#much love to you ♡

[sando1chi]

I can't send this anonymously but I just wanted to say that I love Temari so much and I love that you write her, you breathe so much life into Temari. She's so awesome...

thank you, my friend! this means a lot. you are a really talented roleplayer so this this made my day. thanks. 🥰

[sceletaflores]

We (yes WE) need more fics abt Clark’s dick I need to suck him off or die trying

─ ✮⋆˙ YOUR LIPSTICK STAIN || C.K

|| dc masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

─ ✮⋆˙ WC: 4.1k

─ ✮⋆˙ CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, FEM!READER, established relationship, drinking, swearing, pov switch almost halfway through cause i said so, clark kent wearing business casual to the club, semi-public sex, oral sex (male!receiving), wow nat writing a blowjob? the world must be ending, dirty talk, sub-leaning clark, light face fucking, size kink, superman’s super huge dick, hair pulling, the men whimpering agenda, hyperspermia ofc, come swapping & eating, straight nasty porn w/o plot i just really want to suck his dick so badly, no use of y/n.

─ ✮⋆˙ NAT’S NOTE: who am i to deny this sweet anon asking me to wax poetic about clark kent's huge monster cock? thank you for sending this in it made me laugh out loud. this is all filth and depravity, i fully blame my period. it’s really taking a big toll on me. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

clark takes you to a club, you take him to the bathroom...

The bass rattles the floor of the club.

The kind that crawls up through your heels and lodges itself in the empty space behind your ribs, syncing your heartbeat to the rhythm.

Metropolis at night is loud and gaudy, an endless rush of neon and smoke and crowded sidewalks.

The club is no different—light slicing in different pinks and purples, fog machines hissing, bodies colliding like waves on the dance floor. The air taste like liquor and perfume and every inch of the building is saturated with a syrupy heat.

Lois is the one who suggested it, leaning over your desk after you shot her down for the third time and carefully reminding you that ladies drink for free at Supernova on Thursdays.

That was all the convincing you needed to put the positively dull city council piece Perry had you dredging up on the back burner.

Cat and Jimmy jumped on the chance to get a little too wasted on a work day. And you couldn't even remember the last time you really let loose and had a little fun, not until Lois dragged you into the back of a cab after work and told you to stop being a coward.

And Clark?

Well, Clark came because you asked him to.

That's how it always is—one tug at his sleeve, one sweet smile, and he follows.

Now, you're well into your third drink and laughing as Lois' hands grip your wrists and pull you deeper into the current of swaying bodies.

Clark is at the bar.

He sticks out just like he always does in places like this—too tall, too broad, dressed in clothes that don't belong under strobe lights. He's the only one not drinking, the beer he ordered almost twenty minutes ago is steadily sweating in one big hand and still completely full.

You already tried to get him on the dance floor, tugging on his hand until he relented with that shy smile that curved at the corner of his mouth.

The thing about Clark, is that he never lets go of himself easily. Even with the music pulling at you both, even with your body pressed up against his, he held back—polite distance, careful hands.

A complete gentleman through and through. It was sweet, almost unbearably so, but not what your bloodstream is buzzing for tonight.

So you left him at the edge of the crowd with Jimmy, and found Lois. Lois, who doesn't do anything halfway. Lois, who knows just how to take your hand and whirl the two of you into something shameless. Her sharp laughter cuts through the pulse of music as she tugs you closer.

It's harmless, just a little dirty dancing among friends. But Lois moves like she writes—sharp, fearless, a little reckless.

It doesn't stay harmless for long.

Her hands are at your waist, her lips grazing the shell of your ear as she leans in to shout something you quite can't hear over the music. You feel yourself flush, lips stretched into a wide grin as you arch into her just to keep up with the rhythm. The crowd closes in around you on all sides, neon strobes across her face and she looks like sin wrapped in silk.

You’re too caught up in it—Lois’ hair brushing your sweaty cheek as the beat thrums beneath your skin. Your hips roll back against hers in time with the pounding drop of the bass, laughter catching on your tongue, your hands reaching back to slide down the curve of her sides.

The two of you move like you’ve done this a hundred times before—like you know how to tempt an audience, even if the audience is one polite farm boy from Kansas trying his damnedest not to stare too hard.

Trying and failing spectacularly.

You glance over your shoulder once, just to check if your theory is right, if he's watching.

He is. God, he is.

Those bright blue eyes keep darting back to you like moths to a flame. His jaw ticks each time you sway your hips, and his ears are going pink at the very tips—a telltale sign even in the flickering dark.

You know that look. You've seen in before, countless times. When you lean in too close over his shoulder to steal a pencil off his desk and your shirt dips just low enough to show off the lacy edge of your bra in a way makes him forget how to type for good thirty seconds.

This is different. This look is something more than hungry.

He knows you're doing this on purpose. That only makes it all the more fun.

Lois notices too, of course she does. The corner of her mouth curls into a wicked grin as her thumbs slide beneath the waistline of your skirt, her lips brushing against your ear. "He's watching."

You only hum, letting her drag your ass back against her thigh in a way that makes Clark's knuckles whiten on the glass.

It's almost impressive, how long he lasts. How long he tries to be good. Polite. Midwestern. Sitting there pretending the sight of you grinding with Lois isn't clawing something raw out of him.

You can't stop the smug smile that stretches across your face, tipping your head back to rest on Lois' shoulder and rolling your hips in dirty sways as you watch him through half lidded eyes.

Until finally—he isn't sitting anymore.

Clark is up and moving through the crowd with his eyes trained on you and only you.

He doesn't storm over. That isn't him.

He takes his time, like he's debating it the whole way, like he might lose his nerve before he gets to you. But when he does—when that broad chest is right there, blocking out the flashing lights, his hand warm as he gently tugs you out of Lois' grasp—it feels less like an interruption and more like inevitability.

"Mind if I cut in?" Clark's voice is low, pitched down to the bass. A little strained, but still impossibly careful.

"Be my guest." Lois smiles sharply, stepping back with one last pointed look your way before she melts into the crowd.

You're left pressed to Clark' chest, grinning up at him like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. "Come to sweep me off my feet, Kansas?"

He scoffs gently, the barest hint of one. His hands settle hesitantly on your waist, so high up that you have to fight the urge to laugh. "I think Lois took care of that three songs go."

You catch your bottom lip between your teeth, throwing your arms around his shoulders loosely. "Then I guess you have some competition to beat out."

At first, Clark doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s shy, hesitant, hands still firmly glued to your hips. His gaze flicks down to your mouth, then away, then down again. His body is far too stiff, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, towering over you in that way he never seems to know how to handle.

You have to make the first move.

Sliding closer, you catch his gaze and smile up at him like it's a dare.

It works.

Little by little, the hesitation slips away. Your hips brush, your chest grazes his, and something cracks open. His grip tightens, sliding lower down your waist as he pulls you into him, your body moving against his as the beat crashes over you.

Clark is warm everywhere, too much heat radiating from him, his breath uneven on your hairline when you press against him harder. When your hands drift lazily down his chest, teasing the buttons of his shirt.

The lights pulse, throwing shadows across his unfairly handsome face. Red. Blue. Yellow.

You know exactly what you’re doing when you grind your hips against him harder, feeling his shoulders stiffen, hearing the little breath he lets out like he can’t stop it.

His head dips, mouth grazing your temple as if he means to say something—maybe a warning, maybe a plea—but the words don’t come. Just that shaky little exhale, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s hanging on by a thread.

Warmth pools deep in your belly, slipping down between your legs to wet the thin lace of your panties. Your greedy hands drag slow up the hard plane of muscle hidden under his jacket until you can bury them in those thick curls.

You tug his head closer, making him bend down enough so you can speak directly into his ear. Your glossy lips brush along the shell of his ear, you can feel the shudder that runs through him at the feeling. "Are you hard?"

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Clark can hear it clear as day. The breathy tone dipping low as heat shoots up your spine with every word.

Clark's hands twitch, his breath catching and stuttering as he screws his eyes shut for a few beats. When he opens them, you gaze up and nearly gasp. The blue is completely gone, swallowed by an inky black like oil slicking the surface of an ocean.

"Yes."

And that's when you decide you've had enough of the dance floor.

You catch his hand, thread your fingers through his, and tug him through the crowd. He follows without a single protest, towering behind you, murmured apologies falling from his lips each time you bump into someone with your impatient haste to get him alone as soon as possible.

It's funny, the way he's so polite even when he's so obviously hard, even when you can feel the tension radiating from every inch of his body.

The bathroom is mercifully empty when you shove the door open, dragging Clark inside and into the only stall before locking it behind you. The bass outside is muffled now, but still there, vibrating heavily through the walls.

"Wait—" Clark's voice chokes out your name as you crowd him, lips mouthing wetly against his neck. His hands fumble like he’s not sure whether to stop you or hold you tighter. “We—we shouldn’t—”

The protest dies in his throat when you sink to your knees.

It's a downright obscene sight.

Clark, shoved into the grimy single stall that's covered in crude graffiti and scrawled messages telling you who to call for a good time, all while being wrapped up in that stuffy polyester suit jacket and neatly pressed khaki slacks. He's still in his goddamn tie and dress shoes for Christ's sake.

His glasses are fogged up, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. His broad shoulders press tightly against either side of the stall, making him look even bigger than usual.

Your pussy clenches weakly around nothing, arousal swirling deep in your core. You can't wait anymore.

Your fingers are fumbling at his belt before he can work up the nerve to try and stop you. His big hands twitch at his sides, half reaching for you, half pulling back like he can’t quite decide which urge to follow.

The belt gives, the button pops, the zipper peels down inch by inch. His cock is already pressing obscenely against the thin cotton of his boxers, straining with an urgency that makes your mouth water.

There's a wet spot seeping the fabric, you want to tip forward and mouth at it until the next stain drenching the fabric is his own release.

But there's something you want even more, so you waste no time yanking his waistband down.

Clark's cock springs free from the ruined cotton of his boxers and slaps against his stomach with a filthy wet sound, flushed a rosy red at the tip and leaking. Precome shines under the shitty fluorescent lighting, dripping down the thick vein along the side.

You moan before you can stop yourself, lips going slack.

He tries to angle his hips away, tries to bite down on a sound that would betray just how badly he’s throbbing, but your fingers tease along him and he keens, the noise cracking right out of him, high and helpless.

You tsk disapprovingly, wrapping your hand around the base to feel the velvety skin. He's scorching to the touch, fever hot. "Don't get shy on me now, baby." Your voice is sugary sweet, commanding, your fist sliding up in a tight grip. "You're gonna let me play with this big cock, aren't you?"

You tilt your head, breath ghosting over his cock, just to watch him twitch and crumble. Clark's throat bobs hard as he swallows, glasses sliding down his nose.

“Please,” he breathes, so soft you almost miss it over the muffled bass thumping through the walls.

That's another thing about him, he'll always say please. Even when he's on the verge of rutting into your mouth, he'll always ask nicely like the good boy he is.

That's all the permission you need.

Clark has never been in such a compromising position.

He doesn’t belong here—he knows it in every cell of his body. Not in this stall, not in this club, not with you kneeling in front of him like this, your eyes shining with liquor and mischief, petting at his cock like you’re born for this, molding him into a shape he doesn’t know how to refuse.

He should stop you. God help him, he should.

But when your eyes flicker up at him, soft and sly under your lashes, Clark’s knees nearly buckle. He swears he can feel the earth tilt on its axis, and his resolve crumble like a house of cards.

“Please,” he breathes before he can stop himself.

Your smile is pure evil, like you know you've won. Like you know Clark could never tell you no.

Clark knows that better than anyone. He knew he was done for the second he stepped inside the club.

Your thumb swipes along the head of his cock and his hands shoot out, gripping the flimsy partition like it might hold him upright. "Jesus."

Clark can't look at you, not if he doesn't want to come before you even get your mouth on him. He stares at the scratched up door above your head, cheeks burning, ears so hot they ache. His cock pulses in your hand, more precome blurting out to drip down the side.

Clark—well, Clark is Superman. He knows what he looks like—he's seen himself enough in the mirror to no that no one should take him, not comfortably.

It was something that always embarrassed him when he was younger, changing in locker rooms, keeping his towel clutched too tight around his hips. He learned to never let anyone see too much, to turn his body into a secret.

Even now, it feels indecent, wrong, this obscene weight in your hand.

And yet—you hold him like he’s not a problem, not a burden, not too much. You hold him like you want him heavy and hot and pulsing against your palm. Like you know exactly what to do with a man like him.

You suck in a sharp breath, and his stomach lurches.

“God,” Clark chokes out, hips jerking when your lips part. You breathe over the head of his cock, wet and hot, and he shudders so hard his knees tremble.

He can’t think. He can’t breathe. His cock throbs, fat beads of precome gathering at the swollen head before they spill down over your fingers. You smear it along his shaft like lube, and the sight of it makes his grip tightening, plastic bowing and creaking under his touch.

“You’re so big, baby.” Your voice is teasing, meant to make him squirm. "So fucking big, you're gonna make my jaw ache."

A whimper claws out of his throat—high, needy, humiliating—and he squeezes his eyes shut. “D-don’t-don’t talk like that-"

And then your mouth is on him.

The heat is searing, your tongue flat as you lick a long stripe from the base to the tip, your lips wrapping around the swollen head and sucking it into your mouth. His eyes snap down to you in time to see your lips wrap greedily around the flushed skin, the curve of your cheek hollowing as you suck.

Clark chokes on his words, his whole body jolts as his hands dig into the partition so he can't sink them into your hair. His head tips back against the wall with a dull thud, a strangled groan ripped from his throat.

Your mouth is obscene around him, wet sounds filling the tiny stall, spit glistening at the corners of your lips. You glance up through your lashes, and the sight is devastating—eyes dark with triumph, mouth stretched wide, throat working as you sink lower, lower, until his tip nudges the soft spot at the back of your throat.

