BOTTOM CHANCE REQUESTS

by karoevan

Summary:

Bottom Chance with everyone! Feel free to request anything ;) Check the first chapter tho

Chapter 1: Requests

Alright. I only write bottom Chance. Don’t request top Chance, I literally won’t write it. I don’t see them that way, I don’t feel them that way, and I will ignore the request. No exceptions. Also, my fics may be 1000 words or more when with plot. Please make your prompts/requests really detailed if you want big chapter

I write literally anything, except…….

Top Chance — already said it but I’ll say it again
Noncon / rape / dubcon
Underage sex (that is why c00lkid isnt here)
Scat / vomit / piss / anything bodily like that
"Alpha/beta/omega" stuff

I’ll try to write fast and quick! Also you can try your luck with requesting something, because on one day I might write omega Chance for fun, on another no. But rape/underage is always a hard no. Be nice and kind, thanks :)

Requests for now (writing the keywords for me):

 

Shedletsky/Chance [DONE]

Mafioso/Chance, bunny heat [DONE]

Guest/Chance (there are like two similar requests with them having argument and with coin weakness. 2x) [DONE]

Guest (Red Carpet)/Chance (Milestone IV ig?), blackjack, bet on bottoming [DONE]

Guest/Chance/Mafioso, age gap, daddy issues idk

ITrapped/Chance, ITrapped cries lol [DONE]

Elliot/Chance, yandere Elliot

Mafioso/Chance, omg its fluff blowjobing

Two Time/Chance, both afab

Guest/Chance, vampire

ITrapped/Chance, hate sex

1x1x1x1x/Chance, petplay

007n7/Chance, degradation, c00lgui

Elliot/Chance, sex toy

Guest/Chance, soft sex

Chapter 2: Shedletsky/Chance

Summary:

„AMAB CHANCE BEING FUCKED VIOLENTLY AND RAW NO LUBE NO PROTECTION ALL DAY ALL NIGHT BY EITHER SHEDLETSKY OR GUEST 1337 W OVERSTIM AND DRY HUMPING AND EDGING AND HOLY SHIT DO YOU DO MASTURBATION AND UM NIPPLE PLAY“

Notes:

i may have written this not like the requester wanted to. but i still trieddd! honestly you gave me so much requests im actually shaking lmao

i really pushed through my limits here but its for the bestlolol

There was something in the way they leaned back in the leather chair, shades still on even indoors, lips parted like they were halfway through telling a bullshit, like they were always just seconds from ruining everything. That fucking gambler aura—the gold-ringed eyes behind black lenses, the lashes long enough to catch light, the slouch like they owned the air. They dressed like every day was a dare, they breathed like they’d never been touched right.

So he made it his job to fix that. It started rough and stayed there. No slick, no prep, no excuses: Shedletsky didn’t care for ceremony; he shoved them against the scratched-up hotel wall the first time like he was staking a claim. Chance gasped—a ragged, high sound that shivered down Shedletsky’s spine like a slot machine hitting jackpot—and then they laughed. They fucking laughed, half-breathless, chest rising in that shirt, voice curled with smugness as they said,

“Took you long enough.”

And Shedletsky snapped without really any asking and pausing. Just pressed them face-first into that wall and dragged their tight jeans down without finesse, nails scraping skin, tearing seams. Their ass was a masterpiece of contrast—taut and flushed, trembling under his grip, legs spread and twitching, but their head turned back over one shoulder, shades still on, smirking. He shoved in dry, and they screamed. Not a protest—nothing like that. It was this guttural, shuddering, wrecked sob of a sound, choked through grit teeth.

“Fffuck—hnnnghh, shit—fuck, that’s—haaahh—”

The pain must’ve been white-hot, pure burn all the way in, no resistance except their own tightness trying to keep him out. But they kept throwing it back, arching into the thrusts with this desperate, shaking rhythm, biting their knuckles to keep from sobbing out loud. Shedletsky’s hands locked around their hips, bruising already, and he slammed into them again and again like he was trying to reprogram their spine.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sound of skin on skin filled the stale air, echoing off the shitty motel art and the dusty blinds rattling in their window. He twisted a fist into their hair and yanked hard enough that they yelped.

“Mnnnghh—hahh— Shed—”

He hated when they said it sweet, hated how it twisted under his ribs. So he made it worse—leaned down, bit their shoulder until he tasted blood, fucked them even harder, didn’t stop when their knees started giving out, didn’t stop when their cock started leaking without a single stroke. They came just from the friction. Dry-humping the edge of the bed, legs shaking so hard they collapsed, forehead hitting the mattress.

“Ahh—ahhh, fuckfuckfuck—hhhnnn—”

And he didn’t let up. He kept them like that—face down, ass up, hole raw and dripping red—while he rutted into them like an animal, watching their back jerk every time he bottomed out. They twitched under him, breath stuttering, muscles clenching so hard he had to force them apart again just to fit. He didn’t sleep, neither did they. Shedletsky kept them pinned all night, dragging them up by the hair, forcing them onto his lap to ride him dry while they whimpered and begged.

“Nnngh—I can’t—hahhh—please—too much—”

“Too much, huh?” he growled, wrapping a hand around their throat and squeezing just enough to watch their eyes roll back under the shades. “Then why’s your fucking cock still hard?”

Chance sobbed and bucked, and came again. Ruined, dry, nothing left to give, but still leaking. Every orgasm wrung out of them was stolen. He edged them until they were trembling, teased them until they sobbed, never let them finish unless he said so. Their balls were swollen, cock dark and twitching with every touch, smeared in dried fluid and nothing else. They begged hoarsely, barely able to form words, voice all scratch and whimper.

“Please—pleasepleaseplease—let me—hahhh—let me cum, please—”

And he’d smile, slow and cruel.

“Not yet.”

He fucked them through it. Through the overstimulation, through the twitching, through the broken moans that turned into gasping sobs. He humped their thighs, their back, their stomach. Rubbed his dick between their cheeks until it was red and raw and then shoved back in without warning. They’d shudder, flinch, bite their own wrist until it bled.

But they never said stop. They really wanted it. Even when he came inside them the third time, flooding them with heat, and then forced them to lie back and take it again—no cleanup, just mess on mess, friction and punishment and dry thrusts until their body seized and went limp—they still reached up, trembling fingers tracing his jaw.

“Fucking sadist,” they croaked, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “You missed me.”

He didn’t deny it, just wrapped a hand around their nipples and twisted until they cried out again.

“You like when I miss you.”

Their shades were gone by then, tossed somewhere into the chaos of the room. Their golden eyes looked ruined—red-rimmed, tear-glossed, but still glittering, still cocky. Even with bruises blooming across their neck, even with bite marks lining their ribs and thighs and hips, even with Shedletsky’s hand on their spent dick, lazily jerking it just to watch them writhe—

They smirked. “Takes more than that to break me, baby.”

So he kissed them deep and mean and hungry, hand still pumping, hips grinding against their thigh. Their body spasmed again, one last twitching climax dragged out with nothing but friction, moaning into his mouth as they came dry and shaking.

“Ahh—hhnn—yessss—fuck, Shed—”

He held them like that after, kept them crushed under him, cock still half-hard inside their mess of a hole, fingers tangled in their hair, thumb grazing the bruises blooming under their skin like ink. They twitched every time he touched their nipples—so he kept doing it.

“You’re mine now,” he muttered against their cheek, voice low. “Try and gamble your way out of this.”

Chance just laughed, clearly being dizzy, but still that same fucking gambler grin.

“Deal me in.”

---

 

By morning, the sheets were wrecked—crumpled and crusted with dried cum, sweat, saliva, the blurred stains of too many hours fucking without pause. The mattress dipped beneath them like it wanted to collapse. Shedletsky hadn’t let them sleep, he didn’t believe in mercy when it came to Chance.

