bottom y/n (male reader). anniversary sex. filthy banter. deep throat. face-fucking. breeding kink (talk only). multiple creampies. dirty talk. rimming (ass eating) 🔞

⚠️ Minors DNI. ⚠️

You kick the door shut with your heel, still tasting the champagne from dinner on Liam’s tongue. One year exactly since this cocky bastard looked you dead in the eye and said, “Be mine or I’m gonna make your life hell until you say yes.” Romantic as fuck, right?

“Happy anniversary, baby,” he growls against your mouth, already walking you backward toward the bedroom. “Been hard since the restaurant. You kept squeezing my thigh under the table like a needy little brat.”

You laugh, loud and filthy, nipping his bottom lip. “You were the one whispering how you’re gonna breed me so full I feel you for a week. Don’t blame me for getting impatient.”

He shoves you onto the mattress and yanks his tie off in one smooth pull. “Impatient? You spent dessert rubbing your foot over my cock while the waiter took our plates. Pretty sure he heard you moan when I pressed back.”

“Acting like you didn't like it,” you fire back, stripping your shirt and tossing it at his face. “Now quit talking and get over here. I want my present.”

Liam crawls up the bed like a predator, eyes dark. “Greedy tonight, huh?”

“Always. One year of dating you and I still wake up dripping for it. You gonna make me wait?”

He answers by pinning your wrists above your head with one hand and kissing you so dirty your toes curl—tongue fucking your mouth the same way he’s about to fuck the rest of you. You arch up, grinding against his thigh, already soaked in the front of your briefs.

“Jesus, listen to you,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “Whining like you haven’t been fucked in months.”

“Feels like months when you edge me for twenty minutes every morning and then leave for work,” you snap, voice cracking when he bites your collarbone hard enough to bruise. “Tonight you don’t get to be a tease. Tonight you give me everything.”

He pulls back just enough to smirk. “Everything? You want me to ruin this hole so bad you can’t sit tomorrow?”

“Try me.”

Challenge accepted. Clothes disappear in seconds. He flips you onto your stomach, spreads your cheeks with both hands and dives in—no warning, no mercy. Tongue pushing inside you, wet and hot, eating you out like he’s starving. You shout into the pillow, push back against his face, babbling filth.

“Fuck—right there, don’t you dare stop—use your fingers too, come on—”

Two fingers slide in alongside his tongue, curling hard. Your eyes roll back.

“Liam—gonna come if you keep—shit—”

He pulls off just to talk against your rim, breath scorching. “Not yet. You come when I’m balls deep and nowhere else.”

You flip over, grab him by the hair and drag him up for a messy kiss, tasting yourself. “Then fuck me already.”

He lines up, thick head nudging your hole, and sinks in one slow, relentless push. You both groan—loud, broken, perfect.

“God, you’re tight,” he hisses. “Every fucking time.”

You lock your ankles behind his back and roll your hips. “Move. I want to feel you in my throat tomorrow.”

He snaps forward, hard. The bedframe slams the wall on the first thrust and doesn’t stop. You meet him stroke for stroke, filthy soundtrack of skin on skin and your own voice bouncing off the walls.

“Harder—fuck—wreck me, Liam, come on—”

“Yeah? Want the whole building to know who owns this ass?”

“They already do,” you pant, clawing down his back.

He angles his hips, nails your prostate dead-on, and you wail.

“There it is,” he growls, pounding relentlessly. “Scream louder, baby. Let them know it’s our anniversary.”

You’re beyond words—just broken moans and “please, please, please” until your orgasm barrels through you untouched, cum streaking across your stomach. Liam keeps fucking you through it, overstimulated and shaking, then buries himself deep and unloads with a guttural “Fuck—take it all—”

He stays inside, grinding, plugging every drop. When he finally pulls out, you feel the mess start to leak and you grin, wicked.

“Round two in the shower,” you demand, voice hoarse. “Want you to fuck my throat until I cry, then bend me over the sink.”

Liam laughs, dark and fond, hauling you up. “Happy fucking anniversary to me."