He tries to pull his hips back, too afraid of hurting you, too embarrassed by the pathetic sounds falling from his mouth. But you chase him, swallow around him, drag your nails down the meat of his thighs in warning until his knees almost give.

“You’re—gosh—you’re gonna choke—” Clark's words break apart when you moan around him, the vibration shooting lightning straight to his gut. His cock throbs violently against your tongue, spurting another slick drop of precome down your throat.

You pull back just enough to whisper, lips swollen, spit shining. “I want to.”

Clark sobs, his hands moving before he can stop them. One sinks into your hair, guiding you back down despite himself, despite everything in him that says he should be gentle. The other cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek to feel the obscene bulge of his cock filling your mouth.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, so quietly—more to himself than you. "So pretty like this."

You moan in encouragement, clearly pleased with yourself. Your hands grip either side of his hips, nails digging into the muscle there as you swallow around him. You push and pull, guiding him in and out of your mouth in an obvious invitation.

Clark knows what you want. And he can't give it to you, he can't.

He's already pushing it by even letting himself touch you when he's like this. He can't edge over the line anymore, not when he could hurt you so easily.

Clark squeezes his eyes shut. The stall feels smaller by the second, collapsing in around him. His lungs burn like he’s drowning. He doesn’t know if it’s the heat of your mouth, or the shame of how easily you’ve undone him, or the ache in his cock that threatens to spill right into your throat if you so much as look at him again.

Then you moan, louder this time. Too loud for where you are. A wet, lewd sound vibrating along his shaft, and the edges of his control snap like brittle glass.

His hips rock forward. Just a little, just enough that the head of his cock presses deeper into your throat. His breath catches, a guttural noise ripped right out of his chest as your fingers claw into his skin to hold him there.

“Oh God—oh fuck” His voice cracks, desperate. “I-I can’t—”

Your hands slide to his ass, nails biting as you pull him closer, greedier. He feels you gag around him, feels your throat flutter that much tighter. The sight of you glaring up at him with your mouth full makes his stomach clench, heat shooting down his spine like a live wire. His fragile resolve flies out the window.

He braces his shoulders against the stall, both hands buried in your hair as hips starts fucking aborted little thrusts into the soft heat of your mouth. His voice climbs embarrassingly high when he gasps out, “You’re—oh gosh, you’re gonna kill me—”

You won’t let up. Your spit slicks his cock enough to leave it shining, messy strings dripping down your chin, catching in the hollow of your throat as you bob your head faster. You take him deeper, letting the thick weight of him push against the back of your throat until your eyes water.

Clark whimpers. Whimpers. The sound cracks thin and desperate, breaking apart as he fists your hair harder than he means to, knuckles white. He’s flushed scarlet from throat to hairline, trembling as though he’s the one on his knees.

The pressure in his gut coils tight, unbearable. His balls draw up heavy, aching.

His hips speed up on their own, and the stall rattling around him is starting to grow louder and louder as he chases his release. “I can’t—I’m gonna—” His voice breaks, a whine that sounds nothing like Superman, nothing like the who the world thinks he is.

Now, in this moment, he’s a man unraveling in a bathroom stall with your lips wrapped tight around him.

When you hum around his cock, when you swallow like you’re already inviting his come, Clark shatters.

He spills with a cry, hot and endless, thick ropes of spend flooding your mouth. Biology he can’t control—he tries to stammer an apology, tries to pull back, but you grip him tighter and take it all. His head tips back against the stall again, groaning like he’s being wrecked from the inside out, your throat working frantically to gulp him down.

There’s so much. More than anyone should ever have to take. It dribbles from the corners of your lips, sliding down your chest. Your hand pumps the base greedily until he whines, begging, “Please, baby, please—’s too much—”

You do the cruelest thing of all. You pull back just enough to let his cock fall from your lips and show him your mouth, swollen and wet and full of him, before you swallow it all down in one obscene gulp.

Clark groans—a low, animal sound that claws itself from deep in his chest.

You place one last kiss to the drooling tip, just to hear him gasp, and weakly try to stand on shaky legs.

Clark meets you halfway, his hands impatient as they practically haul you off the ground and drag you to his mouth.

The kiss is filthy. Wet and messy. You moan into his mouth and press your body into his as hard as you can, he can taste himself on your tongue. He can feel the spit and come coating your chin smearing onto his when you tilt your head enough to lick impossibly deeper into his mouth.

You pull back to breathe, humming contently at the milky string of saliva connecting your lips to his. It dips and dips until the weight of gravity has it breaking in two.

You swipe your tongue along your bottom lip, savoring it. "You taste good, don't you?"

Clark groans like he's been shot with a kryptonite bullet, his cheeks flaming as he buries his face in your neck like that will be enough to hide from his own shame. His cock twitches weakly, still a hard plane of heat pressing itself into your stomach.

You laugh, a wicked sound. "Don't worry," you whisper, running your hands through his hair gently. "I won't make you say it."

Clark can’t respond. The stall smells like sex and liquor, like him, like you, and all he can do is cling to you like you’ve knocked his soul from his body.

Your hands are still buried in his curls, soothing him, stroking through the mess you made of him like you’re proud of it. He’s trembling under your touch. His whole body is tight with the aftershocks, thighs trembling, chest heaving against yours.

“Hey,” you murmur, soft, like you’re comforting him—like he isn’t the most powerful man alive, reduced to a shaking mess in a bathroom stall because you decided you wanted his cock down your throat. “Breathe, baby. You did so good for me.”

The praise cuts right through him, sharper than anything else. His cock twitches against your stomach, still hard, still heavy, still leaking. His face burns.

He doesn’t understand how he’s still so hard when you’ve wrung him out until his legs can barely hold him up—but then your lips curl against his ear, your nails scrape lightly at the nape of his neck, and he does understand.

It's you.

Clark pulls back enough to catch your glassy gaze, his hand sliding up from your neck to cradle your cheek, thumb trembling when he runs it along your spit slick bottom lip.

And when you nuzzle into his palm, eyes glittering up at him, Clark thinks he might just let you ruin him forever.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: can you tell that i couldn't help but make reader a little (a lot) gay for lois? i love projecting.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[kpoptrashlord-007]

ahhh I love you for this! Such a nice comment, thank you!! I just think Jongho is a gentleman and perfect boyfriend material, it would be impossible not to fall for him 🥺🫶💕

thanks for reading, reblogging and totally making my day with this!! ♡

Apple Cider;; CJH

Word Count;; 1.1k

Genre;; Fluff, Neighbour AU

Pairing;; Jongho x Reader

Summary;;

Jongho is the most selfless man you’ve ever met. Without hesitation he’s made what could have been the scariest experience of your life much more comfortable and one hundred percent less lonely. It only makes sense that you’d repay all his kindness with a home-cooked meal… now if only you could get your racing nerves on board.

“Warnings”;;

Awkward dorks in love, just cuteness overload tbh!!

Notes;;

Day Twenty-Two (Holiday Lights) of the KPOP Christmas “Drabble” Challenge!

Someone please pray this scenario into existence for me y’all, though I’d probably combust on the spot

Part of the set of fics I wrote before my hiatus but this one is still so good!!

Main Masterlist | ATZ Masterlist | 25 Days of Christmas

A loud clatter against the panelling of your home draws your attention outside. Through the frost-lined window, you catch sight of your neighbour’s shoulder. He’s armed with a coil of lights. They hang off his bicep as he reaches overhead. Despite the chilly weather, he’s without a coat. The sleeve of his shirt hugs his muscles in all the right places.

Tearing your eyes away from your much-too-handsome neighbour, you busy yourself with the fresh-baked cookies waiting to be decorated. You made them with Jongho in mind, and they needed to be your best creation yet to truly express your gratitude. He’s been your knight in shining armour ever since you moved into the neighbourhood. Even something as tedious as wrapping the entire house in Christmas lights right after he did the same to his own home goes by without any expectations or complaints.

By the time the front door swings open, the kitchen smells delicious. Sugar, spice and everything nice lingers in the air. Puffs of steam swirl above the two piping hot mugs of apple cider tea. Wiping your hands clean on your apron, you double-check the small meal you’ve prepared. Everything is in order.

“All done,” Jongho calls out from the entrance hall, clapping his hands together. His boots echo against the hardwood floors with each step. Standing at the kitchen’s threshold, he clears his throat. “You’re officially festive. Let me know if you need any decorations set up, too, okay? Those little motors can be a hassle.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” you say as you carry the small plate of treats to the dining table. Without missing a beat he jumps in to help, taking the mugs as he follows you.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, you’re a lifesaver.” Offering him your best smile, you lift your shoulders in an awkward shrug. “Would you like a cookie?”

He laughs, nodding. “That would be nice, as long as I’m not imposing.”

“No, no, no. Please, sit. I made them for you, anyway.”

“You did?” His eyebrow quirks but he sits, grabbing one of the smaller cookies. It’s malleable in his large hand, soft and squishy as he breaks it into bite-size chunks. Within seconds of trying your baking (for the first time no less!) his eyes widen and the corners of his lips lift into a concealed smile.

Resisting the urge to jump up and down, you pop into the kitchen to grab a dessert plate. This is going well! There’s no reason to worry. You just need to bite the bullet and ask him over for dinner… not a big deal at all, it’ll be easy! With a determined exhale, you roll your shoulders and stretch your neck side to side before gliding back into the dining room.

“It’s the least I could do.” After you place the little ceramic saucer on his placemat, you gesture toward his mug. “I hope you don’t mind tea– oh, you look cold! Should I turn the heat up?”

His already pink-tinged cheeks flush deeper. Shaking his head, he swallows down his food. “I’m okay. Everything is perfect. Thank you.”

You can’t hold back your relieved sigh. “Good. That’s good.”

A beat of silence passes and once more your nerves start to rumble. If you can’t even manage to keep the mood light over a small bite, just how will you survive a full meal? And aren’t you standing too close to him? You can smell his cologne: smoked oak and pine needles. It’s strong and bold just like him. The longer you drink him in, both into your lungs and into your memory, the less you want to leave.

Falling headfirst into his vast, warm eyes, you open your mouth to pop that little question you both need yet fear the answer to. He leans a little closer and your gaze drops to his plush lips. They’re dry from the cold and a jolt of guilt gnaws at you. It isn’t a matter of asking him out but repaying his kindness. It’s the least you can do.

Determination renewed, you’re ready.

“Your apron is cute.”

His words hit you from out of left field. Taken aback, you glance down at the festive design and grin. “You’re cute.”

What?

What?

Short-circuiting and overwhelmed by the embarrassment surging through your stunned body, you gape at him.

“Cute?” He frowns, looking down at his plate. You flounder for a moment, unable to form the necessary words to remedy the situation. It isn’t until his ardent eyes chase away your worries and a wholehearted smile returns to his face that you still. “Not handsome? Strong? Manly? Just cute?”

“Well,” you trail off, wringing your hands together. “You’re quite handsome and very strong, that goes without saying. But you’re gentle and kind, too.”

Hiding his expression in the hollow of his shoulder, he waves away the compliment. A few crumbs fall onto the plate as he rubs his hands together. He takes a long sip of his now-cold tea before smacking his lips and mumbling out ‘that’s good’. Taking great lengths to avoid eye contact, he observes your light fixture as he stands. Worried he’s found something that might require repairs, you lean toward him to get a better look.

Before you can stop yourself you bump into him. His stance is firm and steady. Unfortunately, yours is not. Losing your balance, your hand flings out to grip his arm. His muscles flex beneath your touch. Your chin presses against his chest as he turns to catch you. Once more his cologne surrounds you. With nowhere to look except up, you watch his features soften from alarm into concern.

“Are you okay?”

“Just admiring the view.”

Jongho shakes his head, cheeks rising as he grins. “Cute.”

“I’m never living that down.” When you’re back on your feet and you’ve ironed your apron straight from the sheer friction of your overzealous hands, you nudge his shoulder. Once more he doesn’t budge. “But seriously, what would I do without you?”

Instead of an answer you receive a boop! on your nose.

While you stand blinking away your confusion, one of his pinky fingers brushes against your outer palm. His voice is tender as he asks, “Can I take you out for dinner tonight?”

Thrown deeper into bewilderment, you stammer and splutter. “You can’t ask me that!”

“Why not?”

“Because I was go– I had a plan, and now you… I was going to ask you out!”

“Then I accept,” he says, cupping your chin. Warmth blossoms everywhere his skin meets yours. Pressing a chaste kiss against your forehead, he lingers until his touch ingrains upon you. Even when he pulls away you feel the softness of his lips. “How does eight o’clock sound?”

If you enjoyed this, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging, and following!

Thank you! – ♡ –

[elys-ship-sailed]

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

hey. don't cry.

f/o holding you tenderly in their arms and whispering that everything be alright regardless of what you're going through. you'll be fine. you're safe with them.

okay?

────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────────

[neoheros]

the miya household is always the go-to household for all kinds of celebrations alike. you name it: birthdays, anniversaries, friday night dinners – check, check, check.

atsumu has always grown up in a home where his mom would host the parties for all her grown-up friends, and he’d always be the type of teenager to hide away in his room until the last of the guests finally leave.

it was a silly thing to do looking back on it now, but that was the old miya household.

in the new miya household (population: you and your husband), the two of you can’t just hide away in your broom closet until the last of the guests leave — it is your apartment after all.

at first, it was the big things: msby jackal’s celebration of their first tournament win (where hinata broke a window because he claims bokuto pushed him into it) or akaashi’s job promotion party (where the champagne bottle was so unfortunately aimed that when the corkscrew came flying, it hit the other non-broken window).

two broken windows later, it eventually died down to the little things: small get-togethers, a friend too intoxicated to drive needing a place to stay, or one of your favorites: friday night dinners.