They were sprawled now—arms above their head, wrists loosely tied to the bedframe with their own belt, legs parted, slick with mess and trembling so violently they couldn’t stop. Their mouth hung open, panting. Somewhere along the way, their shades had been bent in half and tossed aside, gold eyes bare, lips swollen.

Shedletsky had knelt between their thighs again, two fingers still deep inside, curling slow. He wasn’t even fucking them now, not properly—he was working them over, or… tormenting them, really. His other hand was on their chest, thumb and forefinger pinched hard around one nipple, rolling it between rough fingertips until it stiffened painfully.

“Shhh,” he muttered as they whimpered, trying to buck. “You’ve got more in you. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“Shed—nnnnhh—hahh—m-my cock, it hurts—”

Their dick was flushed dark, pulsing where it lay against their belly. A single bead of fluid hung from the slit. They were so hard it was obscene—nothing in their body left to come with, and still rock-fucking-hard. Shedletsky didn’t touch it. He circled his thumb around the nipple again, then leaned down and sucked the other between his teeth, slow and evil. Chance let out this strangled, broken little cry.

“Nnnnghhh—haaaahhh—d-don’t—”

But their hips jerked up anyway.

“Oh, don’t?” he murmured around the nipple, voice mocking. “Too sensitive? Too fucked out? Gonna cry for me?”

And they did. Eyes streaming sideways, body arching into the stimulation, twisting under his hands while he rolled both nubs between fingers and teeth, suckling and pulling. Every flick of his tongue made their cock throb helplessly, a twitch they couldn’t stop, twitch-twitch-twitch—

“I wanna jerk it—please—please, lemme touch it, fuck—”

“No,” Shedletsky said flatly, pressing his thumb down hard on their nipple until they squealed. “You get nothing.”

“But I—hhhaahh—fuck, please, I’m gonna lose my mind—”

“You already did.”

He grabbed their cock then—not to stroke it, but to hold it, just enough pressure to make them moan again, his palm hot and unkind as he slowly dragged his thumb up the underside of their shaft without rhythm. Not jerking, just... teasing maddeningly slow. Up, down, pausing, tracing the head, watching Chance’s whole body go taut, then shiver, then buck.

“Hands,” they begged, voice rasping, delirious. “Please, I’ll—I’ll stroke it, I swear—please, let me—”

“Oh yeah?” he said, sitting back on his knees. “You think you deserve that?”

“Yesss—fuck, yes—”

He reached behind him, pulled something from the floor. A pair of gloves: black, rough, something synthetic and unyielding.

“Then do it with these.”

He shoved the gloves over their fingers, pulling them taut until the seams strained. No lube, no mercy, and when Chance finally wrapped their own gloved hand around their cock, the sound they made was animal.

“AAAHH—nnhh—fuck, it’s too much—s-scratchy, it’s—” but they didn’t stop. Their hand moved, jerking themselves off through the agony, each stroke a brutal scrape of sensation, desperate for release that wouldn't come.

Shedletsky sat back, watching them wreck themselves.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he said, reaching out to tweak one nipple again. “Hurts and you still fuck your fist like you need it to live.”

“I do,” they gasped, face streaked in sweat and tears, jerking harder now. “Oh god—nghh—my fucking—hahhh—pleaseplease—”

“No,” Shedletsky snapped, grabbing their wrist mid-stroke. “Stop.”

They moaned so loud it cracked.

“NNNNGH—”

He made them wait. He’d stroke their nipples just to keep them trembling, while their cock throbbed in the open air, denied, punished. Over and over, he brought them to the edge, forced their hand away, then shoved his own fingers back inside them and played with the swollen mess of their hole until they writhed and begged again. Then stopped.

Again.

Then teased their cock with gloved fingers.

Again.

But he still wasn’t done.

And neither were they.

Chapter 3: Mafioso/Chance (breeding)

Summary:

Chance gets turned into a rabbit hybrid, and Mafioso can't resist their scent, so he tries to court them.

Notes:

never weote anything with breeding sorry ts is so ass

Broken glass underfoot, echoes of gunshots that never quite faded, red neon bleeding across ruined corridors. The game’s round had started with six, now it was two. One sentinel, one killer, and luck, as always, had kept Chance breathing through all of it—if you could call this living.

They stood near the edge of the boiler courtyard, steam hissing out from rusted pipes, a flickering game overlay glitching faintly in the upper-right of their vision, telling them the match had entered overtime. Behind their black shades, their gold eyes tracked movement in shadows that didn’t behave like they should. They weren’t just seeing in dim light anymore. Their vision shimmered at the edges, sensitive to heat, smell, the faint thud of boots too far away for any normal human to hear, which was good, because the man walking toward them wasn’t human either.

He was big, built like he was carved out of a hundred bad decisions and not one of them ever came back to haunt him. His coat flared slightly with each slow step, moving like it had weight and authority of its own. No music played in the realm, but his presence brought rhythm—like the universe wanted to lay down bass notes behind his every move. Heavy gloves, sharp jaw, scar over the top lip like a bite that never healed. He didn’t run, didn’t aim a gun, didn’t need to. His gaze did all the shooting now.

Chance didn’t flinch. They tilted their head back, cracked their neck, exhaled a long curl of breath that fogged in the air but dissipated too fast. Something felt… wrong in their blood. Warm, effervescent, fuzzy like static under their skin. They’d felt adrenaline before: fear, lust, panic. But this wasn’t any of those. This was hunger at its finest — slow, seeping, wet-between-the-thighs kind of need that made their knees stiffen and stomach flutter. Mafioso inhaled hard, like he could taste their thoughts.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he rasped.

Chance narrowed their eyes behind their glasses.

"Knew what, exactly?"

He stepped in, close enough now that the heat from his body made the air ripple.

“That you’d be the one left. That you’d get hit with the curse first.” His voice had the cadence of somebody who’d watched a hundred variations of this play out. “It ain’t random. You’re not just turned. You’re chosen.”

Chance tried to laugh it off, but it came out shaky.

“Please. I’ve been chosen before. Usually ends with someone screamin’ my name and throwin’ poker chips.”

“No one ever tried to breed you before, then?”

The words struck deep, because they were vulgar, like he’d dropped a meat hook right into their spine and tugged. They shifted their weight, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of clothing on their skin. Their thighs pressed together, the air was thick and warm. Their shades slid down the bridge of their nose as their new ears flicked reflexively—long, soft, twitching with every shift in air current. They hadn’t believed it till now. But the changes were real. Ears, tail, nerves firing all wrong. Their whole body felt wired like a rabbit’s—tense, alert, fuckable.

“You feelin’ it?” he asked, voice a low drawl, almost sympathetic. "Heat’s real, baby."

Chance gritted their teeth.

“Back off.”

He didn’t. His hand moved—just a fingertip tracing their jawline, the edge of a glove grazing their skin like leather whispering across silk.

“Nah. I think I’ll do the opposite.”

And then he kissed them. Not soft, not romantic, just mouth to mouth, all teeth and hunger, like he wanted to taste the change on their tongue. His other hand grabbed their hip, thumb digging into bone like he was already planning where to hold them while he drove in. The kiss broke with a wet sound from Chance, as they shoved him, panting, shades askew. Their voice came out breathless.

“You think I’m gonna roll over for you ‘cause I got a tail now?”

“I think your body already is.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Their chest was heaving, breath shallow, skin flushed pink beneath the neckline of their jacket. That scent—their scent—was leaking into the air like pheromones sprayed directly into the bastard’s face. Whatever this hybrid form was doing, it wasn’t subtle. They were in heat, and he could fucking smell it.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, voice gravel-low. “I don’t fuck you here. I wait, let it build. You walk with me, and you don’t run. You ask me to breed you by the time I’m done.”

“You’re full of shit.”

He smirked, leaning in again.

“So’s that little hole. But not for long.”

Heat shot through Chance’s belly so fast it made their knees buckle slightly. They turned away—too fast. Their tail brushed his leg and Mafioso made a low rumble from deep in his chest.

“Try me, rabbit.”