[vixxxwrites]

Fake Dating, Real Fucking

Fake Boyfriend Actor X Male Reader

🔞 top alex (actor). bottom y/n (male reader, co-star). mlm smut. fake dating trope. hotel room tension. extended foreplay. blowjob. dirty talk. rimming. raw fucking. creampie. multiple rounds. consensual shift from pretend to real. 🔞

⚠️ Minors DNI! ⚠️

The hotel suite door swung shut with a heavy thud, sealing out the chaos of the premiere afterparty—the flashing cameras, the forced smiles, the endless questions about your "relationship." It was all part of the gig: you and Alex, co-stars in that cheesy rom-com, playing fake boyfriends for the promo tour. Staged dates, scripted pecks on the cheek, sharing suites "to sell the fantasy." But as the lock clicked, the air thickened, charged with something that had been building since rehearsals. Alex's hand brushed yours as he set down his jacket, and you felt it—a spark that wasn't in the script.

He turned, his sharp jawline shadowed in the dim lamp light, suit still crisp but tie askew from the night's festivities. At 6'2", he towered over you slightly, his broad frame filling the space between you and the massive king bed. "Another night of this charade," he said, voice laced with amusement, but his eyes—dark, intense—lingered on your lips a beat too long. You swallowed, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, well, at least the room service is free." But your heart raced; those "practice" sessions for on-screen chemistry had left you both flustered more than once, hands wandering a little too far under the guise of "getting comfortable."

Alex stepped closer, invading your space without apology. "You know, for fake boyfriends, we pull it off pretty well." His fingers traced the collar of your shirt, popping the top button open casually, exposing a sliver of skin. The touch sent heat pooling low in your gut. "Maybe too well," you shot back, but your voice wavered as he leaned in, breath warm against your ear. "Admit it. You've been thinking about this." Before you could respond, his lips captured yours—not the chaste, camera-ready kisses from earlier, but deep, hungry, his tongue sliding in to tangle with yours. He tasted like champagne and mint, and you melted into it, hands fisting his shirt to pull him closer.

The kiss broke only when air became necessary, both of you breathing hard. Alex's hands roamed down your sides, tugging your shirt free from your pants. "Strip for me," he commanded softly, eyes raking over you like you were his to unwrap. You obliged, shedding layers until you stood in just boxers, skin prickling under his gaze. He followed suit, revealing a toned chest dusted with hair, abs flexing as he kicked off his shoes. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he murmured, pushing you back toward the bed. You hit the mattress, and he crawled over you, knees bracketing your hips.

Foreplay dragged on, deliberate and torturous. Alex's mouth mapped your body—kissing down your neck, sucking bruises that'd need cover-up tomorrow, teeth nipping at your collarbone. His hands explored everywhere: pinching your nipples until you arched, tracing the V of your hips, dipping teasingly under your waistband. "Tell me you want this," he whispered, voice rough, as his fingers finally wrapped around your cock through the fabric, stroking slowly. "Been hard for you all night," you admitted, bucking into his touch. He grinned, wicked, and yanked your boxers down, freeing you.

On his knees between your legs, Alex took his time—licking a slow stripe from base to tip, savoring the salty pre-cum beading there. "Taste so good," he growled, before taking you fully into his mouth. Lips stretched wide, he bobbed deep, throat relaxing to take more, his hand working what his mouth couldn't. You threaded fingers through his hair, guiding him, the wet heat overwhelming. He hummed around you, vibrations shooting pleasure up your spine, saliva dripping messily onto the sheets. Pulling off with a pop, he didn't stop—his tongue dipped lower, tracing your balls, sucking one gently before moving further. "Spread for me," he ordered, and you did, gasping as his tongue circled your rim, teasing the sensitive skin. Rimming you open, he added a finger, slick with spit, pushing in slow to stretch you. The dual sensation—tongue and fingers—had you moaning, grinding back against him, lost in the build-up.

When you were trembling, on the edge, he finally pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not yet." He shed his own boxers, cock springing free—thick, curved slightly, veins prominent. You reached for him, stroking firmly, thumbing the slit until he hissed. "My turn," you said, but he shook his head, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. "I need inside you now." Lube from the drawer coated his fingers as he prepped you more—two, then three, scissoring wide, curling to hit your prostate repeatedly until you were begging, sheets fisted.

He positioned himself, tip pressing against you, and thrust in—slow at first, letting you adjust to the stretch, the fullness. "So fucking tight," he groaned, bottoming out with a snap of his hips. The pace built quickly: deep, powerful thrusts that jolted you forward, skin slapping echoing in the room. His hand wrapped around your cock from beneath, stroking in time, while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. "Feel that? All mine," he panted, angling to hit deeper, prostate abuse making stars burst behind your eyes. Sweat slicked your bodies, the room smelling of sex and cologne.