“we’re home!”

there’s the sound of shuffling keys and shoes being taken off at the doorway, rustling of brown paper bags and footsteps.

you pop your head out from the kitchen and it isn’t a surprise at all to you when you see all four of your best friends (one being your husband) standing by your door way, all adorned with cheeky smiles and chinese takeout.

you call to them, “coats here, everybody!”

hinata goes over to you first, still as sweet as ever, and gives you a tight embrace (the same one he gives you every friday night), and you take his coat with a light smile on your face.

bokuto gives you his coat next, paired with an embrace of his own, your smile widens as you immediately recognize the coat you bought him for christmas last year, well and taken care of.

sakusa isn’t wearing a coat or a jacket tonight but still, he approaches you next to the coat stand anyway, and he embraces you just for seeing you again tonight, saying “thank you for having us”.

when you married atsumu, you didn’t realize you weren’t only marrying into his family, but his friends as well.

“you guys just missed samu, he dropped by for a weekly restock.” you tell them, pointing to the plastic bag on the table filled to the brim with the onigiri you’ve learned to love so much.

shoyo plops down on his usual spot on the sofa, “man, i wish onigiri miya personally delivered to my house too.”

“not to mention free of charge.” you add – proud.

he sinks deeper into his seat, “that’s just not fair.”

you seat farthest from tv, on the edge of the table and by the armrest, a seat empty next to yours as you wait for your husband.

“sorry sho,” you shrug, not sorry at all, smug smile on your face and you say, “it’s simply the perks of having the owner of onigiri miya as your brother.”

“that is such a lie.” atsumu rolls his eyes, and he takes his assigned seat next to you, hand immediately finding yours once he gets close enough. “i am also his brother — twin, even! — and i do not get half as much the perks you get.”

“well.” sakusa sits across from you, “i can understand that.”

and bokuto, in between sakusa and hinata, nods, “yep.”

“i can’t believe i’m getting bullied in my own damn home.” atsumu grumbles, and he stabs his broccoli on his plate with a fork.

you tease him, “you can’t?”

the rest of the evening feels warm. the windows are open to let in the fresh air of the streets of japan, the hustling and bustling of the bypassers outside your apartment building easily drowned out by the warm conversation shared in the warm flat.

( “no more hoisin sauce?” bokuto asks, digging around the stack of empty paperbags, fork in his mouth as he talks.

sakusa replies, barely looking up from the movie on the tv set, “sorry, finished it.”

and bokuto says, casually, “i’ll bring some over tomorrow. you guys need a restock anyway.” )

the five of you, sat down on the living room in front of the television, sharing mindlessly stories about your day, laughter and insults and compliments shared as food is passed around.

atsumu takes the red peppers from your dish as you laugh at something hinata says, he remembers - always - red peppers make you sneeze, so it goes unsaid that he takes them.

he does this so often that sometimes he doesn’t even realize it. he does this so often that he’s probably done it over a hundred times by now — like it’s part of him, like a habit.

you take some of your chow mein and place it on his plate, he doesn’t ask you for any, but you give him some anyway. you don’t even look at him as you do so, like it’s completely second nature for your hand to give him some of his favorite noodles and you don’t even have to think about it — like it’s part of you, like a habit.

“so, what time’s the game tomorrow?” you ask, and suddenly he’s out of his thoughts and back on the living room couch.

hinata looks to you, excited, “are you coming? it’s been so long since you last came to watch us.”

“well, depends on the time,” you tell them, “i’ve got a study group tomorrow in the morning.”

“study group?”

“i know right,” your shoulders fall, “our gen chem professor had us divided into study groups so we could easily catch up on her lessons.”

atsumu shrugs, “so? ditch ‘em.”

“i wish.” you sigh, “they’re the kind of people i just know wouldn’t have let me sit with them at the lunch table in high school.”

“oh, i know those people.” shoyo shakes his head, “had those people everywhere i went in junior high.”

you look at atsumu, “but you probably could have sat with them, you’ve got an aura like that — like you could be cool — but you’re not.”

that makes him roll his eyes, “who’s not cool? i am the coolest one in this table — and for yer information, i wouldn’t sit at any table ya weren’t welcome at.”

(sakusa nods at you, and bokuto says, “same here!” and hinata says, “me too!”)

“matter of fact,” you husband, offended at your doubt for him, continues, “i would flip that goddamn table.”

(and sakusa nods again, and bokuto says, “yup!” and hinata says, “definitely!)

your face feels warm, and you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

“you guys are silly.” you’re not as loud as earlier, but still, you say, “thanks.” and you bite back a smile.

“so…” shoyo grins at you, “ditch ‘em?”

“ditch ‘em!” bokuto repeats.

and for a second all of you look at sakusa, his turn to speak apparently, and he sighs, defeated, shoulders falling and he relents, and says, “fine. ditch ‘em.”

the three other guys cheer loudly and you roll your eyes.

“well, that makes four of us.” atsumu tells you, proud, “you’re outnumbered, honey.”

“fine.” you’re defeated, “i’ll ditch ‘em and come watch you guys play.” and the table erupts in cheers again, and you feel your heart become so full.

atsumu kisses your cheek and you swat him away.

“i’ll text natsu that you’re coming, she’s been pestering me over and over again when you’ll come next,” shoyo tells you, bright smile on his face.

bokuto nods, “i gotta tell akaashi too, maybe we can get everyone there like a reunion or something!”

and this makes you laugh, because, “you guys are acting like i haven’t come to watch you guys play in forever.”

and sakusa tells you, “it has been forever.”

“well, i guess a reunion or something would be kinda nice? we can have everyone come back here, bring out a few drinks.” you think out loud, relenting to the pleas of your oldest friends, and you can’t hold back a smile even if you wanted to.

“if anyone breaks a goddamn window in my home, everyone is getting charged the repair bill.”

the night ends quicker than you want it to, suddenly it’s 10 pm and the warm night starts to get colder.

“thank you for dinner, miyas.” bokuto tells you, grinning ear to ear as you walk him to the doorway, a barrage of shoes laid out on the floor, reminding you what a full house you have tonight.

you hand him his coat and his hat, and he embraces you tightly, one that you will never not return.

hinata comes up to you next, “thank you for dinner and please please please come tomorrow.”

“yes sho, i will be there.” you tell him lightly, and he embraces you as well (the same one he gives you every friday night).

the last to come up to you is sakusa, his hands already in his pockets, eyes tired and all. he doesn’t have a coat or a jacket, but he comes up to you anyway.

“thank you for having us.” he tells you, like he always does, and he gives you a short kiss on your right temple, like he always does, “it’s good to see you.”

you pat his arm, “you say that every friday night, omi.”

“what? no kiss for me?” atsumu calls from the side, arms crossed over his chest.

and sakusa replies, eyes narrowing, “never.”

(they have this conversation every single friday night.)

and just like that, all three of your guests for the night have left, leaving behind only two pairs of shoes left by the doorway — yours and your husband’s.

atsumu makes his way to you, his arms finding your waist immediately as he pulls you into his embrace, hugging you like it’s all he’s ever done correctly.

the apartment is quiet now with just you and him, and he loves this as much as he loves you.

“finally,” he tells you, smiling wantonly, “just us two.”

you smile back at him, “we have so many kids.”

and he nods, “even more tomorrow.”

your apartment, your home, it isn’t anything impressive, really. it’s not big or expensive or fancy, but for some reason, it’s always been the go-to place for everyone to have drinks at, for dinners to be shared, for windows to be broken.

“you really okay with that? the reunion thing here?” your husband asks you, his tone gentle, “its okay if you’re not, we can just cancel on ‘em. have the night to ourselves.”

you raise a brow, teasing, “and do what exactly?”

atsumu gives you a knowing grin, “i’ve got a list in mind.”

you laugh, “i bet you do.”

he comes closer to your face, “i can cross one off on it right now.”

and he kisses you then, the same way he does every single day of his life, the same way he plans to for a million years more.

you feel his smile melting into his kisses.

then he pulls away, smiling at you, voice gentle, cheeks pink, and heart full, “thank you for dinner, miya.”

you laugh again, and with the same amount of gentleness, you say back, “thank you for dinner, miya.”

atsumu knows you could never be unloved by him — you are too tangled in his mind, in his soul that you might as well take his heart entirely — it’s already full of you anyway, it has been since the day he’s met you.

“and no, we are not cancelling on them.” you tell him, pulling away, “i miss our friends and i know you do too.”

he tells you, “fine.” and he pulls you back in, nose close to yours, wide grin on his face as he takes you.

he wants to kiss you again, but to be fair, he wants to do that all of the time.

you give him a smile, “i’ll let you cross another thing off that list of yours if you do the dishes.”

and he groans, “you know omi already did them.”

“man, we have got to get lazier friends.”

“well, we can always call that study group of yours.”

(the two of you say friends, but it feels a whole lot more like family.)

together you and atsumu create a home filled with flowers, kindness, cozy pillows, and loud music. in your halls there is rest, good sex, good sleep, books, and dancing. there is space to be you, there is space to be him, there is space to be be the two of you, and there is love, there is love, there is love.

[sodaneko]

・❥・suna x gn!reader ; slightly suggestive ; second chance romance ; word count: 824

suna rintarō doesn’t get why you’re so surprised over the photo strip on the fridge. no way, you still have that? of course he does. you were his first love after all. and if he was being honest with himself (something he avoided), you were his last, too. in all these years after you broke up there was no one who got even close to replacing you. so yeah, he kept the memory from when you squeezed into that photo booth together after school; your uniforms a bit rumpled, a lollipop dangling from the corner of your mouth, lipstick marks all over his face. you were so happy back then, young and naive and so, so head over heels in love. 

now you’re older and more beautiful than ever and your eyes light up when you spot him from across the room at the class reunion. it’s been years but his name still rolls off your tongue the way it used to, and even though you changed your perfume (he can tell) your familiar scent still lingers on you when he buries his face in your hair, strong arms coming to wrap around your middle and pulling you close. he has been a fool for ever letting you go. osamu, his roommate and witness to the scene, shoots him a knowing glance before giving you both some space. suna’s whole world just shrunk down to the size of you in his arms anyway. 

you talk. you talk for hours while ignoring everyone else, your knees nudging against another under the table, your pinkies almost touching while his hand rests next to your glass, his eyes flickering down to your lips for a brief moment until you ask him if he wants to get out of here; his heart in his throat when he nods and your hand slips into his like muscle memory. he’s not drunk but he feels lightheaded, like he’s in a dream where he gets to have you again. 

suna fumbles for his house keys while trying to recall if he cleaned after himself before he left or if osamu’s boxers are still on the bathroom floor as they always are, but his mind goes blank the moment you tangle your hand in his hair and pull him down to your lips. there’s a certain despair to the kiss, as if you’re both afraid that it’ll just be another faint memory once the sun rises again. the door clicks open and suna shoves you inside, pushing you against the nearest wall, one leg slotting between your thighs before he kisses you back with hunger, slender fingers cradling your face. you’re clawing and biting at each other with fervor, and by the time you make it to his bedroom you’re already panting and moaning his name.

and when morning comes you’re still there in his arms, lying on top of him, feeling his heart drum against his ribcage as if it’s trying to find a way back to yours. he presses a kiss to your jawline and the side of your neck before rolling you over, pinning you underneath him. you still giggle and laugh the same way you used to and suna thinks that he never stopped loving you, not even a bit. it’s still there, unfurling in his chest, blooming into you. you sigh into his open mouth when his fingers find your sweet spot again, taking you apart like something holy once more, again and again, too afraid it will be the last time he gets to have you like this.

it’s already noon when he carries you over to the kitchen, putting you down on the counter while he roams the cabinets for something to eat. with osamu as his roommate he doesn’t have to search for long, but your attention is already elsewhere, pinned to the fridge door and the photos adorning it. we look a lot like we did back then, don’t we? suna huffs out a laugh but you’re not wrong; you, wearing his crinkled shirt and nothing else, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of your mouth, and his face covered in your lipstick marks–even the shade is identical.

he grabs his phone and leans into you, your arms coming to wrap around his neck and your cheek squished against his as you laugh without a single worry in the world. the camera shutter clicks. the past repeats itself in the tiny kitchen and the love is still there, never left, just orbited around the sun to grow tenfold in size. suna will forever love you, his lips brushing against your knuckles and the inside of your wrist before he finds your mouth again, the unspoken promise pushed between your parted lips, the silent plea on the tip of his tongue. 

love me back. love me like you used to. love me as if it never hurt. love me, love me, love me.

[limerlove]

WITH GIN IN JULY

❝ ABBY ANDERSON!ONE SHOT ❞

ෆ | pairing. enemies to lovers!abby x female!reader

abby anderson? she's a fucking nightmare. with everyone in her back pocket, she adores all. the golden girl, but to you she's just the asshole not to be trifled with. a kind heart to everyone, except you. you hate her and she hates you. what could possibly change that?

warnings. eighteen+, nsfw content: 3k wc. smut, oral sex, fingering, no strap so stop complaining ♡ (this is a joke don’t attack me), a lot of fucks said, enemies to lovers, me being in love with abby, yk there’s a recession when i’m throwing fluff in a fic. okay, ray. shut up.

Apprehension runs cold in her veins, ice for blood with a small throttle for a pump — she’s a fucking nightmare wrapped in a devil’s daydream.

To everyone else, she's the perfectly nice, perfectly fine girl. The two of you introduced to one another in the first week of July, the weekend of the forth. All of your friends raved about how kind Abby is, a heart of gold, is what they all said.

In all honesty, you had even been thrilled to meet her. You love your little group of friends, the family you never had but fuck are you sorely disappointed by blonde-brute.

She was anything but kind. Intentional malice laced in her deviously-blue eyes from the first time you met. As time went on, so did Abby's growing irritation. Even as the heat blossomed, she still managed to root her cruelness in rich soil.

"I just don't know what everyone sees in her! She's so mean, all the time, she's barely even human."

And here she is, simmering in the pool with her stupid cocktail and that damn gleeful smile. She taunts, under the radar of everyone else, always making you look like the monster with one evil eye and talons for hands.