Chance didn’t remember agreeing, didn’t remember following, but they were moving, guided deeper into the probably new map—into the maze of boiler rooms and abandoned dorms. The air grew hotter, their skin dampened with sweat, their clothes clung. Their pulse jumped at every sound, their mind swam. They reached a locked maintenance room. He kicked it in.

Chance didn’t hesitate.

His coat hit the floor, then his gloves. His shirt, his muscles gleamed under the emergency lights like bronze turned flesh—each movement deliberate, controlled. He was built for violence and sex in equal measure. Thick arms, torso like a fuckin’ mountain. His cock? Already hard and already leaking. And Chance? Stripped down, panting, a black thong barely hanging on beneath their pants, eyes dazed behind those black shades. Their voice broke.

“Fuck… I can’t—”

He stepped in.

“You will.”

And then he had them bent over a pipe railing, their knees barely holding, his mouth on their shoulder biting hard enough to mark. Their tail twitched as his hand wrapped around the base, tugging, teasing.

"Aahhh—fuck!” they yelped, back arching.

“Sensitive, huh? That tail’s wired up real good.”

He shoved his cock between their thighs, running the thick head up against their entrance, smearing slick and heat and non-verbal promise until they were sobbing with need. Each breath was ragged, whimpering, their hips rolling back against him without even thinking.

“Beg.”

Chance tried to stay cocky, tried to say something, but their words came out as a shuddering gasp.

“Please—fuck, just—do it—do it already, fuck me—”

He didn’t wait another second.

He slid in just one brutal stroke. Their walls clenched immediately, impossibly tight, slick and warm and pulsing. Chance screamed, gold eyes wide and feral now, gripping the pipe so hard their knuckles went white.

"Y’like that?" he growled, already starting to thrust, the wet slap souns of his hips hitting their ass echoing off the concrete walls. “You were made for this.”

"F-fuckkkk—hahhh—hnnnngh—ahhh—"

He bred them like a goddamn animal, just as relentless . Thick cock slamming into them over and over, flattening their insides against the pressure. Their belly bulged slightly with each thrust, his length so deep it felt like he was punching into their fuckin’ soul. Chance moaned, cried out, shook with each slam, their thighs soaked with slick.

They came first and fast. Their hole spasmed around him, milking, desperate, overstimulated.

"FUCKKKkk—ohhh god—"

And it only egged Mafioso on. His hand grabbed their neck, slightly choking, but really just holding, grounding. His other hand moved around to rub their cock—vicious circles that made them sob. The match timer glitched out. No more countdown, no more alerts. Just silence punctuated by the rhythmic wet slap of hips meeting flesh and Chance’s ragged, overstretched moans reverberating through the rust-stained stairwell where Mafioso had taken them next. Light flickered above—an emergency bulb stuttering as if it couldn't keep up with the heat in the air.

Chance’s back was pressed to the concrete wall, their thighs trembling where they were spread wide and hooked over the Mafioso’s forearms. He had them pinned in the air, fully impaled, cock buried balls-deep inside them and refusing to pull out. Slick was leaking down their thighs in fat drips, puddling on the dusty stair below. Their skin glowed with sweat, lashes stuck together, chest rising in jagged gasps. The first load was still inside them, hot and thick, sloshing each time Mafioso shifted his hips. The second? It hit with force.

“Nnnngghh—f-fuckfuck, fuuuuck—!”

Chance cried out as another orgasm overtook them, their cock twitching helplessly between them and the Mafioso’s abs, untouched, overstimulated. Their hole clenched, fluttering around the monstrous shaft stuffed inside, milking it greedily even as they shuddered with the force of the climax. Mafioso snarled low, lips curled into a grin like he’d just pulled off the perfect hit.

“Still squeezin’ me like you’re beggin’ for more. Fuckin’ insatiable.”

Chance’s mouth hung open with no words. Just breathy, slurred, “Ahnnn—hah—hahhh—” gasps as they trembled through it.

“Thought you were cocky,” he growled, fucking deeper, the head of his dick grinding against something inside them that made their toes curl and their eyes roll back. “Now you’re just cockdrunk.”

He was right. Something had shifted in Chance—not just their body, but their mind. The hybrid traits were intensifying. Ears longer, tail puffier, their skin more sensitive. Their scent? Musky, sweet, so thick it practically steamed around them, driving the Mafioso into something beyond rut—obsession.

Every thrust was a possession. Every second, his hand adjusted on their thigh, arm, neck, as if to remind them there was nowhere to go. No escape, just this, just him. And Chance’s cock… still hard and still leaking. The third orgasm wasn’t a buildup. It was a jolt. He pulled almost all the way out—teasing, stretching their hole wide enough they gasped, toes curling—and then slammed back in with a brutal force.

Chance screamed.

“AaaaaaAAAHNNnnn—!”

Their whole body arched. Their cock spurted untouched between them, thick ropes slapping wet against their belly, pulsing over and over as their walls spasmed uncontrollably around the Mafioso’s cock.

“Look at that,” the killer murmured, watching the mess slide down Chance’s stomach. “You came just from gettin’ stuffed. Didn’t even need your fuckin’ dick touched.”

“I—can’t—” Chance panted, flushed and twitching, “fuck, it’s—so full—”

“You’ll take more,” Mafioso said like a promise.

He pulled out slowly, deliberately, dragging every inch of slick, cum-coated length free. Chance shivered at the sound, it was so nasty and loud, that it echoed far too loud in the stillness. Their hole gaped, twitching, the heat inside unbearable. The cum sloshed within them, a literal weight—visible now, their belly slightly rounded, tight.

“You feel it?” Mafioso growled, kneeling between their legs now, slapping the inside of one thigh. “Fuckin’ breedhole. All mine.”

He leaned in, licked up the mess from Chance’s cock to their belly button, then shoved three thick fingers inside the gaping entrance with zero resistance. Chance shrieked.

"HHHnnnnf—f-fuckkkk—!"

Their hips bucked. The sensation of the fingers pushing against the swollen heat inside them, playing with the cum he’d just pumped in, was almost too much. They clawed at the concrete wall behind them, thighs trembling, gold eyes wild.

“Too much?” he asked, smirking.

They didn’t answer, couldn’t. Their fourth orgasm hit without warning. Their body jerked violently, thighs clamping around Mafioso’s shoulders, their cock pulsing again—dry this time, every nerve raw. Mafioso didn’t stop fingering them. Just fucked the mess deeper, grinning at how ruined they looked.

"That's four," he muttered. "You're still twitchin'."

Chance sagged forward, barely upright, breathing fast and shallow. They’d never felt this way, never been this sensitive. Their cock hurt from how hard it still was. Their hole felt too full, and yet every time Mafioso touched them, they wanted more. Their voice cracked.

“…can’t… f-feel my legs…”

“Good,” he said, dragging them down to the stairwell floor, flat on their back now, legs spread and trembling. He mounted them again, cock hard again, and slapped it against their used hole. “Then you’ll stay nice and still.”

He shoved back inside with a growl.

And began again.

Their tail twitched, their cock pulsed, their voice broke into stuttering moans.

And still the match didn't end.

Chapter 4: Guest/Chance, coin weakness

Summary:

We need service top guest x Bratty bottom chance🙏🙏🙏with gentle guest that gets progressively more rough when chance annoys him and Guest uses their coin to make them gain weakness
WE want it ROUGH and AS FREAKY as possible. Choose whatever scenario you want but I'm thinking of chance teasing guest for the whole day about his wife that he cant see which leads to the freaky time at night if I know what I mean 😋😏. Chance with coin weakness increasing the amount of pleasure they feel (i want them sopping and drowning in pleasure 🙏)

+

Chance pisses guest off and and guest tries to tell Chance off with him getting a little physical but things get a little... 'heated' if you know what I mean wink wink 😉😉
Bottom Chance with coin weakness increasing the amount of pleasure he's feels (i want him sopping and drowning in pleasure 🙏)

Notes:

ok i didnt meant to write chance so pathetic bur whatever you freaks love ir… prepare for guest/chance since i want to write them first and then come to others

Actual plot? nahhhh

I remember the request having power bottom chance but i suck at writing how chance rides someone

The coin flipped midair with a soft sound of gold (just like Chance’s eyes) spinning in slow motion under the haze of neon ceiling glow. Chance stood just out of reach near the blackjack pit, hips cocked, one brow raised above those too-dark shades. Behind them, the roulette table chimed its little death knell and the crowd gasped—somebody won, somebody lost—but neither of them looked away.