You came first, spilling over his hand with a choked cry, clenching around him like a vice. Alex thrust through it, pace faltering as he chased his own release—finally spilling deep inside, hot pulses of cum filling you up in a messy creampie. He collapsed over you, both panting, his weight a comforting press.

But he wasn't done. Rolling you onto your back, he kissed you lazily, cock still half-hard against your thigh. "Round two?" he murmured, already stroking you back to life. The night stretched on—more foreplay, another blowjob where you took control, making him beg this time, before he fucked you against the headboard, creampie number two leaving you dripping. By dawn, the fake dating felt laughably obsolete; this was real, raw, and addictive.

"Contract's up in a month," Alex whispered in the afterglow, tracing patterns on your chest. "But us? This isn't ending."

I have a lot of fanfics in my notes, I think I had a lot of free time. I'll edit them and fix the mistakes though before posting.

[vixxxwrites]

Vampire Hunter X Vampire Male Reader

🔞 top y/n (vampire). bottom elias (hunter). mlm. foreplay. blowjob. teasing. edging. dirty talk. supernatural strength. fangs. light biting. cum play. rough sex. consensual smut. 🔞

⚠️ Minors DNI! ⚠️

The moon hung low over the abandoned cathedral, casting silvery light through shattered stained-glass windows. Elias, the seasoned vampire hunter, had tracked you here—his crossbow slung over his shoulder, stakes hidden in his leather coat. But tonight, the hunt had twisted into something far more primal. You'd disarmed him with a blur of speed, pinning him against the cold stone altar, your crimson eyes gleaming with hunger. Not for blood, though. Not entirely.

"You're mine now, hunter," you purred, your voice a velvet rumble that sent shivers down his spine. Elias's breath hitched, his muscular frame tense under your grip. He was built like a warrior—broad shoulders, scarred chest from years of battles—but in your immortal hands, he felt deliciously mortal. Your fangs grazed his earlobe as you leaned in, inhaling his scent: sweat, adrenaline, and that intoxicating pulse of arousal he couldn't hide.

Elias smirked despite himself, his hands fisting in your dark cloak. "Think you can tame me, bloodsucker?" But his words faltered as your cold fingers trailed down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness. Foreplay was your specialty—drawing out the torment until he begged. You kissed along his jaw, nipping lightly without breaking skin, your tongue flicking over the vein in his neck. He groaned, hips bucking involuntarily as you pressed your thigh between his legs, feeling his hardness grow against you.

"Not so tough now," you teased, sliding your hand lower to palm him through his pants. Elias cursed under his breath, his head falling back against the stone as you stroked him firmly, thumb circling the tip through the fabric. You dropped to your knees then, the hunter towering over you but utterly at your mercy. With a wicked grin, you unzipped him, freeing his thick cock—already leaking pre-cum, veins pulsing like an invitation.

You started slow, your tongue tracing the underside from base to tip, savoring the salty taste. Elias's hands tangled in your hair, gripping tight as you swirled around the head, sucking lightly before pulling back to blow cool air over the wet skin. "Fuck, don't tease," he growled, but you loved making him squirm. Your hands roamed his thighs, nails digging in as you took him deeper, lips stretching around him. The foreplay built—hollowing your cheeks, bobbing slowly while one hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently. The other slipped between his legs, fingers teasing his entrance, circling the rim without pushing in yet.

Elias was a mess above you, moans echoing off the cathedral walls. "God, your mouth... so fucking good." You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips thrust forward. You let him fuck your throat for a moment, gagging just enough to heighten the sensation, saliva dripping down your chin. But you pulled off with a pop, edging him mercilessly—licking stripes up his length, kissing the tip, then denying him release.

When he was trembling, pleading, you stood, shoving him onto the altar. Your own arousal strained against your pants as you stripped him fully, admiring his sweat-glistened body. "Ready for more?" you whispered, aligning yourself. With one smooth thrust, you buried deep inside him, his heat clenching around you. The rhythm was brutal—foreplay forgotten in the frenzy, your fangs scraping his shoulder as you pounded into him, one hand stroking his cock in time.

He came first, spilling over your fingers with a shout, and you followed, filling him as waves of pleasure crashed. In the haze, you licked the cum from your hand, sharing a filthy kiss.

No more hunting. Just eternal nights like this.

---

First post. What do y'all think? I wish to post more soon.

[kiochisato]

♡　＃　𓂃　Furina Tumblr Layouts ! ❥　.　➶　 requested by anon. enjoy ! erm kio when forgor itz supposed to be lace-y