“You don’t think you’re making all this up just because—” Jesse trails off but your fury is lasered on to her, not letting up for a single moment.

“Not think, I know." Continuing to rail off your tangent as you see her being warm and fuzzy with everyone else except you.

For fuck sake, she's like a goddamn teddy bear. You might hold her if she lets you but no one else besides you is going to know it.

You decide to cool off inside needing a cool drink in this excruciating heat. The first thing you’re met with is cool air-conditioning and cool white-marble floors, chilling your overheated body back to room temperature.

It’s much better this way, in silence where your disdain can rot like a sour pomegranate. Complete solitude could solidify the vindication you feel every time she throws another insult when no one else is listening.

As you're bent over, digging through the freezer to find your strawberry-lemonade you had placed there earlier you hear a throat being cleared.

You crane your neck just to see it’s her.

Picture perfect Abby, god, you wish you could slap that stupid grin off her pink and pretty lips. Always smirking at you like she knows something you can’t possibly be aware of.

“Need help?”

“Nope. It’s not like you were actually offering.” You’re short and sharp with her, keeping your interactions with Abby to the absolute minimum.

It’s better for everyone this way.

“I could help you out and—”

“We both know you won’t.” Finally, you find it, shoved at the bottom underneath the frozen fruit. But when you rise and turn around, your chest is practically pressed against hers.

She’s testing the waters, normally you wouldn’t be such an idiot. You would push her away, shoulder check her even. Or you would try. Abby’s hard to push around, half of her body weight must be muscle.

Between being a mechanic and her necessity to be a total gym addict, her build was stronger than pretty much everyone. With her strength, she pushes you against the fridge with her pelvis, shutting the freezer door shut with your frozen strawberry-lemonade in hand.

“Do we have a problem?” You pry as she looks like she wants to devour you from the inside out.

“What would make you say that?” She waits for you to respond as she stretches out her arm, palm resting by your head, seeing how far she could push you.

Like she always goddamn does.

“You’re here, hovering. God, you’re worse than my ex.” Trying to push her away, but Abby doesn’t even budge.

“Oh.” And for a moment, genuine interest flashes in her eyes. Clearly, you’ve gone senile. “You and her—”

Now, you’re over conscious in your lack of clothing as she bites her lip, sinking teeth into the flesh. Venomous glances find mercy in you, but you’re not sure why they’ve been replaced with longing.

“Why does it matter? Can you let me go?”

“Yeah, right, sorry.”

Abby apologizing? Weird.

—

The truce lasted for a single moment. Sympathy for a broken heart apparently had an expiration date, or a timer for less than twenty-four hours.

“Were you actually going to hit me?” Abby cocks her eyebrow, the gray in her eyes coming to life as a speck of desire crosses near her heart.

"I wasn't trying to hit you. If I wanted to, you would know."

You can't really say this was entirely her fault. Ever since the unintentional spilling of your forementioned breakup, she'd been looming over you. As if she was waiting for you to crack. All you wished was to forget any of it ever happened.

For a second, you thought she could be capable of kindness towards you and then when you tossed an orange to Ellie, it happened to hit her in the face.

"What do you want from me? What's it going to take for you to exercise one decently kind bone in your body?"

She's sizing you up in your bedroom door with the door shut, the one she chased you down in like you're a wild animal. Everyone in the room knew better than to chase either one of you. The two of you always fought like this.

And every single time, you worked it out enough to tolerate each other. But now Abby was witnessing the steam, the ultimate point of rage pushed past the point of containment.

"Me? What about you? Suddenly I'm the problem when you've been an asshole to me from day one. Day fucking one, Abigail."

You're pacing back and forth in your room, attempting to calm yourself down before you completely lose it and say something you can't come back from.

"Me? Like all of this is my fault? The first time you looked at me you decided you had to hate my guts." Abby catches your arm, stopping you from moving another inch.

"Let me go, now." Your voice doesn't waver for a moment, not one stutter is heard, but Abby can't help stare at your lips. Then you're staring at hers and all of it becomes crystal clear.

"Or what? What are you going to do about it?" Single handedly, her words pierce through you warm flesh, exposing the wound she created. For a moment, just for a second, you wonder if Abby’s the antidote you’ve been searching for. 

She wonders how you would react if you walked out of here, ignoring her obvious advances she keeps throwing your way. But it’s always on your terms. Abby’s too cowardly to initiate anything first. Dangling the carrot in front of you like a desperate rabbit, begging to be satiated with the first crunch. 

Stepping forward, your perfectly manicured hand strokes her freckled check, nails lightly scraping against her porcelain flesh. “I won’t have, you’ll do it for me.” 

The tone in your voice drops, smirking as Abby visibly gulps. The lump she swallows is enough indication that she’s been caught. The mean remarks, your former girlfriend at your side when the two of you met, the jealousy, the snide comments Abby would only say when it was the two of you — all of it a ruse to disguise the feelings she decided to bury deep upon your very first meeting. 

A swipe of your thumb caresses her chin, tilting her lips towards you, as her hot and heavy breath curses your lips like a sin you would be willing to die for. A small whimper falls from her, her bambi blues widen at the audible omission. A mistake, a slip-up, and fuck is it perfect. 

“Show me how much you want this, Abby. Be a good girl.” 

Hell breaks loose with those four words and Abby’s self-control is unshackled with it. Practically throwing you on the bed like a certified ragdoll, you become her own personal barbell to train with. Wedging herself between your legs that are already open for her, you’re met with tongue and teeth as she regains control. 

You have a feeling she’s not one for giving in so easily and the whimper Abby felt embarrassed by would be hard to come by, again. The sleep shorts you’re wearing give her enough access as the fabric bunches on your ass. Abby chuckles as you grind up into her pelvis, desperate for more as you practically feel her tongue in the back of your throat. 

Fingers dig into her golden roots, trying so desperately to have her whine for you again, but all you get is a moan — as pretty as it is, it’s not what you want, but it’s enough. 

For now. 

Abby separates as you help her out of the oversized sweater she was wearing with a thin pair of boxers. Here she is, baby-blue boxers hung low on her hips as your hand smoothes over her defined six-pack, muscles flexing underneath your touch. Freckled and toned, small pink nipples practically begging to be placed in your mouth. 

“Oh—” Your hands sink into her boxers, feeling her bush prickling under your touch, as your fingers slide against her drenched folds, each one fluttering as you stroke her enticing lips. “Fucking knew you liked to be praised.” 

The better part of Abby should keep her mouth shut, but when you’re taking shit all she wants is to give it right back. You’re in luck. There’s a finger slipping inside of her and her brain shuts off, she’s unable to think about anything but the sight of you biting your lips as fuck her with skilled fingers. 

Abby leans her body forward to make it easier for you, slipping deeper into your walls. Almost as if she can sense her lips about to spill, she captures your mouth, letting her moans spill in the back of your throat. Abby coats you with her sweet honey, the sounds she makes could rival an angel’s symphony. 

Hips thrusting against you — it’s a perfect moment to sleep another finger inside her — so you do. 

There’s that fucking whimper. More desperate than her stormy-blue eyes, begging to be loved. To be needed, it’s all she had been wanting from you and it’s clear as day. Abby decides she’s had enough. 

Time to even the playing field. 

Ripping the cotton right of your body, the grey-washed tank top is ruined and discarded in your bedroom. Abby latches her lips on to your breast, her forefinger and thumb pinching the other. As if she was born to do it, she suckles on your pebbled nipple, her tongue flicking over the sensitive flesh. 

Abby didn’t know how satisfying it would feel to watch you fumble with your fingers fucking her, the control slipping from your fingertips with just a suck and a flick of her tongue. All of it gone too soon as she pries your shorts and panties off in a single movement. 

As she removes herself for a second, you’re tasting her on your fingers, saturating the sweetness on your tongue. Only wishing her taste could be permanently embedded into your velvet tongue. A way to rinse yourself clean of all the impurities rotting in your brain, the taste of your cunt could bring the salvation you so desperately seek home. 

“Luck for you—” She pauses as she decorates your soft stomach in kisses, “You’re about to come harder than you ever have before.” 

Abby starts with flattening her tongue, a long and languid stripe of her tongue drags along your pussy, dipping her tongue in your clenched hole before guiding her rolling tongue on your quivering clit. 

“But after this, and mark my words, you’re never going to want anyone else but me after this.” Before you can even argue, the collected spit in her mouth drips over your pussy as she slobbers the natural lubricant on an already drenched pussy. 

“Fuck, Abby, what the—” Pushing your legs forward, knees nearly hitting your headboard as she spreads more of your cunt before she gives it her all. Focused entirely on one thing. 

Like it’s an olympic sport, her mouth wastes no time at all. Sparing no expense when it comes to make you well…come. The muscle spares no restriction when it comes to your cunt, shoving her face in your pussy, the bridge of her nose nudging against your clit as she lets her fingers sink into a weeping hole. 

The moans being released from your magnetic lips, Abby’s never heard before. Not from you or anyone she’s pinned down with her mouth. No regard for your friends who are just down the hall, hearing every word falling from your lips sound like a sanctioned prayer. 

Curses of her name fly out of your mouth quicker than you catch them, sucking the soul out of your body as she claims you in ways you’ll never come back from — true to words — in a matter of moments she’s cockily proven to be better than anyone you’ve had before. 

As you tug on the blonde roots, she glances up at you through hooded eyes, a chokehold of sultry as she divides her lips with her tongue as she doesn’t break eye contact. She holds it, just for you, as she watches and hears you scream when you slip another finger inside her. Abby curling her fingers is the last nail in the coffin as you fuck her gorgeous face. 

Those gorgeous blue eyes rivaling the beauty of sapphires. 

“God, gonna keep you right here forever. Always wanna hear you—” Abby moans into your swollen lips, kissing the sweet spot inside you, making the stars align perfectly in the back of your mind. “Say my name for me again, angel.” 

You don’t want to give in. She’s manhandled the power right out of you, as if it never had been placed in your hands to begin with. Like she had domineered you into this position. Make a dominatrix into a submission princess. But truth be told, you lost focus and Abby was there to pounce on you. Waiting for her perfect moment and capitalizing on it. 

“Don’t— fuck—I-I don’t think you deserve it.” You pause for a moment trying to control the shudder in your breath but you’re starting to believe it’s nearly impossible. 

‘“I don’t?” Without warning, there’s a harsh slap to your lips, all three fingers sinking deeper into your clenching walls. “Want to tell me what I don’t deserve again? Or does my girl want to come?” 

Before you can control it, there’s an animalistic groan pouring out of your lips, causing Abby to double down on her efforts. With deep breaths, you’re incredibly close, and with every stroke of her tongue she sends you closer to the edge. 

A stroke of her tongue, a thrust of her fingers — it’s so close you can nearly latch onto it. 

“You like that, angel? Want me to call you my girl?” You hate how cocky she is about it. Abby gleams with pride as you buck your hips into her face once again, whining at the possession. In this instant, solely belonging to the woman who’s eating you out like there’s no tomorrow, is the only desire you crave. 

“Shut up.” It’s supposed to come out intimidating, a bit ruthless even, but it’s almost comical when Abby hums into your cunt. Not when you’re so close to painting her sun kissed-cheeks with pearly white cum. 

It’s almost like she’s done this before with you, she uses her free hand to play with your nipple, like you told her it’s the one thing that can help bring you over the edge. Abby doesn’t stop sucking, on your clit, her tongue serving strokes to your clit as your thighs shake, squeezing her head as she refuses to relent her pace. 

“Choke me out sweet girl, need my baby to come—” Abby locks her eyes on you, “Keep fucking my face, yeah, good fucking girl.” 

Like a flower budding in the spring, Abby watches as your pussy flutters your stomach clenching, body writhing as she fucks you through it all. 

“Don’t stop, oh fuck me, god, that’s so good. Baby, Ohhh—” She’s practically grinning into your cunt as you hear yourself sloshing against her soaked fingers, not letting her mouth release it’s iron-grip around the clit pulsating against her tongue. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet.” Abby is in amazement, savoring every moment of your body twitching to her touch. Until you’re spent, murmurs of too sensitive causes a small smile to grace her face. “You did such a good job, baby.” 

Abby slips on the side your body isn’t taking up, staring at the ceiling with a cheshire grin as she hears your heavy breath. It’s more than you’re usually given. She only needs to hear you struggling to know how much truth it rings. No faith is needed to see what’s right in front of her. 

Propping her head in the palm of her hand, elbow digging into the silky-satin, she can’t stop smiling at you. Half of you expects her to kick back to her normal routine of hating you — maybe Abby didn’t really like you. She just wanted to fuck. 

“You know this doesn’t have to be a one time thing—” Abby draws random patterns into your skin with the blunt of the fingernail, pawing at the skin, desperate for just a little bit more of you. “If you ever want to see stars again.” 

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” Shamelessly, Abby nods. The warmest smile spread on her face, it’s so infectious. Her genuineness rotting through your sourness, making something entirely too sweet for you to swallow but you take it on. 

Even in fear. 

“I thought it was cute.” She’s so bashful about it, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. Almost delicate. 

“Mhm, if you say so.” 

“I do.” She pushes a piece of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. The love in her eyes can’t lie, you hope it’s genuine. Abby can’t stop smiling so you choose to believe it is. 

“Would you…uh—” She stutters out as you rub circles into her hips, “I wanted to ask you if you would like to go on a date sometime.” 

“You know what’s cute? Playing god with my pussy but then being nervous to ask me out on a date.” You tease her. Immediately, her cheeks morph into crimson, trying to hide as much as she can with her hands but the damage has already been done. And you don’t feel sorry about it for one second. 

“So, is that a yes?”

[loviatarsluv]

APHRODISIAC

— ‎ ꜝ synopsis: it should’ve been just like any other auction you’d attended with sylus - get in, gather information, and get out - but an unfortunate run-in with another organization’s leader leads to a very… sticky situation.