“Tails again,” they purred, tongue just barely visible as they bit down on a grin. “Aw. Poor soldier boy. What’s that now? Fifth stack?”

Guest didn’t reply. His gaze stayed leveled on them, unmoving, arms crossed. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, forearms taut with self-control, and that scar under his jaw twitched once when Chance flicked the coin back up into the air again.

“I bet she wouldn’t tease you like this,” Chance cooed, stepping close enough for their breath to fog the edge of his collarbone. “Your sweet little wife. Bet she made you feel special, whole, and comfortable. Probably never made you grind your teeth and picture choking someone out, huh?”

He said nothing. They leaned forward, voice dropping, gold eyes flashing beneath the shades as they slowly tugged them down just enough to let him see.

“I’m not her. I’m worse. And you still keep looking.”

He inhaled once. Slow. But that was all.

---

Night came like a storm hiding behind silence. They ended up in the penthouse suite—Chance’s idea, obviously. Velvet wallpaper, mirrors too big, ice bucket untouched on the minibar. The moment the door locked behind them, they turned and faced him with the coin between two fingers, spinning it lazily.

“Still pretending you don’t want it?” Chance said, then flicked the coin again with a practiced snap of the thumb. It caught the dim light and landed on their palm. “Tails.”

Six. Their knees twitched just slightly. A breath caught in their throat.

“Mmh—oh, that one hit different,” they whispered, voice airy now, lashes fluttering like their balance was shifting.

He walked forward with slow and measured temp.

“You like this,” Guest finally spoke, voice low, dangerous in the calm way it stretched across the room. “You’ve been poking at me all day. Running your mouth about her. Testing how far you can go. You really want to see what happens when I snap?”

Chance swallowed hard, but grinned.

“God, yes.”

The coin flipped again.

Tails.

Seven.

They stumbled back against the minibar, hips jerking involuntarily, legs threatening to give.

“F-fuck—ahh—y-you—mmhh—”

Their thighs trembled as the Weakness hit like a wave.

“D-damn, that’s good—hahh—”

He was already in front of them, grabbing their chin, tilting it up.

“Say you want it.”

Chance blinked up, lips parted, cheeks flushed as sweat already shimmered on their skin.

“Want you to make me cry.”

“Good,” Guest said, and his hand slammed down over the coin in their palm. “No more flips. You’ve had enough.”

---

The first thrust came without ceremony. Guest had bent them over the edge of the velvet couch, their shades tossed aside, hair splayed messily across their face. They gasped as his fingers dug into their hips, lifting them just right, dragging the head of his cock along that slick, pulsing mess between their legs where all that Weakness had pooled like a flood. When he finally slid in—hard, thick, unrelenting—it knocked the breath out of them.

“AAhhhnn—! F-FUCK—shit—hahhh—!” Chance clawed at the velvet cushions, nails digging deep. “T-too much—th-that’s—aaahhh—”

“You flipped seven times,” Guest growled behind them, voice almost guttural. “You asked for this.”

He pulled back just enough to slam in again, his hips snapping forward with punishing force that shoved them half a foot across the couch with each motion. Wetness dripped down their thighs in obscene rivers, their body wracked with spasms, their own voice nothing but babbling syllables.

“Y-you don’t understand—hahh—when it lands tails—aaahh—it m-makes me—f-fucking—nnnnggh—f-feel everything—”

“Good.”

His hand wrapped in their hair, yanked them back upright, kept pounding into them with that brutal soldier’s rhythm—relentless, unshakable, each thrust angled just right to make Chance scream.

“FUUuhckk—o-oh my g-god—hahh—our soldier’s rough—”

They didn’t even realize what they were saying anymore. Their thoughts dissolved into heat and pleasure and the ringing echo of their own voice bouncing off mirror-glass walls. He didn’t slow. He grabbed their wrist, forced it back to their own mouth, pressing their fingers into their lips.

“Bite down. You’re too loud.”

They obeyed half-consciously, drooling around their knuckles, hair stuck to their face, lower lip trembling. He growled into their ear, voice like thunder under the skin.

“You wanted the game. Now take the loss, filthy gambler.”

 

---

 

The coin lay forgotten on the floor, tails up. They were a mess of limbs by the end, collapsed half on their back, half on the cushions, legs twitching, stomach glistening with sweat and slick. Their thighs were shiny with it, dripping, soaked to the knees. Gold eyes glassy, shades nowhere in sight, hair clinging to their cheekbones. Their mouth hung open, breath shallow, lips kiss-bitten and red. He stood above them, shirt still on, forearms tensed, his cock still slick with them. He dragged a thumb down their jawline.

“What’s your stack now, gambler?”

Chance whimpered, voice hoarse.

“C-couldn’t count—hahhh—lost it after s-six—”, their whole body spasmed again just from the memory of it, another wave of pleasure crashing into them like a lightning bolt in their spine. “I—I c-can’t—feel m-my legs—”

“Good.”

He reached down, grabbed the coin, flipped it once more. Tails. Chance sobbed. Literally sobbed, a hiccupping, overwhelmed mess, their body arching involuntarily off the couch, voice cracking as they writhed.

“AAHhhghnn—f-FUCK—p-please—m-more—d-don’t stop—nnhhh—”

“Didn’t say I was done,” he said.

And then he was on top of them again.

 

---

 

You see, the thing is: Chance had never begged before. Flirted, teased, mouthed off? Constantly. They were a smug little menace from the moment they strutted into any room, black shades low on their nose, gold eyes daring the world to make them feel something. But begging? That was beneath them, or—had been.

Now? They were wrecked. Splayed out across the silken sheets of that oversized penthouse bed, wrists limp above their head, held there not by restraints but by sheer overload. Muscles twitching. Thighs trembling. Skin flushed from chin to ankle. And their voice? Shattered into whimpers, cracked laughter, and heat-slicked little pleas that Guest 1337 drank in like nectar from a poisoned flower.

And still. Still they smiled. Between every shiver, every twitch, every ruined breath dragged from their chest by that soldier’s unrelenting hands, they smirked—cocky little thing who knew damn well they were the one who started this whole war.

“You’re s-so obsessed with me,” Chance drawled, breath hitching mid-sentence when Guest slid a hand down their belly and just pressed. Their whole body jumped, pelvis tilting up involuntarily, mouth dropping open on a high, sweet gasp. “F-fuckk—obsessed, baby. You c-coulda walked away. But look at you.”

Guest’s palm splayed wide over their stomach, calloused thumb skimming just above where they were most sensitive. His voice was gravel and low fire when he spoke.

“I’m not here for you.”

Chance snorted, head tilting back against the pillows as they caught their breath.

“Mmhh. Yeah. Sure. That’s why you flipped the coin yourself, huh?”

They reached down, hand trembling slightly, grabbed the coin off the nightstand and held it up like a goddamn relic.

Flick. Clink. Tails. The Weakness slammed into them like a drug hit right to the core. Their legs kicked, body arching off the bed, mouth open on a noise that wasn’t even a moan—just a choked-out squeal of overstimulation. Their back curled like a bowstring snapping.

“AHhh—nnghhfuckk—! T-TEN, that’s TEN—hahh—s-stacks—”

They were drooling again, the coin falling from their hand, landing on their bare thigh with a quiet tap. Chance was quivering, thighs spread so wide it ached, their chest heaving, whole body soaked and slick and shaking.

“I—I—can’t—nnh—Guest—!”