— ꜝ pairing: sylus x reader (reader is technically MC, so they are described femininely and use feminine pronouns)

—ꜝ genre: smut (18+ reader discretion advised!)

— ꜝ word count: 5.6k

— ꜝ tags/warnings: strong language, dr*gging, aphrodisiacs, (f)masturbation, fingering, oral (f receiving), sylus being a consent king (⁎˃ᆺ˂)

—ꜝ author's note: another lads fic I’ve been sitting on for months bc I wasn’t sure if it was good enough to post but when I tell u the urge to write sylus smut is so strong at all times, esp to push the munch!sylus agenda … so I went ahead and finished this one and left it on a lil bit of a cliffhanger for shits and gigs (❛ε❛“) just know sylus had her up until DAWN, bro is trying to give himself lockjaw I swear

18+ ONLY under the cut!! I mean it!!

You tug at the tight crimson silk bound around your midsection, adjusting the almost too low neckline and the high slit that stopped just at the top of your thigh every few minutes to avoid a malfunction.

You recall Sylus’ words from months prior when you attended that first auction with him.

No one can stay wary when there’s a beauty walking around.

His flattery almost always held motive behind it— his intentions were clear with his choice of dress to adorn you in, and all you could do was grin and bear it as dozens of the N109 Zone’s most affluent gawked at you as you meandered around the lavish ballroom while Sylus was off doing god knows what.

“Miss, would you care for a glass of wine?” A waiter with a bright smile appears seemingly out of nowhere, a golden tray held before him with one single wine glass in the center.

You eyeball the glass for a moment, your better judgment scolding you for considering it, before shaking your head.

“No, thank you.” You smile politely, turning to walk away before the waiter clears his throat.

“Are you sure? It’s compliments of that gentleman over there,” he points toward a tall man looming in the corner, indolently leant against the wall and watching with a sly smirk on his face.

You squint at him, mentally searching your mind for any trace of him only to come up blank. Your eyes darted between the glass and the man, something telling you it would be wise to accept the drink in case it could start a conversation with a potential person of interest.

You feign a thankful smile, grabbing the glass by its delicate stem and swirling it slightly to subtly check for any tampering.

“Thank you.” You coo to the waiter as he dashes off, bringing the edge of the glass up to your nose to sniff it.

Unable to detect any smell or visible alterations to the dark red liquid, you sample a tiny sip, glancing at the man out of the corner of your eye as you do.

A deep and husky voice chimes through the earpiece Sylus had given you earlier, instructing you to keep it on at all times. So he can eavesdrop on me, you think to yourself.

“Miss Hunter drinking on the job? What a little rebel.”

You roll your eyes, now certain that Sylus was watching you somehow. Your eyes scan the higher parts of the room for Mephisto, but find no sign of the mechanical crow or the pompous man he answered to.

“Wasn’t this part of your plan? I stay down here and dangle myself like a piece of meat over a lion enclosure and hope someone bites while you get to do all the actual work? Well, someone has finally bitten. You should be thrilled.”

He chuckles lowly, and you tune your ears to try to listen for him somewhere in the room, but his voice remains secluded only to your left ear.

“Are you not having fun playing pretend?” Underneath the slight amusement, there’s a hint of genuine concern in his voice that catches you off guard.

A loud scoff tumbles from your lips, forgetting yourself for a moment before quickly covering it with a cough. “Are you actually making any progress, or are you too busy watching me? Is your faith in me so little?” You huff in retort, annoyance clear in your voice despite the deceiving little smile that remained on your face.

“Hard not to look at you right now, kitten. Red is your color.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, reminding you that you really were little more than a lamb primed for slaughter standing in a room full of hungry wolves— one of them being your escort.

A gruff sigh reaches your ears, his voice almost sympathetic as he speaks again before the line cuts off.

“I’ll be done soon. Hold tight.”

Before you can even attempt to reach out to him again, you notice a dark figure approaching out of the corner of your eye. You silently curse to yourself.

Sylus, you better hurry the fuck up.

“Red is your color, angel.” The man who’d sent the wine coos, peering at you from behind a pair of dark sunglasses that seemed out of place in the dim lighting of the room.

Somehow, you manage not to audibly scoff once again, biting down on your tongue as you offer him a sanguine simper from behind the glass as it perches on your lower lip.

“So I’ve been told. Thank you,” you deadpan, raising the glass to him, your dark burgundy nails tinking against the side, perfectly matching the color of the liquid inside.

He smirks, a mouth full of impossibly perfect pearly white teeth on display, his sharp canines peeking over his lip. “Don’t mention it, doll. Strange to see a pretty thing like you standing alone. Did you lose your escort?”

Misogynistic prick.

“I escorted myself.” You lie, your tone harsh as you respond sharply, unable to contain the bite in it at his presumptiveness.

“Forgetting about me already, sweetie?” Sylus’ voice is in your ear again, and it takes everything in you to fight the urge to rip the device out of your ear and stomp on it.

How you manage to be surrounded by the most insufferable men constantly is truly astounding.

“Well, it must be my lucky day then. How about a dance then, Miss…?” The man purrs, holding his hand out in offering.

Your eyes scan him once again, trying your hardest to search your memory for anything of note that could help identify him.

He was handsome— he looked like he had been torn straight out of an issue of a fashion magazine in his perfectly tailored gray suit and his lean physique. He was tall, but still not quite as towering as Sylus. He could almost appear as Sylus’ perfect negative, draped in lighter tones contrasted by his immaculately styled raven hair. He certainly had the ego to rival that of the leader of the fearsome Onychinus, but likely lacked the merit for it.

“Don’t waste your time. I’m wrapping up now.” Sylus rasps in your ear, an uncharacteristic tone of urgency in his voice as the words fly out of his mouth in rapid succession.

A devilish smirk tugs at the corners of your painted lips, deciding to give him a bit of hell as payback for leaving you out here like chum in shark infested waters.

“Vale,” you grinned coyly as you offered the fake name, knowing better than to give your real identity away, placing your hand delicately in his outstretched one. “And you are…?”

He offers yet another captivating smile before bringing the back of your gloved hand up to his lips. “Fawkes. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Vale.”

Fawkes. Where have you heard that name before?

“Shit. You didn’t drink any more of the wine, did you?” Sylus asks, his prior tone of urgency now topped with noticeable concern. “I’ll be there soon. Hold on, kitten.”

Your brows furrow, a pit forming in your stomach as the pieces fall into place and you suddenly understand the situation you’d gotten yourself into.

You’d only taken a sip, so the haze was manageable as it came on, but still enough to cause your eyelids to feel heavier than they should. You manage to maintain your composure as he leads you around the room, one cold hand wrapped around your waist, his fingertips digging into the bare skin of your exposed back, nails slightly digging into the flesh as if they were clawed talons perched atop a piece of carrion.

He watches you expectantly— you could feel his eyes on you even behind his dark glasses.

“Feeling alright, Miss Vale?” He dips his head low enough to bring his mouth close to your ear, his voice sending an unpleasant chill down your spine.

You feign a smile, coyly placing a hand against his lapel.

“Peachy keen. Thank you for asking,” you reply simply, attempting to subtly scan the room for any sign of Sylus.

The smirk on the towering man’s face sent a wave of nausea through you as the possibilities of his intentions with drugging the drink swirled in your mind— had he seen you enter with Sylus? Or worse… Did he know who you were, and did he know about the Aether Core?

Dreary eyes sweep the dance floor once more as he guides you into a graceful turn, your dress swishing across the marble tiles. No sign of Sylus still, and the pounding in your skull was only getting worse…

Not to mention, the… other effects that had started to set in, that you were trying with all of your might to ignore.

“Are you sure you’re well, doll? You’re looking a little… feverish. Perhaps you should lie down for a bit,” he offers coolly, as if he were an actor performing his lines for the millionth time. Your blood boils at the thought.

You shake your head, keeping an iron grip on your composure.

Any second now, Sylus will swoop in. He always does. He’s so handsome, and strong, and big… I wonder if—

Oh god, snap out of it!

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day, s’all,” you slightly slur, mentally cursing yourself for losing control of your words while still trying to reign in your bodily functions and your mind that you were rapidly losing control of. Your eyes sweep the room once again, the room beginning to feel as though it were in rotation before landing on the area where you knew the ladies’ room to be. “I think I need to use the restroom.”

Just as you begin to pull away from his grasp, he reaches out once again, roughly yanking your body back against his and bringing his sinister grin close to your ear, his hot breath sending a shiver up your spine.

“But we haven’t finished our dance yet, doll,” His sickly sweet tone makes your skin crawl as his hands grip at your waist.

Just as you begin to worry that your fate has been sealed, you feel another much larger set of hands grabbing you by the waist and hauling you away. Sylus’ voice is low and gruff against your ear as he leans down to whisper to you. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

The low timbre of his voice sends a wave of heat through you, pooling low as a bright flush washes across your face tinting it a rosy hue. You try not to look him in the eyes for fear that you may lose the last remains of control you cling to.

Before you can even attempt an answer, Sylus pushes you behind him, his large and looming body shielding you as you cling to his back, pressing against the warm fabric of his suit jacket as it drapes over his broad shoulders.

He always smells so good…

“Ah, Mr. Sylus. Didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude to steal another man’s dance partner without asking first?” You hear the man’s voice distantly as you feel Sylus tense against you.

“Not nearly as rude as drugging another man’s date, is it not?” He hisses, his tone sharp and full of venom as his hand reaches behind his back to grip your arm protectively.

You recall earlier how you’d planned to make Sylus jealous out of spite, and the perverse part of your brain that had been wrenched out of hiding silently thank past-you for concocting such a brilliant plan— he is so hot when he’s like this.

Wait, what? Ugh, what did that asshole put in your drink?!

“Quite a big accusation to throw at a man with no actionable proof,” the man sounds amused, as if he were simply toying with his food. “Whether I’ve done such a thing or not, it would probably be wise to escort this lovely lady home. I’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you worry.”

Sylus’ jaw sets, his knuckles turning white at his side as he resists the burning sensation of his evol accumulating in his palm, the urge to send an angry mist of black and blood red to snap the man’s neck growing stronger with each passing second. He refrains, his demeanor calm and collected as he begins to lead you out of the ballroom.

As the two of you begin to pass the slightly shorter man, a hand reaches out to grip Sylus’ arm, halting him in his tracks.

What is said, you barely make out, every sound blurring together as the foggy haze makes itself at home in your unsober mind, but you could piece things together to discern what you thought was said.

“You have a long night ahead of you, my friend.”

Huh. Strange.

⁺⊹♡◦₊⋄

The silence in the car was deafening— or was it the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears? You couldn’t tell anymore, the world was all a hazy blur of sounds and lights and spicy cinnamon cologne that seemed so much stronger when contained and concentrated within the stark leathery confines of this small space.

You sneak glances at Sylus, your legs instinctively clenching together as you notice the iron grip his large hands held on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white with the force of his menacing grip strength. You worried he might break the wheel entirely.

God, you’re going mad.

Especially when he looked like that— the way his muscles tensed and remained taut, his entire presence buzzing with an energy you’d only noticed when he would come to your rescue; a sort of protective, almost possessive aura that always made your heart skip a beat, but now it had your heart doing a full on marathon in your chest.

Typically, him speeding with you in the car might bother you, but you were too gone to care anymore. Your mind could not focus on anything but that stupid. Fucking. Cologne.

Was it the cologne, or was it just him?

“I have half a mind to go back and snap that man’s neck,” he breaks the silence, casually throwing the sentence out as if he were simply commenting on the weather. You knew he meant it, too. You swallow thickly.

It’s just him. Good lord… you’re in trouble.

You remain silent, for fear that whatever comes out of your mouth might seal your own death sentence. Death by mortification.

Sylus’ head turns slightly to peek at you, his brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

No. Nope. Not good.

“Y-Yeah. All good.” You muster, the tremor in your voice evident and undeniable. You pinch your eyes shut, hoping he won’t press you any further.

“Tch. You’re a bad liar, even with drugs swimming through your system.” He chastises.

Before you can attempt a defensive retort, the car lurches to a sudden stop, and you realize you were already outside of his base.

“We’re here.”

Just as your hands move to unbuckle your seatbelt, Sylus is already on the passenger side of the car, large hands making quick work of what your shaky, clammy ones likely would’ve struggled with. Heat radiates off of him as he leans over you for that brief moment and you feel your body instinctively lean into him, leaning your head against his shoulder.

He freezes, a soft chuckle leaving his lips. “Let’s get you inside.”

You nod, your slightly damp forehead rubbing against the fabric of his shirt as you do. He pulls back, carmine irises scanning your face with a softer look than you’d ever seen him adorn.

His arm wraps around your back, the smooth, warm flesh of his forearm brushing against the exposed skin on your spine causing goosebumps to raise across your arms and your hair to stand on end. The smallest amount of skin-to-skin contact was already almost too much for you, and you jolted away from his touch.

Confused, he looks you over, thinking maybe he’d hurt you somehow. “Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?”

You stare back up at him, chest heaving as if you’d ran here yourself, cheeks glowing and a sheen of sweat glistening all over your body despite the bitter chill of the winter air.

This is insane, it’s like I’m in heat! I have to get away from him before I do something stupid…

Without another word, you muster up enough strength to push yourself out of the car and dash through the front door, beelining it to the room Sylus had set up for you when you ended up staying the night in the N109 Zone.

You breeze past Luke and Kieran, who both offer some sort of silly greeting that you couldn’t be bothered to attempt to listen to this time, knowing you couldn’t look anyone in the eye right now knowing that your body was like a loose cannon.

It should be over in a few hours, right?

⁺⊹♡◦₊⋄

It had been much longer than a few hours.

At least it felt that way, for Sylus.

Sylus waited a bit before attempting to check on you, the familiar tug of worry in his chest that he only felt when you were hurt or in trouble persisting and making it hard not to fuss over you and make sure you were okay.

Not to mention, the last thing that wretched man said to him as he dragged you out of the venue echoed in his ears like a church bell— You have a long night ahead of you, my friend.

Whatever that meant.

“Boss, we can go check on her if you want!” Luke offers, breaking Sylus out of his swirling thoughts.

“Yeah! Don’t even worry about it, we’ll take care of her!” Kieran chimes in, stepping up behind Luke and peering at Sylus over his brother’s shoulder.

A heavy sigh escapes Sylus’ chest, his thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That will not be necessary.” Is all he says before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your room, restraining himself from telling the two of them off for even offering. The thought of anyone coming near you that wasn’t him right now was making his skin crawl.

He tried not to rush through the extensive maze that was his main base to get to you, but he couldn’t help but move swiftly knowing that you were unwell, much less that you were unwell due to his own negligence.

As he approached your bedroom door, he could very faintly hear a low string of odd noises on the other side— were you crying?

Worried, he pushes the door open slowly, and the scene he finds is not at all what he’d expected.

Silver moonlight pours in through the parted curtains near your bed, bathing your blushed and panting figure in a starry glow as your skin glistens, your legs parted with your hand buried between them, your forearm draped over your eyes as you bite down on the sheets in a feeble attempt to conceal the moans and whimpers escaping your throat.

Sylus’ throat goes dry, unsure whether he should leave or announce his presence, unable to tear his eyes away from your body writhing in the stark black silk sheets, a million and one terribly profane thoughts flooding his mind at the sight.

“S-Sy— ah!” You whine, muffled by the silk on your tongue, but audible just enough for him to hear, and just enough to snap the last few strands of restraint he’d been holding on to.

He crosses the room in two or three quick steps until he reaches the side of the bed, clearing his throat loudly to announce his presence.

You gasp, your eyes snapping open, scrambling to readjust your dress to cover yourself. “Sylus! H-How long have you been s-standing there?!”

His ruby irises seemed so much darker as he looked you over, a low hum resounding in his chest. “Long enough.”

Your jaw goes slack, unsure what all he saw, or much worse, what he’d heard.

“I was just— it’s because of the— I wasn’t—” You clamor over yourself attempting to explain, your entire being feeling like you might fall apart at the seams due to both embarrassment, and the fact that you’d been seconds away from orgasm before the subject of your depraved fantasies so rudely and abruptly interrupted.

“I know, kitten. And if you had simply said something earlier, I could’ve helped you.”

Unsure if you’d heard him right, you look up at him, confused. “W-What?”

He chuckles lowly, his body lowering down to sit beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping below his weight as he scoots toward you.

“The drug— he gave you an aphrodisiac of some sort.” He explains, yet still expertly dodges your question.

“No shit, Sylus!” You yell, exasperated, still on edge and aching from the current lack of stimulation. You squeeze your legs together to quell the throbbing between them, a whimper dropping from your lips as you do. You grab one of the pillows and shove your face into it, wishing this hellish ordeal would end.

Sylus grabs the pillow and pulls it back down to look you in the eyes once again, a glint of both mischief and lust in his eyes. “Don’t hide from me, sweetie.”

“This is a nightmare.” You groan, your eyes moving to focus on the ceiling and avoid his knowing gaze.

A hand comes up to push a few sweat slicked strands of hair off of your face, then a thumb presses your jaw back down, holding it tightly as he inches closer, his face only a few measly inches away from yours.

“My offer to help still stands. If you want it, that is. But you have to give me a clear yes or no.”

Yes! Yes, please!

If you were hot before, you must be on fire now, your entire body feeling as if your blood had been replaced with magma. It took all of your strength to keep yourself from pouncing on him then and there, all rational and logical thought having left you the moment you’d entered this room.

“I need an answer, kitten.” He repeats, his hand sliding across the sheets, inching closer and closer to your thigh. You were practically trembling with need, each one of your muscles taut like a bowstring ready to send you whizzing through the air into his capable arms.

“Fuck it.” You practically moan, launching yourself forward and colliding your lips with his in a heated, breathy, sloppy kiss that was all tongue and teeth and pure greed. Not only on your part, but on his as well.

He molds you to him instantly, strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you into his lap, one hand moving to grip the back of your thigh before travelling underneath your dress to get a handful of the plush flesh of your ass. You break away from the kiss, dazed and gasping for air, a string of saliva still connecting his mouth to yours.

“Was that a clear enough answer for you?” You breathe, your voice huskier than you’d ever known was possible for yourself.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” he whispers against your lips as you reconnect them, taking the lead by pushing him backward so that he was laying and you hovered above him. You could feel your slick dripping down your thigh, the cool air hitting it and sending a chill through you. You’d have likely been embarrassed in any other situation, but you had much more pressing matters in your mind— such as Sylus’ clothed cock pressing against you as it strains against his too-tight slacks.

You sit back, unsteady hands trying desperately to release it from its confines, but a large hand captures yours and brings it up to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“What an eager little kitten, I’ve got,” he purrs. “As much as I’d die to sink into you and never let you go— I think now maybe isn’t the best time.”

Ouch.

You weren’t sure if it was the effects of the drugs still swimming in your system that made his rejection feel like a knife through your chest, or if it was something else, but that’s exactly how it felt— as if he’d grabbed your heart and stabbed it like it were a butchered piece of meat.

His eyes soften as he notices the look on your face, a hand moving to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing soothing circles under your eye. “Trust me, sweetie. I want to. More than anything, truly... But I want to do this when you want it for real, not because some deviant slipped a roofie in your drink.”

You remain silent, understanding his reasoning but wishing so badly you had a valid counterargument to against it, to beg and plead with him to just ravage you and not think twice about it— but damn this man for being so… thoughtful. You couldn’t possibly protest, even in your most addled state.

Taking note of your silence, he leans forward once again, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Besides, I want it to be special. I want to take my time with you,” His voice is low as he speaks, dripping with the promise of passion that only furthered your current dilemma. His eyes flick down to the spot beneath you on his pants where a dark, wet stain pooled, and he almost looks pained. “Let’s just get you through tonight first, hm?”

You sigh, beginning to climb off of him before he grips your hips, holding you in place. You raise a brow in confusion, only to be met with a lustful smirk. “I thought you said—”

“I said no to sex, not no to everything,” He explains matter-of-factly.

In a swift movement, he flips the two of you over, softly tossing your back against the mattress, your hair splaying out around your head like a halo. Large hands move to grip the plush meat of your thighs, gently spreading your legs and pulling your skirt up to expose the mess you’d already made of yourself, your panties soaked and the insides of your thighs drenched in your slick.

He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, a dangerous flicker of hunger flashing across his blood red eyes.

“Poor thing,” he tuts, his words like honey dripping from his tongue. “Already so soaked…” he grumbles more to himself as lays on his stomach, his face merely inches from your wet and waiting heat.

You can’t help but already moan in anticipation, your body aching with the fiercest need you’d ever experienced, that ache only intensifying the more he teased you. “S-Sylus, please…”

He ignores you, his eyes locked on your panties that were now essentially see through, examining your body as if he was trying to memorize it and save it for later.

He hesitates for a moment before leaning forward, his hot breath ghosting over you, eyes heavily lidded and full of pure desire as he peers up at you. Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, a long digit swipes up the center of your folds, lightly flicking your clit and making you jolt, wrenching a surprised yelp out of you.

“Are you sure you want this? I can try to figure out something else to ease your symptoms if—”

“Sylus!” You basically yell over him, leaning up and placing your hands on his shoulders, gripping at them as if your life depended on it. It sure felt like it did at this point.

“I have fantasized about this long before tonight, so I swear to all that is holy if you do not eat me out right now, I might actually keel over and die,” you ramble quickly, the words tumbling out as if a dam had burst in your brain and now the things that you barely even admit to yourself were spilling out freely. But you couldn’t care less at this point, you’d lost the ability to hours ago.

The words that leave your lips seem to shock both of you, an unreadable expression passing across his face before settling on something you could only describe with one word: primal.

He practically growls as he dives in, lapping hungrily at your still clothed cunt like a man starved. His voice vibrates against you, only furthering the sensation and nearly already overstimulating you. His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you closer to him and fingers digging in and gripping them tight to prevent you from pulling away— not that you’d planned on it, anyways.

Your hand flies to his head, your fingers threading through his silver locks the way you’d wished you could dozens of times over. When your fingers find purchase, your nails scraping gently across his scalp, he groans loudly against your pussy— and god, you may not last much longer if he keeps this up.

“You are so,” he mutters into you, pausing to lick one long stripe from your entrance to your clit. “Fucking divine.” He finishes, one arm releasing your thigh so he could hook a finger beneath the soiled cloth and slide it to the side, the cool air biting at your drenched cunt as he exposes it.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs to himself before diving in again, his tongue immediately finding your waiting hole, clenching and throbbing desperately around nothing.

Your back instantly arches off of the bed, a string of whiny, needy whimpers and curses filling the room amidst the profane squelching noises as he drinks you in as if you were the last drop of water in a burning hot desert.

He pistons his tongue in and out of you, using his still free hand to swipe against your neglected bud, shockwaves of pleasure wreaking havoc on your body and soul. You were already so close.

“S-Sylusss…” You mewl, bringing your hand up to bite down on your fist to muffle yourself. Sylus notices and quickly grips your wrist, yanking it away from your mouth.

“No, no, kitten. I need to hear you. Don’t hide from me,” he instructs, his voice a deep rumble akin to a purr against you. You lean up and nod at him with wide, teary eyes glazed over with pleasure. “Be good for me, won’t you?”

Good grief.

“Say it,” his voice is darker, more commanding. Your walls clamp down on the infuriating nothingness.

“I’ll be good, Sylus, p-please, pleasepleaseplease,” you plead, your voice more wanton and needy than you’d ever heard it before. It almost didn’t sound like you, if you hadn’t felt it drip off of your own tongue.

He hums in approval, bringing a finger up to tease at your folds, gently massaging and gathering up your slick on the pad of it before prodding at your entrance.

“I know, kitten. I’ve got you.” He purls as one finger slowly inches in, and a feeling somewhere between relief and desperation floods your body. It wasn’t enough, you needed more.

“More, please, please, I need—” You were practically sobbing, and he hadn’t even moved his hand yet.

“Hmm… so greedy,” without warning, he curls his finger, prodding perfectly at that spongy spot that made your vision go white and lit your body on fire, while his thumb starts to rub slow teasing circles around your neglected clit. “Is that better?”

“Yes! Just like that— I’m gonna come, just like that!” You scream, your hand instinctively pushing against his head to pull him closer.

He chuckles, complying with your nonverbal queue and replacing his thumb with his mouth, sucking down harshly onto your throbbing clit, sending you careening into the hardest orgasm you’d ever felt in your life.

Wave after wave of pleasure wrecks your body, slamming into you for what felt like forever while Sylus continued to work you through it all, one hand moving to lace his fingers between yours to help ground you while the other slowly moved within your pulsing walls as you came down.

Your body slumps, your chest heaving and your mind reeling. You’re still trapped in the haze of pleasure as Sylus pulls his finger out, placing one last lingering kiss to your over sensitive pussy before pulling away all together. You keen at the loss of his touch, already wanting more as he gazes up at you, chin glistening with the most pussy-drunk expression written across his features.

“Feel better?” He asks smugly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and licking his lips, the burning embers of lust still flickering in his fiery eyes.

You want to say yes, but you know all too well that you could easily go for several more rounds and then some. You weren’t sure if you were even still under the effects of the aphrodisiac drug anymore, or if you were just finally admitting to yourself what you’ve known you wanted all along. This forbidden attraction to Sylus that had only grown the longer you’d spent time around him, the ache you felt to be closer to him anytime you went away or vice versa— you couldn’t deny it anymore, and that frightened you.

Sylus notes your silence, and chuckles, crawling over you until his hands are on either side of your head, his face hovering over yours. His breath smells strongly of you, and the thought makes your quivering legs clamp closed once again.

“Was that okay?” He asks, his eyes and voice softer than you think you’d ever heard from him, seeking reassurance.

Was that okay? You mock him in your head, your eyes flitting down to look at your disheveled dress, the sheen of sweat coating your skin, your heaving chest and not to mention the absolute disaster that was your lower half. Your eyes flit back to his, a wry smirk on your lips.

“If I say no, will you try again?” You ask earnestly, despite it sounding like a joke.

Sylus chuckles, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Only if you ask nicely.”

⁺⊹♡◦₊⋄

other l&ds works ➛ bloop

[maddymoreau]

Kress Twins and I commission by @karangellc

[littledykeblue]

SONGS TO FALL IN LOVE TO (an exes!ellie x reader road trip fic but make it sad)

tags: grief and grieving, unhealthy coping mechanisms, panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, second-chance romance, slow burn, mutual pining, photographer!reader, dropout!ellie, road trip!!, themes of friendship, love and healing from loss, eventual smut, MDNI

note: this idea has been beating down my door with sticks and rocks for like two weeks now. after all the indulgent smut from hotwired, i'm ready to slow things down (and hopefully bring at least one person to shedding a tear. it will probably be me). also!! HUGE shoutout to @butchsucker for literally choosing every song for me lmao.

JOEL DIES IN SPRING and Ellie is left in charge of his ashes.

At first, she doesn’t know what to do with them. Let them gather dust on some shelf, looming over some dim room? Joel would hate that, she thinks. He always said he wanted somewhere quiet, somewhere easy. A place where he could hear the birds and see the stars.

You weren’t supposed to be part of the plan. But Ellie’s car gives out the morning she’s set to leave, and you’ve always lived just down the street. It's more convenience than anything else.

Years have passed with barely a word between you and the girl who used to be your whole world. Still, there she is. At your door, trembling, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, and holding an urn and asking you for help.

And how could you say no to that?

You can recall falling in love with Ellie Williams in six perfect songs (and a couple of bonus tracks). Perfect songs to fall in love to.