And he was there immediately, like this was another instinct. Guest braced one hand against the headboard and slid his other beneath their back, lifting Chance easily into his lap. He held them like they were weightless, like they were made of molten silk and lightning—his touch was rough in force, but careful in detail. A war-forged weapon who knew exactly how to cradle something breakable. Chance slumped against his chest, body wracked with pleasure tremors. Their cheek rested against his collarbone, lips brushing his neck as they moaned softly, the sound sticky and desperate.

“Mmmgh—f-fuckin’ hate you—love y-you—nnnh—I c-could ruin you, soldier boy…”

“You already have,” Guest murmured into their hair, and then shifted his hips—and buried himself inside again.

 

---

There was nothing slow about the second round.

Guest didn’t ask if they were ready. He knew they were. Chance was soaked, soaked to the point of mess, so full of their own arousal they were dripping onto his thighs, twitching and begging for friction even when they couldn’t form full sentences. He slid back into that heat, that clenching, desperate little vice that grabbed at him like it needed him—pulling him deeper with every motion, every thrust.

“NNnghhahh—! G-gonna—fuckkk—g-gonna c-cum— again—nnhh—!”

“Hold it,” he growled. “You’re not done yet.”

“I—I can’t—! You’re—fuck, you’re s-stretching me so—so g-good—hahhh—”

Chance was keening. Their fingers curled against Guest’s chest, clawing helplessly. Guest held them close, one massive hand on their ass, keeping them lifted and tilted perfectly so every deep stroke hit that sweet, devastating place inside again and again. Smack. He brought his hand down flat across their thigh. A sharp slap, just hard enough to send them jumping in his arms.

“Keep talking,” he ordered. “You wanted control? You tell me how to fuck you.”

Chance tried to laugh—but it broke apart in their throat, swallowed by a moan that turned into a whimper.

“G-god—you’re so f-fucking rough—I—nnhhh—wanna—wanna feel it all, wanna be s-so weak I c-can’t stand—”

“You’re already there.”

He flipped them suddenly, laying them out on their stomach with one hand cradling the back of their head. Pressed their face into the silk pillows, dragging their hips up high, high enough that their ass was in the air, back arched, legs spread wantonly. Chance sobbed into the bedding, their breath ragged, hair messy and damp across their cheeks. Guest drove into them again, deeper now, hitting that spot that made them scream.

“AAAH—ghhhddnnn—f-FUCK—s-so full—”

“You wanted to drown,” he grunted. “So drown.”

And he fucked them like a force of nature. Each thrust was brutal, perfect, like he’d mapped their body and committed it to memory. He angled up to make them feel it in their spine, then pulled out just far enough to tease them, make them beg, then slammed back in with such force it punched the breath from Chance’s lungs.

“P-pleasepleaseplease—mmnnnhh—I’m gonna—!”

“No.”

He grabbed the coin again, flipped it one last time.

Tails. Eleven.

Chance’s whole body went still. Then the orgasm hit them like a meteor. No sound. Just white-hot trembling, a flash of tears, their back arching violently. Then came the voice—a shredded little cry ripped out of their chest, uncontainable, ruined. They collapsed fully — limp, twitching, helpless. Guest didn’t stop. He grunted low, rough, pulling Chance’s hips back with every thrust.

“You’re still clenching. Still want more. You don’t know how to quit.”

Chance tried to speak—but their voice was gone. Just breathy little moans.

“Mmmhh—ghhddn—y-yes—y-you win—”

“No,” Guest growled, shoving in deeper. “You do.”

And when he came—oh, when he came—it was all at once. A feral grunt, his body locking up, his hands gripping them hard enough to bruise as he emptied himself inside with one final, devastating thrust. Chance’s eyes rolled back. They felt every pulse, every twitch and every fucking drop.

---

After? The room was quiet, the sheets were ruined, the air thick with heat and sweat and something almost tender. Chance was curled up beside him now, their head on his shoulder, fingers twitching against his chest like they couldn’t stop moving. Guest brushed their hair back gently, his thumb dragging across their temple.

“Still obsessed?” Chance whispered, eyes closed.

Guest didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

Because the coin lay on the floor between them.

Still tails.

Still waiting.

And Chance was already licking their lips.

Chapter 5: Guest/Chance, blackjack

Summary:

“milestone chance and top red carpet guest1337 gentle sex,,, starts off with them playing blackjack but chance loses, originally they had a bet where whoever loses has to bottom. But guest is very gentle with them.”

Notes:

sorry for not writing anything these days i felt myself really awful and almost died srs ecause i havent eaten normally in like a week but its ok im here with bangers

i hate writing soft ughhhhh chance why are you sooo

It started with the chip. Red and white, smoothed at the edges from countless thumb-flicks, its face worn like a favorite lie. Chance twirled it between nimble fingers, lounging low in the velvet-cushioned chair like they owned every inch of this floor—and in a way, they did. The house might be built on rules, but Chance had always been the exception. Their lips curled lazily around a sugar stick, black sunglasses gleaming under the golden overheads, and their long lashes made it almost comical how unreadable they remained even as they smirked across the green baize at Guest 1337.

“Double down,” they said, voice like a sly grin drawn out slow.

“Mm,” was all Guest 1337 replied, quietly amused behind that statue-still calm.

He cut a figure unlike anyone else at the table—impeccably dressed, halo tilted slightly with unintentional elegance, boa draped over one shoulder like some half-forgotten royal. His gaze never wandered from Chance’s hands, and his own rested like iron weights beside his cards. The dealer, some poor soul caught between two tectonic plates of charisma and fate, flipped the next card. Bust. Chance exhaled through their nose, leaned back with a chuckle too soft to be bitter.

“Fuck.”

“You made the bet,” Guest said, tone even.

But his eyes—oh, his eyes betrayed him. They locked on Chance for a moment, warm with amusement, tinged with something far quieter and deeper. Chance tipped their shades down to the bridge of their nose. Gold irises gleamed beneath, pupils dilated like they were still riding the high.

“I did,” they said, stretching out every syllable like silk over skin. “And you’re gonna cash it in?”

Silence. Just the background murmur of the floor, the sound of chips clinking and faraway dice bouncing like static under the tension between them. Then, Guest nodded once.

“Yes.”

Chance grinned, wide and fanged.

“Thought you’d say that.”

---

It wasn’t sex at first. It was the moment in the hall—where silhouettes had vanished behind double doors—and Chance stood still in the gold-shadowed corridor, tugging their shades up into their hair, heartbeat hiccupping in their chest like it forgot what steady rhythm meant.

“You serious about this?” they asked, almost offhand, but their voice cracked at the edges.

Not from fear, not quite, just from the unspoken pressure of it all. Guest stepped in close, his frame towering but never looming. That gold halo gleamed against the soft overheads like a crown worn in mourning.

“I don’t break promises,” he said quietly.

Then, he looked at them, really looked. And Chance blinked, mouth suddenly dry. Guest lifted a hand, calloused fingers brushing over the edge of Chance’s jaw.

“But I’ll be gentle,” he added. “If you want that.”

And something in Chance’s chest caved, like a door they didn’t remember locking finally gave in.

 

---

Their suite was too nice. Red drapes, black silk sheets, candlelight flickering like old jazz notes across the walls. Chance stood by the mirrored wall, arms crossed, watching Guest slowly shed his suit piece by piece—vest first, then jacket, then that boa like smoke disappearing into air. Gold glinted everywhere: his earrings, his epaulet, the damn chain. It should’ve made him look untouchable, but it didn’t, because instead he looked somehow really human. Chance tilted their head.

“You gonna undress me or am I gonna keep pretending I’m not sweating through this vest?”

Guest moved forward slow, like he knew any faster would shatter something. And when his fingers touched Chance’s bowtie, they paused, waiting.

“Go on,” Chance murmured, and it sounded more like confession than instruction.

The knot slipped loose, the bow unfurled. Piece by piece, Chance let themselves be unwrapped like a secret no one had earned—but Guest, with his hands steady and reverent, treated each article like a question answered only by patience. Shirt, vest, the red fedora left tilting on the dresser like a spectator. The poker chip set down beside it—red side up.

“You’re shaking,” Guest said gently.

Chance looked down.

“Not scared. Just…”

“Just not used to being caught.”

Their eyes met. And Chance hated how dead-on he always was.

 

---

They didn’t rush. Guest’s mouth found their shoulder first, breath warm as his hands slid across Chance’s back, down their spine. Every movement was measured, considerate. The kind of touch that didn’t just explore but listened. Chance’s legs met the edge of the bed before they even realized they'd been moved. Guest nudged them gently until they sat, then knelt before them—kissing the inside of their thigh so soft it barely registered.

“Fuck,” Chance whispered, biting down on their knuckle. “This isn’t what I thought…”

Guest didn’t speak, just looked up—eyes dark, calm, serious—and kissed higher.

“Ah… ahh, fuh…” Chance’s voice broke as fingers finally met the band of their pants, unfastening with agonizing patience.

Their hips lifted. Off came the pants, then the rest. And they were bare now—diamond tattoo on their hip glinting like some final truth. Guest kissed there, too. They felt like a card turned face-up for the first time.

---

 

When he entered them, it was after minutes—that felt like lot of hours—of slow preparation. His fingers had already mapped every breath they took, coaxed open every inch of resistance until Chance didn’t know if they were trembling from anticipation or surrender. He pushed in slowly, eyes locked on theirs. And Chance… gasped.

“Ahhh—shh-shhit… f-fuck, fuck—”

“It’s alright,” Guest murmured, lips brushing their temple. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

Chance clawed lightly at his back, nails finding purchase where words couldn’t. Their voice cracked again, but this time it was pleasure—and not just physical. It was the safety, the silence between moans that felt like trust. The way Guest rocked into them with deliberate gentleness, never once letting their eyes drift from Chance’s. The way he held them, steadying every breathless gasp with a hand on their side, his other laced with theirs tight.

“Mmmnn—hahh—” Chance whimpered, chest arched, hair fanned across the pillows like spilled ink. “You feel… s-so fucking good—”

Guest didn’t answer with words. He leaned down and kissed them slow, hot, deep. Chance melted into it, letting go of every smirk, every shield. It wasn’t about losing a bet anymore, it was about being seen, held, not pushed to perform but simply allowed to feel. And they did. Every stroke, every grind of his hips, every deep push that made their toes curl and breath stutter.

“Hhah—ahhh—y-you’re—fuck—Guest—!”

He kept going. Kept them open, stretched, full—but never broken, never rougher than Chance could take. And when he felt their muscles clench, their voice rise—

“C-Coming—oh fuck, I’m—!”

He slowed, kissed them again, murmured.

“Let go.”

And Chance did. Their cry—high, shivery, “Aahhh—fuhuhck—!”—rang out across the suite like a hymn too vulnerable for confession. Their legs wrapped tight around Guest’s hips, body arching like a bow mid-release. He didn’t finish inside them—not yet. He waited, holding them through the aftershocks, petting their hair back, their face flushed and tear-touched. Chance blinked up at him, dazed.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that…”

Guest leaned down, forehead to theirs.

“Neither did I.”

They kissed again. And when Guest finally came—later, slower, buried in their arms with a quiet grunt and a shudder that shook even his foundation—it wasn’t loud, no, for Chance it was sacred.

 

---

They didn’t talk right away. Just lay there, bodies tangled, the room still glowing like the inside of a slow-burning match. Chance stared at the ceiling, Guest’s hand drew idle shapes across their side.

“So…” Chance finally said, voice low. “You win.”

“I didn’t win anything,” Guest said, voice just as soft. “You gave this to me.”

Chance turned, face half in shadow.

“I might wanna do it again.”

Guest didn’t smile, but his hand squeezed gently. And Chance closed their eyes for once, not afraid of what would happen when the luck ran out.

Chapter 6: Important (non request)

Summary:

i cant really its killing me im sorry

So, this chapter isnt a request or something. I need to take a rest bevause i feel myself awful i threw up today like 3 times every time i try to do something i dont feel myself ok my head hurts and I feel like i cant write anything in this state. If i get food it will probably get better! But its complicated for now :(

Chapter 7: ITrapped/Chance (reunion)

Summary:

“so basically maybe post-forsaken or in some weird way Chance gets out of forsaken and meets Itrapped again, and Itrapped is messed up after Chance died (literally broken by grief and cos he realised his feelings way too late) and is desperate in his own way to keep Chance to stay with him (even tho its literally his own fault but shshshsh). so like when they fuck?? Itrapped is panting sobbing, clinging onto Chance and holding him in his arms if he even moved away from him a LITTLE. LIKE DUDE JUST LIKE THE MOST ACHINGLY TENDER YET ROUGH SEX WITH OVERSTIM AND BEGGING”

Notes:

im back ;) getting to some requests that are easier to write since im kind of tired of chance/guest

The casino hadn’t changed. That was the first thing Chance noticed when they walked through the gilded archway, the faint smell of stale champagne and cigarette ghosts clinging to the velvet drapes like they’d been trapped there for decades. The air still hummed with the same mechanical heartbeat — slot machines spitting out electronic jingles, the soft shuffle of cards on felt, the distant plink of a champagne flute being set down on a glass table. The carpet was still the same deep red, worn smooth in the places where fortune and ruin passed most often.

Chance’s heels clicked on marble, sharp and deliberate, their entrance a quiet performance. Not for anyone in particular — they’d grown up in these halls, they knew how to own them without trying — but because slipping into old habits was like slipping into silk sheets. The dealers didn’t recognize them. The regulars didn’t look twice, but at the far corner of the poker lounge, one man did. iTrapped. Months, or even years had passed since the last time Chance had seen that face — though “seen” didn’t quite cover it.

More like the last time they’d had the chance to register it before the darkheart bloomed into existence in his hand and the world went black. Three years since Russian roulette games had been more than metaphor, since the man across the room had been the only one who ever made them wonder if their luck might run out. He was sitting there now, not hiding but not announcing himself either, shuffling a small stack of chips between long fingers with a rhythm too precise to be casual. He didn’t smile when he saw them. Didn’t flinch either. But his eyes — sharp, unblinking — locked onto Chance like they’d just walked straight out of his nightmares.

Chance felt their mouth curve before they could stop it. They took the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation, sliding a chip into the betting circle like they’d been in the middle of the game all along.

“Buy-in,” they said, voice flat but edged in amusement.

iTrapped’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Long time.”

“Guess so,” Chance replied, tossing their coat onto the back of the chair. “Haven’t been keeping track.”

Which was a lie. They’d kept track of every empty year, every rumor about him that drifted their way, though they’d be damned before they’d let him know it. The cards were dealt, the banter came easy. It was the same rhythm they’d had before — back when they’d talked over poker hands and bloxy colas like there wasn’t a loaded gun between them, back when Chance thought maybe he was the only person who could keep up with them.

They played for hours. Somewhere between hands, somewhere between the fizz of cola and the warmth of the liquor it was cut with, it started to feel almost normal. Dangerous, but normal. Chance didn’t notice — not at first — the way iTrapped’s eyes softened when they laughed, or how his hands lingered on the cards just a moment too long after they touched them. They didn’t notice the way his gaze dipped to their mouth when they spoke, but they did notice when he suggested leaving.

The suite door slammed behind them with the kind of finality that made the hair on the back of Chance’s neck rise. The room was lit only by the neon bleed from the casino sign outside, the words “Lucky Hand” scrawled in flickering pink and blue across the bed, the wall, and both of them. Then he was on them. Not cruel, not yet, but desperate. Desperate like a drowning man finally finding the surface and terrified he’d sink again. His hands were everywhere — in their hair, at their waist, gripping their arms like they were proof he wasn’t dreaming. His breath came ragged, his voice breaking on a single word.