TRACKLIST (if you'd like to read on ao3)

LEAD TRACK (PROLOGUE): This Year — The Mountain Goats

TRACK ONE: To All of You — Syd Matters

TRACK TWO: Faster Than the Speed of Life — Steppenwolf

TRACK THREE: So Alright, Cool, Whatever — The Happy Fits

TRACK FOUR: Your Love — The Outfield

TRACK FIVE: I'd Do Anything — Simple Plan

TRACK SIX: Accidentally In Love — Counting Crows

BONUS TRACK (EPILOGUE): Stand In The Water — Wildlife

★─── ⋆⋅ ★ taglist (comment to be added!)

[sceletaflores]

MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE!

|| dc masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

─ ✮⋆˙PAIR: Clark Kent x fem!reader

─ ✮⋆˙WC: 5.2k

─ ✮⋆˙@polkadottprincess SAYS: on the clark kent agenda as well!!!! maybe a size kink?! or dare i say edging.

─ ✮⋆˙CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, reader is a journalist, established relationship, so much banter, clark kent is a FLIRT and a SLUT, a risqué interview, roleplaying…kind of, sub clark leaning, dirty talk, handjob, size kink YES, edging hehehe, superman’s super huge dick, hyperspermia, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

─ ✮⋆˙NAT’S NOTE: guys i genuinely don’t know how to describe the plot of this in a way that makes sense. okay so basically clark can’t get you a interview with superman, but he can get you the next best thing. himself. that’s it. i don’t think that makes sense but hear me out! it’s good i promise! i had so much fun writing my last clark fic that i needed to write another one. maybe i’ll write even more who knows… that’s code for i have three wips sitting pretty literally as we speak…anyway bye bye now hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you and clark have a conversation about superman…

There are certainly worse places to work than the Daily Planet office.

Sure, it's a little chaotic and the coffee machine spits out something vaguely offensive most mornings. Sure, it's a little loud and you tend to get migraines when you're stuck in the thick of it too long.

There are positives too, and they're pretty good ones. You get a beautiful view of Metropolis from your desk. You get the thrill of real, gritty stories right under your fingers. And most days, the company isn't half bad.

That is, except when Clark Kent gets yet another exclusive with Superman.

The bullpen is buzzing with the usual chaos that comes with mid-Monday mornings.

Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The sporadic clicks from dozens of mouses. The sharp sounds of high heels and fancy loafers against the marble floors.

You’re elbow deep in a piece on the harmful carbon emissions caused by LexCorp, a chai latte from the cafe across the street slowly melting beside your keyboard as you type.

You're on your third paragraph—halfway through describing a particularly egregious cover up involving offshore dumping—when Jimmy’s voice slices through the room, too loud and chipper for a Monday.

“Front page again, man.” Jimmy excitedly slaps a new paper on Clark’s desk, leaning his hip against the edge. He shoves Clark’s shoulder lightly, grinning. “You have Superman on speed dial or what?”

You glance up from your screen, fingers pausing over the keys. 

Clark—sweet, modest Clark—smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses with the back of his knuckle. They weren’t even slipping down his nose. “Thanks, Jimmy. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Right place at the right time.

Bullshit.

That’s the third time he’s used that particular line in the last four months. 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in your head, and lean back in your chair, attention shifting. “Man of Steel must have a type, huh?” You’re loud enough for Clark and Jimmy to hear you across the walkway. “He only ever talks to Clark.”

Clark catches your eye, the edges of his smile a little smugger than before when he tilts his head to the right just so. “Jealous, loud mouth?”

You scoff, eyes narrowing. “Of course I’m jealous. I’ve been trying to get an interview with Superman for weeks and he hands them out to you like candy. It’s blatant favoritism.”

Lois finally speaks up from her desk next to yours, not looking up from her screen. “And you’re Clark’s favorite. It balances out.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Jimmy cuts in before you can speak, holding his hands up in front of him. “I’m clearly Clark’s favorite. I thought everyone picked up on that?”

You suck your teeth, ignoring Jimmy. “If I was really Clark’s favorite he’d quit hogging Superman and put in an extremely gushing, ass-kissing word for me. Wouldn’t you, Clarkie?”

That earns a chuckle from Jimmy, and a slightly sharper one from Clark himself—but he still doesn’t rise to your bait. He just gives you that polite little Clark Kent smile, all warm and wholesome and harmless. The one that makes people underestimate him.

“I’ll find a way to work in the ass-kissing,” he nods, overly serious. You can see right through it. “Promise.”

You hum noncommittally, plucking a loose pencil off your desk. “Someone jot that down. I want it in writing.”

“Kiss my ass all you want while you’re at it, Clark.” Lois pipes up again, her bored tone underscored by the way her fingers fly over her keyboard. Click click click. “I’d throw myself off the top of the building if it got me an interview with Superman.”

“I’d kill for ten minutes with Superman,” you add, idly twirling the pencil in your hand as you sway side to side in your chair. 

Jimmy snorts, shamelessly flipping through Clark’s notepad. “Who wouldn’t these days.”

Clark ignores him much like you did. He glances at you over the frame of his glasses, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Is that a professional request?”

“Very professional,” you say coolly, arching a brow. “Strictly for journalistic purposes.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course.”

“Extremely professional.” You repeat, tone dipping into something a little warmer.

Clark catches on, because of course he does. His eyes flash with something new that you can see even from where you’re sitting. He cuts his gaze to the way your thumb glides along the shiny edge of your pencil. Up and down. Up and down.

You watch his throat work around a thick swallow. The slouch he’s had all morning straightens out for a single breath, showing off just how broad those shoulders really are under that boxy suit.

The others don’t notice the sudden tension. Lois is too busy typing, fueled by the third sugar filled coffee cluttered around her, and Jimmy tends to be more oblivious when it’s this early.

“Well,” Clark says mildly, back to slouching in his chair. “I’ll be sure to let him know you’re interested. Next time I see him.”

You arch a brow, pretending not to notice the curl of heat that slides low in your stomach when he says it. 

“Next time I see him.” Like they’re neighbors. Buddies.

Almost like they share a mirror.

You let yourself smile, the barest hint of one. Clark still beams right back at you like the slight raise of your lips is the best thing he’s seen all morning. “You do that, Clark. I’ll be sure to wear my shiniest pair of readers, to make him feel more comfortable.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and turns back to his screen, but you can still see the dopey grin on his face clear as day.

You bite your lip, stifling your own matching smile, and get back to work.

Your apartment is dim, quiet. It’s lit in that soft, late evening kind of way—warm lamplight pooling in corners. The faint hum of the city bleeds in through your half open window, the bustle of people walking the streets mixing with the low rumble of traffic three stories down.

You’re sitting on your couch, legs folded under you as your laptop rests on your knees. The loose sleep shorts you changed into as soon as you got home are riding up your thighs, an old Smallville Crows sweatshirt you stole from Clark hangs off your left shoulder as you try to work.

Try being the word of the night so far.

LexCorp isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, unfortunately, and offshore dumping doesn’t expose itself. So, the same article you were working on at the office stares back at your tired eyes, and it’s slowly starting to feel like it’s mocking you. 

The cursor blinks steadily on the too bright screen, daring you to try and finish the pathetic excuse of a paragraph you’ve been stuck on for nearly twenty minutes. You chew the inside of your cheek, your nails drumming over the touchpad so you don’t start ripping the keys off in frustration.

You’re just about to call it and toss your laptop aside when there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t get up, you hardly even blink at the three quiet raps against the wood. You already know who it is.

The sound of a key, your spare key, sliding into your lock is loud in the quiet enveloping you. The door creaks open and Clark’s voice follows as soon as it’s closed.

“You forgot lunch today,” he calls from the doorway, toeing his shoes off. “I didn’t want you forgetting dinner too.”

You hum as the soft sound of socked feet make their way closer, not looking up from your laptop. “Isn’t that sweet of you.”

A bag is dropped next to you on the couch, heavy and warm against your bare thigh. “Falafel from the spot you like,” he says from somewhere behind you, bright and almost giddy—like he’s been waiting to tell you all day. “And a cream soda for the best reporter in Metropolis.”

“You’re such a suck up, Kent.” You tsk softly, shaking your head. “Cream soda? That must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

Strong arms close around your shoulders, and Clark’s scent washes over you. The metallic tang of ozone, of fresh cut grass and sunny warmth. “Mhm, it was worth it.”

Clark kisses the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling. He presses another kiss to your temple. Sharp teeth nip at the shell of your ear teasingly, the warmth of his breath sends goosebumps pebbling up your arms. “You were really giving it to me back at the office, you should do that more often.” 

It's unmistakably husky, his tone. Husky and low and hushed next to your ear, letting you really hear the heat behind it.

Clark’s arms tighten around you, pressing himself into your back as much as he can with the couch still separating you both. Another kiss to the edge of your jaw. “You’re so sexy when you’re ticked off at me.”

You bite back a smile, tilting your head to give Clark more room to press kisses along your skin. “Me telling you off in front of Jimmy gets you hot?” 

Clark chuckles against your skin, trailing wet kisses down your neck. “Jimmy doesn’t have anything on you. He’d look terrible in a pencil skirt.”

You huff, closing your laptop. “Don’t tell him that. You’ll break his heart.”

You finally turn your head, peering up at Clark hunched over you. He’s already looking back, eyes bright. You only get a glimpse of that perfect smile before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is anything but chaste. It’s the first kiss you’ve had since he left your apartment late last night. 

Clark tastes like sugar and salt—like the honeyed fizz of cream soda and the briny note of wind that clings to his skin no matter what time of day it is. He kisses like he does everything else, devastatingly earnest and impossibly sweet. Like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to his memory. Like he’s trying to leave your taste on his lips for days.

Clark kisses like he means it—every swipe of his tongue, every soft sound into your mouth, every gentle pull of your lower lip between his teeth.

His glasses bump your forehead with every move. He still has them on, even here with you where he doesn’t need them. You feel the press of them anyway, clunky and in the way, but it’s almost charming—so unmistakably Clark it makes your chest squeeze.

When his fingers curl into the worn down fabric of your sweatshirt, tugging gently as he deepens the kiss, you're the one who has to pull back for breath.

“You're not allowed to distract me,” you whisper, voice light, lips brushing his. “I’m supposed to be working.”

Clark just hums, eyes still slipped closed. “I missed you.” Another kiss. “Been thinking about this all day.” Another kiss. “About you.”

He kisses the smile right off your lips, his other hand sliding down your back slowly—mapping out the notches of your spine. He toys with the hem of your sweatshirt, sliding his touch under the cotton to find the curve of your waist. It’s not entirely innocent, the way his thumb slips under the waistband of your shorts. 

Your lips are already swollen, you can almost feel the blood rushing to them. You pull back again, blinking like you’ve been spun in circles. “You saw me six hours ago, Kansas.”

Clark grins, cheeks flushed. “That’s six hours too long.”

You smile, your hand coming up to brush your fingers through his messy curls. “Well, I’m here now.” Your fingers trail lightly along the side of his face. Clark leans into your touch, kissing your palm before you’re squishing his cheeks together. “And you brought me falafel, so you can stay.”

“Don’t forget the cream soda,” he says, voice wobbly from the pressure of your hand smushing his lips together. “What do I get for that?”

You shake his head back and forth fondly, still smiling. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

You plant one last, exaggerated kiss on his pouty lips and drop your hand. Clark smiles, squeezing your hip once before he’s straightening up and making his way around the couch.

“I’m on the edge of my seat.” He sits next to you, plucking your feet off the couch long enough to settle into the cushions before draping them over his lap. “Let’s get some food in you first.”

You sigh, but you’re reaching for the bag anyway. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until amazing smelling street food was brought into your apartment. “Spoil sport.”

You sit together like that for who knows how long, sharing bites of falafel and sips of soda.

The conversation is easy, just like it always is. You talk about the mess at LexCorp, Clark listens intently. Humming and nodding in agreement as he rubs your feet. He brings up some dull city council ordinance he’s been pretending to care about all week just to get quotes for Perry.

You let him ramble, just enjoying the sound of his voice and the press of his thumb against your ankle as he absentmindedly rubs circles into the bone. 

It's nice. Soft, domestic. The kind of evening you’d always imagined when things between you and Clark stopped hovering in the “is this flirting or am I insane?” phase and finally landed squarely in “he brings you dinner and has a toothbrush in your bathroom” territory.

It’s only when the lull sets in—comfortable and slow, your belly full and his fingers tracing the bare skin of your calf lazily—that you really let yourself look at him.

Clark is so handsome like this. Taking up space in your apartment like it’s second nature, squeezing into a space far too small for him just to be close to you, illuminated by the soft orange glow of your ancient thrift store lamp. 

Handsome in that painfully earnest, infuriatingly humble, Midwestern farm boy way. 

You feel a sort of possessive victory in it, getting to see Clark like this—in a way that very few people do. Here, with you, he can be himself. He doesn't need to constantly watch what he says, to reel it in in fear of compromising himself. He doesn’t need to put up a front.

He can just be Clark. 

Not Superman. Not Clark Kent, bumbling reporter.

Just Clark. Your Clark.

It drives you absolutely crazy, it always has. 

It makes you want to stretch him between your fingers like taffy, to crunch down on him between your teeth like hard candy. It makes you want to ruin him.

Then, somewhere between the food and the comfortable silence, Clark’s tone shifts.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “About what you said at the office this morning.”

You blink at him, raising your brow. “I said a lot of things at the office this morning. You’ll have to be more specific.”

 “About wanting an interview. With Superman.” Clark’s eyes gleam behind his glasses. “You said you’d kill for ten minutes with him.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “That was professional desperation.”

“Strictly journalistic?” he deadpans, echoing your words from earlier.

“Very serious. Pulitzer level serious, even.”

Clark grins, and you know then—he’s winding you up. Slowly. Deliberately. That warm Kansas boy charm tightening around your ribs like a silk ribbon.