“Don’t—”

Chance tilted their head, the smirk returning just enough to cut.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pull away from me.”

Their chest tightened at that, though they didn’t let it show.

“You’re acting like you missed me.”

“I broke without you,” he said, the words tearing out of him. “Didn’t even know I could break.”

The kiss was a collision — teeth, breath, years of swallowed words. The jacket slid off Chance’s shoulders, pooling on the floor. His fingers caught in their shirt, bunching the fabric until it strained. The bed caught them clumsily, sheets twisting under them, and iTrapped climbed over Chance like he was trying to pin down time itself. He kissed down their jaw, noises spilling out between breaths — “mmnh—hah—fuck—” — like he couldn’t keep them in. The first push inside was a shock, his hips snapping forward before they’d even caught their breath. Chance’s back arched, a gasp ripping into a moan.

“Ah—hahhh, ffffuck—”

ITrapped buried himself to the hilt. He didn’t slow to let them adjust; his rhythm was rough, unsteady, almost frantic.

“Stay—just stay—” he whispered against their neck, voice cracking. “Don’t leave me again, I can’t—”

His words dissolved into more thrusts, each one harder than the last, the bedframe groaning under the pace. Chance’s nails raked down his back, half in encouragement, half in defiance. They were gasping too now, the sharp quips caught in their throat as each push sent heat sparking down their spine.

“God—hahh—ITrapped—fuck—slower—”

But he didn’t, couldn’t. His hips moved like they were wired to his heartbeat, each motion a plea. His arms locked tight around them, hauling them close whenever they shifted, his forehead pressed to theirs so he could watch every twitch, every gasp. The overstimulation came quick — Chance trembling, thighs tensing, breath turning to sharp cries.

“Nnhhh—ahhh—hahhh, too much—” — but iTrapped only kissed the corner of their mouth, murmuring.

”Please—just one more—just stay—just one more—”

Over and over like it was the only thing he knew how to say. It wasn’t just sex, it was grief and guilt and obsession, punishment and penance, the sound of skin meeting skin mixing with choked sobs and gasped moans. The air between them burned, and still, he didn’t let go. His grip on Chance wasn’t just tight — it was bone-deep, a kind of clutch that went past physical need and sank into something primal, something terrified. Every time they shifted under him, even just to catch a breath, his arms cinched tighter like he thought they might dissolve if he let them have an inch.

Chance could feel his pulse hammering in the crook of their neck, hot and erratic, syncing with the frantic push of his hips. The bedsprings cried out with every thrust, the air sticky with sweat and heat and the faint trace of cologne clinging to his skin. His forehead pressed to theirs, eyes locked, and there was no smirk left in him now — no calculated edge. Just raw, unfiltered desperation, every blink glassy as though he was holding back tears and failing.

“Fuck—” Chance breathed, head tipping back as their body clenched around him, “—y-you’re not letting me—”

Their words dissolved into a sharp, drawn-out moan when his next thrust angled deep enough to make stars burst across their vision.

“I’m not letting you go,” he panted, the words shuddering out between gritted teeth. “Not this time, not—ahhh—fuck, Chance—”

His voice cracked, and the sound hit like an exposed nerve, jagged and trembling. Chance could feel their own heartbeat in their ears, their body strung so tight between the push and pull of pleasure and the overwhelming press of his presence. Every kiss he dragged along their jaw felt like it came with a claim, his lips sucking marks that bloomed dark against their skin, like he was making a map of everywhere he’d lost before.

His pace didn’t falter, even when their legs trembled against his hips, even when every overstimulated twitch of their muscles made them gasp and flinch. He chased it, every reaction, every ragged sound spilling from them — “nnnhhh—ahhh—hahhh, please—” — until they could barely breathe between the jolts.

“Don’t say please,” he murmured, kissing them hard enough to steal whatever words might’ve come next. “Just stay.”

Their hands slid into his hair, gripping hard, half to anchor themselves and half to pull him even closer. He groaned against their mouth, hips grinding deeper, the sound guttural and shaking.

“ITrapped—” Chance tried, but their voice was wrecked, breaking apart under another thrust.

“I know, I know—” His words were fast, rushed between gasps. “I missed—God—every sound you make—every fuckin’ breath—”

It was more than just sex — the way he touched them wasn’t careful, but it was reverent in a twisted, fevered way, like he was praying through every inch of them. His hands roamed constantly, gripping their thighs to haul them closer, sliding up their sides to memorize the shape of their ribs under his palms, tangling with their fingers just to feel them hold back. The overstimulation built like a wave, relentless, each thrust pushing them closer to the edge until Chance’s breath hitched into a sob of pleasure, nails dragging down his back in sharp crescents. 

“Nnnnhhh—fuhhhck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he rasped, pressing their bodies flush together, his sweat-slick chest sliding against theirs. “You’re not leaving me, not breaking this—fuck—”

His hips stuttered once, twice, before slamming back into the rhythm, harder, almost punishing.

Chance’s vision blurred, the neon light from the sign outside smearing across his skin in streaks of pink and blue, painting over the lines of strain in his face. They could feel him trembling — not from exhaustion, but from holding on too tightly, like if he let go now, everything would collapse.

“Stay with me—hahhh—stay—” he whispered again, voice raw now, almost breaking entirely.

And Chance, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh at the absurdity and wanting to pull him apart with their bare hands, just moaned instead, head tipping back, their body answering for them in a way words couldn’t. The sound of them together was messy — skin meeting skin, the slick slide of movement, their voices tangled in gasps and cries. His hands shook when he reached between them, fingertips circling in tight, desperate strokes, trying to push them over faster, harder, like he was afraid they’d vanish before he could finish.

Their body tightened around him with every pass, every deep, unrelenting thrust until they were shuddering under him, breathless, legs locking around his waist. The orgasm hit sharp, pulling another choked cry from their throat, and he held them through it, still moving, still whispering against their skin.

“That’s it—that’s it, stay with me—”

Even after they’d collapsed against the sheets, trembling and spent, he didn’t pull out. Didn’t stop. His pace slowed, but his grip never loosened, his lips pressing against the damp skin of their shoulder. His voice was quieter now, but still wrecked.

“Not done. Can’t be done yet.”

The room was hot, air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, but Chance didn’t move away, couldn’t. His weight over them was heavy, grounding, and for all the rough edges of what had just happened, there was something unbearably tender in the way his breath evened out against their skin, his hand sliding down to tangle their fingers together again.

“All these months of guilt,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’m not wasting another second.”

Chapter 8: Elliot/Chance (yandere)

Summary:

“gentle yandere elliot. ive honestly never seen this before (maybe once?? here in this site idk??) so Elliot is quite literally a yandere but is sane enough to not be unhinged and kill anyone who touches Chance. He gets jealous and instead of murdering the person he just goes and sort of just guilt trips Chance into doting on him and it turns to Elliot fucking Chance while still asking if he still loves him and, “you wont ever choose somebody else, right?” 🥺 while Chance cant even reply cause theyre fucked within an inch of their life 😭😭 (it started out gentle but then Elliot went nuts LOL)”

Notes:

i love paycheck am anyways im gonna sleep

The air outside the bar tasted like rain that hadn’t fallen yet — heavy, waiting. Chance walked half a step ahead, coat slung over one shoulder like they’d gotten bored of wearing it properly. Streetlamps skimmed gold over their hair, made their smirk look sharper than it was. Elliot watched them without meaning to, the way he always did when they weren’t looking. That half-step ahead felt deliberate tonight.

They were still warm from the last round of drinks, still humming from whatever joke that guy at the bar had told them — the one with the too-easy grin, the one Elliot had decided, instantly and without logic, he didn’t like. Chance laughed at everyone’s jokes. They leaned in too close on purpose, gave away pieces of attention like poker chips they could afford to lose. Elliot told himself he’d stopped caring about that a long time ago — he hadn’t.

When the guy had brushed Chance’s arm to make a point, Elliot had felt something tighten low in his chest, slow and dangerous. Not a spike of rage. He didn’t do spikes, he was a steady burn. He just sat back in his chair, drank his beer, and kept his eyes on Chance like he was memorizing every angle. Now, on the walk back, he caught up enough to let his hand hook into their wrist, not tight, just there.

“Hey,” he said, voice low enough to blend with the hum of the street. “You tired?”

Chance glanced over, eyebrow up.

“You trying to send me to bed already, kid?”

Elliot’s mouth quirked at one corner.

“Maybe I want you to myself for a bit before you run off again.”

It was light, but the way he said it made them slow their pace a little, like they’d felt the undertow in it. They ended up at his place, they always did. The couch was still warm from last night’s takeout; a half-empty glass of water sat on the coffee table. Chance collapsed into it like they owned it — and maybe they did, in every way that counted.

He dropped onto the cushion beside them, close enough that their knees brushed. He didn’t touch them otherwise. Not yet. He let the quiet stretch, the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward but aware. Chance filled it eventually, talking about the card game they’d nearly won earlier, the thrill of the last hand. He nodded, smiled at the right times, but the only thing he was really listening to was the sound of their voice when they said the other guy’s name again. That was the pivot point.

“Sounds like you had fun,” Elliot said, reaching out to trace a slow, idle circle on the inside of their knee. “Almost too much fun.”

Chance rolled their eyes.

“You jealous or something?”

He smiled like it was a joke.

“Should I be?”

They didn’t answer. Or maybe they did — with the way their smirk faltered for a half-second before they leaned back, stretching their arms over the couch. Elliot followed them with his eyes, every inch of movement catalogued.

“You know…” His hand moved up their thigh, deliberate, the weight of his palm warm through the fabric. “…you’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Chance’s laugh was quieter now, not sharp but soft.

“You really are jealous.”

Maybe he was, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of hearing it. Instead, he leaned in, his mouth close enough that the edge of his words brushed their jaw.

“Stay with me tonight. Don’t… make me think you’ve got better places to be.”

The guilt was woven in so gently it could’ve been mistaken for affection — that was his trick. They kissed him first, or maybe he just didn’t move fast enough for it not to be mutual. Either way, it tasted like the last sip of wine, like something that could stay slow if he let it. He didn’t. His hand curved around the back of their neck, guiding them without force but with no room for misinterpretation.

At first, it was sweet and slow. His thumb brushing their jaw, his mouth coaxing theirs open. He could’ve kept it that way, could’ve let the night be about softness. But the thought of someone else’s hands on them — even in something as harmless as a crowded bar — was still smoldering under his ribs. He pulled them into his lap without breaking the kiss. Chance made a low noise in their throat, half surprise, half something else, their fingers curling into his shirt. Elliot’s hands settled on their hips, steady, grounding.

“You’ve got too many people thinking they can get close to you,” he murmured against their mouth.

“They can’t,” Chance breathed back, but there was a lazy defiance in it, like they were daring him to make them prove it.

He shifted them forward, his thigh pressing up between theirs.

“Then prove it.”

The friction was enough to draw a sharp exhale from them, and his hands tightened fractionally. His jealousy never came out in wild bursts — it came out like this. Closer, slower, and making sure they remembered exactly where they belonged. When he carried them to the bedroom, it wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t casual either. His grip under their thighs was firm, possessive, and the way he laid them down was careful in the way you’re careful with something you refuse to break.

They let him strip them without protest, their smirk softening into something more open, more dangerous in its own way. He kissed them again, slower this time, his weight braced over them. At first, every touch was measured — the drag of his fingers along their ribs, the way his mouth found the hollow beneath their ear. He took his time, coaxing those first, smaller sounds from them, the ones that felt private.

But then Chance’s head tipped back, and a sound broke from them — not soft, but sharp, involuntary — and something in Elliot shifted. His control didn’t vanish; it sharpened. His thrusts, when he finally slid into them, started slow enough to make them gasp with each one, but the depth was deliberate. He was watching their face the whole time, like every flicker of pleasure was another card in his hand.

“You still love me, right?” he asked, almost too gently for the way his hips moved.

Their breath hitched, eyes half-closed.

“Y-yeah, I—”

“You won’t ever pick someone else?”

His voice broke faintly on the last word, and he pushed deeper, watching them struggle to catch their breath.

They tried to answer, but it dissolved into a moan, long and open-mouthed — “ahhh, E-Elliot—” — and their hands fisted in the sheets.

“Tell me.” His forehead rested against theirs now, his pace building without losing that deep, consuming rhythm. “Tell me I’m the only one.”

They tried again, and again it was nothing but another broken sound. Elliot’s mouth curved, not in mockery, but in a satisfaction that ran bone-deep.

“That’s enough,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. His thrusts came harder now, his voice threading through each one — “mine… mine… mine…” — until their legs trembled around him and the only thing they could give him was the raw, wordless proof of it.

And he kept them there, wrapped around him, until every trace of the night’s earlier smirk was gone, replaced by the glazed, breathless look he craved.

---

Elliot didn’t let go right away. He stayed pressed to them, chest heaving against theirs, his forehead still resting against their temple. Chance’s breathing was all over the place, uneven little gasps dragged through lips still parted. Their legs twitched faintly where they were still wrapped around his waist, muscles spent but unwilling to drop. He liked that. Liked the weight of their body on his, the heat between them, the way their pulse beat against his mouth when he turned his head to kiss the side of their throat.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hand sliding up their side, fingers dragging lightly over sweat-damp skin.

His other palm stayed cradling their hip, thumb stroking absent patterns there as if they weren’t still pinned exactly where he wanted them. Chance gave a shaky laugh, the sound thin and breathless.

“Y-you’re… unreal…”

He huffed a small sound against their jaw — could’ve been a laugh, could’ve been something darker.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

It came out soft, too soft for the words themselves, but it was no less binding. When he finally eased out of them, it was slow, careful. Their body twitched at the shift, and he smoothed his hand down the back of their thigh, grounding them again. He didn’t move far, just enough to reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed, pulling it over them both. Chance tried to roll onto their back, but he caught them with an arm across their waist.

“Stay here.”

They blinked at him, still hazy.

“I’m not… leaving…”

“I know.”

His tone made it sound like he didn’t, not fully. Like he needed to keep them anchored anyway. He drew them into his chest, one hand working slowly through their hair. The silence stretched, warm but weighted, like the moment before rain finally falls. Outside, the city hummed in its usual low way, but it might as well have been a hundred miles off. Elliot felt their breathing start to level out, the sharpness bleeding away into something softer. He tilted his head enough to press his mouth to their temple, lingering there.

“You don’t get it,” he said quietly, not quite to them, not quite to himself. “There’s no one else who… fits. Just you.”

Their fingers flexed faintly against his side, but they didn’t speak. Maybe they didn’t have the words, or maybe they were too tired to try. He liked that too — liked having the quiet space where they didn’t argue, didn’t dodge. He let the blanket slip lower, just enough to expose their shoulder, tracing the curve of it with the backs of his fingers. His touch was slow again now, unhurried, a mirror of how he’d started earlier. The difference was in the weight of it — now that he’d staked his claim for the night, there was no edge of restraint, just possession wrapped in tenderness.

“You’re staying here tomorrow,” he added after a beat. Not a question.

Chance gave a faint hum — not agreement, not refusal. He took it anyway. For a long while they lay there, bodies cooling under the blanket, skin still humming in the aftershock. Elliot’s thumb kept tracing lazy lines on their side, every so often dipping lower, as if to remind them he still could. When their breathing finally slipped into that deeper rhythm, his own eyes closed, but he didn’t sleep. Not yet. He stayed awake with the weight of them against him, the warmth, the faint scent of their hair under his chin.

The city could keep its noise, its people, its strangers who thought they could touch what wasn’t theirs. In here, in this bed, with Chance curled against him and no one else in reach — this was the only thing that mattered. He’d let them rest tonight. Tomorrow, he’d make sure they remembered exactly why they never needed anyone else.