“Well, bad news,” he says, forlorn. “Superman’s calendar is booked solid.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yup,” he says with a pop of his lips, still rubbing slow circles over your ankle. “Big world. Lots of people to save.”

You sigh dramatically. “Shame. I had such good questions lined up.”

Clark shrugs one shoulder, smile sly. “He’s hard to reach, you know that. But I figured…if I can’t get you Superman, I could get you the next best thing.”

Your brows knit together, confused. “And what’s that?”

He leans in a little, his voice dropping, playful but unmistakably suggestive. “Clark Kent.”

You tilt your head, slow and wary. “Clark Kent?”

“Clark Kent,” he nods, eyes gleaming. “Superman’s number one source. His—let’s say—closest personal contact.”

You snort, but you’re already caught up in it. Already invested in the game. “You’re full of shit.”

He sits back, sprawling onto the armrest with theatrical ease, like he owns the place—and really, at this point, he kind of does. “Try me.”

You blink, narrowing your eyes. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he stresses, adjusting his glasses like some parody of a news anchor. “You can ask me anything about Superman. His habits, his routines, his, uh…” he trails off with a twitch of a smile, “...personal tastes.”

Your lips part, breath catching just slightly.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You still want that interview, don’t you?”

The moment hangs. Warm, fizzy, a little dangerous. Clark and you both know a little danger is never enough to scare you away.

“Alright,” you murmur, still suspicious as you sit up a little straighter, swiping your notepad off the coffee table. “Just remember, you asked for this.”

Clark nods slowly, putting a hand over his heart. “Do your worst.”

You narrow your eyes at him, searching for some kind of catch. Clark just looks back, smiling.

“Okay.” You shrug, flipping your notepad open. You grab the pencil tucked behind your ear, raising it in front of Clark’s lips like a microphone. “Please state your name for the record.”

Clark clears his throat, dipping his head to speak into the eraser. “Clark Joseph Kent.”

You nod, jotting it down. “First question.” You tap your pencil on the paper, dragging out the suspense. “The suit—how in the world does it stay up if it doesn’t have a belt?”

Clark snorts, but his expression remains composed, playing his part. “Kryptonian tech. The fabric conforms to his body. No wardrobe malfunctions.”

You raise a brow. “And what about underneath?”

A pause. Then, calm as can be: “Nothing underneath.”

Your pulse skips a beat. “Huh.”

He watches you, tilting his head. “Next question?”

You try to keep your tone light, playful. “Let’s do an easy one. What’s he like…off the record?”

Clark hums, rolling his head on his shoulders like he’s really thinking. “He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Reads more than you’d expect.”

“Mhm. Nerd,” you tease.

“Bit of one, yeah,” he agrees.

You hum, writing. “Sounds familiar.”

Clark smiles but he doesn’t answer.

“Okay next…” You chew your pencil, thinking it over. “Is he single?”

Clark blinks behind his glasses, then laughs. “You’re seriously asking that?”

You nod, overly serious. “It’s a relevant question, Kent. The people want to know.”

Clark’s cheeks pink slightly, and his voice is quiet. “He’s…seeing someone. Secretly.”

“Oh?” You perk up, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Do tell. Is she beautiful?”

Clark’s voice softens, barely more than a murmur. “Yes.”

You pause. That one lands. Hits something low and warm deep inside you. “Anyone I know?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says softly, like a confession. “She drives him insane.”

You squirm where you sit, phantom flames lapping at your skin. “Does she?”

“She does.” Clark hums, nodding his head. His eyes never leave yours.

You aren’t even writing in your notepad anymore, too caught up in a game that’s starting to feel less and less like a game with each passing second. “How.”

He leans in just a little, his voice going husky. “The way she talks. Her brain. Her mouth. Her smart little attitude.” His hand trails along the couch behind you. “The way she looks at him like she knows he’s not invincible.”

“Sounds like she’s really into him.” You will your voice not to shake, but it doesn’t work. You’re too wound up. The tension between you and Clark growing thicker and thicker.

“Oh, she is,” Clark murmurs. “Says things sometimes that make him feel like he’s gonna burn through his skin.”

You lean in, tongue coming out to swipe along your bottom lip. “Like what?”

“She tells him she wants to get fucked by Superman,” Clark says softly, cheeks more pink. “Tells him she thinks about it when she’s alone. Thinks about how big he is. How he’d feel. If he’d wreck her.”

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “That’s what she says?”

He nods, eyes dark. You watch as his pupils grow, black stretching across blue like an oil slick over a lake.

“And what does Superman do?” you ask.

“Whatever she wants.” Clark breathes.

Your heart trips over itself three times over in your chest, breath caught in your throat. The fun of it—this game—it's suddenly edged with something even more molten than before, something dense and slow. You feel the buzz in your limbs, in the way Clark’s gaze sticks to your mouth now instead of your eyes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, wetness blooming between your legs to soak the thin cotton of your panties. “What turns him on?”

Clark blinks again, meeting your eyes. This time he’s a little less composed. “That’s not exactly a journalistic question.”

“I’m going for a different kind of profile,” you murmur. “Besides, I think we already blew through any journalistic professionalism.”

Clark lets out a breath. His voice is lower when he speaks next. “Well…he likes being in control. But he likes being teased, too. Likes when someone isn’t afraid of him. Likes being told what you want. What you fantasize about.”

You shift in your seat. “Do you think he’d like it if someone told him they touch themselves thinking about him?”

Clark’s jaw tenses.

You lean in, slow, until your lips are nearly brushing his ear. Your notepad and pencil are long forgotten, tossed somewhere beside you. “You think he’d like it if I told him I think about him bending me over my desk at work? Or flying me up to my roof and fucking me against the edge of the building?”

Clark turns his head to look at you. His pupils blown so wide all you see is black.

“I think he’d like that a lot,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I know he would.”

The moment breaks like glass.

You kiss him—hard. Hungry. Like you’re trying to tear him open and crawl inside.

And Clark lets you.

His hand flies up to cup your jaw, moaning into your mouth. The kiss is all tongue and filthy—hot and desperate and messy.

There’s nothing slow about it. Clark’s touch is firm, everywhere, his mouth wet and open against yours. He groans low in his throat when your hand slides down his chest, tracing the hard ridges of his stomach through his shirt.

Your hand drifts even lower, between his legs, where he’s hard as steel in his slacks.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your lips, hips twitching into your palm. “You—you’re playing dirty.”

You press firmer, mapping out the familiar length of his thick cock with greedy fingers. “You started it.”

“You’re not seriously—”

“—taking your exclusive,” you whisper, working open his fly. “Since you’re offering.”

Clark makes a strangled sound—half-laugh, half-moan—as you pull down his zipper, your fingers grazing over the impossible heat straining behind it. 

“You—you don’t have to—” he gasps, even as his hips rise from the couch, silently begging you to continue.

“Clark.” You look up at him, hand already stroking slowly over the thick outline of his cock through the drenched fabric of his boxers. “Be quiet.”

His breath hitches. He nods, biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a dent. But the way he’s trembling beneath your touch, the way his thighs tense—you know he won’t last long.

You slip your hand into his boxers, and that’s when you really feel him—bare skin to skin. Hot, thick, and heavy. Way too heavy. You nearly gasp as you pull him free, the head flushed a violent red, already leaking. The sheer size of him always takes you by surprise. 

Big doesn’t even begin to cut it.

He’s not just long—he’s thick. The kind of thick that makes your hand look small in comparison. The kind that has no business fitting anywhere, and yet you ache to make him fit.

Clark groans when the cool air hits him, and louder when you wrap a hand around him, stroking up the length of his cock with a tight grip. You twist your wrist around the head, thumbing over the slit to spread the shiny mess of pre-come.

"You're so big,” you breathe, pumping him faster. “It’s not fair.”

He whines through gritted teeth, hips twitching, dark curls falling over his forehead. “Fuck, baby, please—go slow, I’m not—if you keep—”

“I barely touched you,” you murmur, transfixed by the way his cock twitches in your grip. It’s flushed dark, an angry red at the tip. You trace the thick vein along the underside with your thumb, feeling his pulse beat fast and hard just beneath the skin.

Clark whines, dropping his head on the back of the couch. His hands dig into the cushions, you can hear the seams straining under his grip.

“Oh, you’re gonna come like this? Already?” you tease, dragging your hand down slowly—so slowly—until you’re just barely grazing his balls. “From just my hand?”

“Mmph—fuck,” Clark whimpers, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ll survive.” You kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re Superman.”

He groans again at that, like it hurts to hear the word coming from your mouth, like it unlocks something primal in him. You stroke him again, firmer now, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. Clark shudders.

“You gonna come for me, hero?” you ask, licking your lips. “Gonna soak my hand with that big load you’ve been holding in all day?”

Clark groans, his hands flying to your thighs—gripping, grounding. “Gosh—don’t say it like that. I can’t—”

You slow down. Stop, almost.

And Clark makes the prettiest little noise. Desperate. Just this ruined, strangled sound deep in his throat that shoots straight through you like lightning.

“You can’t what?” you coo, barely pumping him. “Can’t hold it?”

Clark shakes his head fast, eyes blown, body twitching like he’s fighting every instinct in his arsenal not to thrust up into your fist like an animal.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what, Clark?”

“Please—fuck—please let me come.”

You pretend to consider it. Drag your thumb under the slit of his cock again and marvel at the mess he’s made. Pre-come is coating your palm, sticky and hot and so much. He’s leaking like he hasn’t touched himself in weeks. It makes the slide of your fist that much easier.

You know it’s a side effect of his biology—Kryptonian virility turned all the way up.

Clark fills your mouth, drenches your stomach, floods your pussy every time you’re together like it’s the first time he’s come in years. And he always gets so sensitive, so feral about it. Like he hates how much he needs it and loves how much he needs you.

“You’re so full, baby,” you murmur, dragging your hand slow along his cock again. “You need to come that bad?”

Clark nods without shame, hips twitching. “Need it so bad. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about your voice. About your thighs. About your mouth—fuck, I’m gonna come, please—please let me—”

“Not yet,” you whisper.

Clark whines.

It’s so soft, so honest, it almost makes you pity him.

Almost.

You kiss his throat, biting lightly at where his pulse jackhammers. “You’re not gonna come until I say so, Clark. You’re gonna hold it. You’re gonna sit there and take it and be good for me.”

Clark’s hips buck at that—he tries to be still, tries to keep his eyes on you, but the pleasure is just too much. He nods like his life depends on it, gripping your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises blooming tomorrow.

Clark will feel guilty about it. You won’t.

“Good boy,” you purr, picking up the pace again—stroking him with both hands now, twisting, squeezing, making sure every stroke is just rough enough to keep him teetering on the edge.

Clark’s entire body is trembling. His lips are swollen and slick, pink blooming up his throat. His glasses have fogged up, and his brows are knit like he’s in pain—like this is the most torturous kind of pleasure he’s ever felt.

You jerk him faster, watching the way his body tightens, how his cock swells heavy in your hands. His stomach contracts like it’s about to cramp, his moans dissolving into open mouthed gasps as he bucks up into your palm like he’s chasing it.

He’s so close.

“Baby—please,” Clark gasps, gripping your wrist now, his huge hand covering yours where you stroke him. “Please let me come, I—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will,” you whisper, biting your lip. “But not yet.”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t hold it—”

You stop again.

Clark sobs.

A real, wrecked, broken sound from deep in his chest.

His hands squeeze your thighs and he curls in on himself slightly, eyes flying open in disbelief. “No,” he gasps, hips twitching uselessly. “No, no, please—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his fluttering eyelids. “You’re doing so good for me, Clark. Just a little longer.”

He groans, miserable, but he still nods. So obedient. So eager to please—to give you what you want.

You don’t give him any warnings before your fists are speeding up, flying over his cock as fast as you can manage.

Clark cries out, his body jerking violently—like he doesn’t know whether to run from your touch or lean into it. “Christ, wait—ah! Wait, I can’t—”

You don’t let up—stroking him faster, tighter, rougher. The slick, obscene sounds of it echo in the quiet apartment. “You’re gonna come now,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And then you’re gonna take me into the bedroom and fuck me so hard we get a noise complaint.”

Clark nods frantically—barely a word past his lips before it hits him.

His whole body locks, like steel cables yanking taut. His head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry, and his cock explodes in your hand—thick, hot spurts of come spilling over your fingers, the couch, his stomach, everything. He comes so much it makes you moan at the sight of it, the smell of it, the obscene volume flooding your fist.

When it finally stops, Clark collapses back into the cushions, limp and trembling. His cheeks are flaming. Eyes glazed. Shirt soaked in streaks of his own come. His cock’s still hard, twitching gently against his belly, still leaking.

“Well,” you say, more casual than you feel. Your pussy aches between your legs, begging for a turn. “That’s definitely going in the article.”

Clark doesn't answer. He just drags you into his lap and stands before you can even grab hold of his shoulders. He doesn’t super speed the two of you to the bedroom, but it’s close.

You laugh the whole way down the hall.

Later, after the sheets are damp and the room smells like sex, Clark kisses your shoulder and whispers, “So…when’s that article coming out?”

You smile sleepily, curling into him. His chest rises and falls under you with breath he doesn’t need, his hands draw shapes along your sweaty back.

A circle. A star. A heart. A figure eight. A heart. A heart.

“I think I’ll keep it off the record.”

MINI NAT’S NOTE: thank you again for sending in this ask! i have the superman brain rot baaad and this is NOT helping it’s def making it worse but that’s okay that’s what i want! i need people to enable me! i was writing this fic in my head before the ask came in and i was like YES DONE and i wrote it and now we’re here. i hope you like it @polkadottprincess!

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[thebrainrotsreal]

IT’S DONE AT LAST! A real short excerpt from around chapter 115 ??? Literally one of my favorites lmao, so it deserved to come to life! Tweaked the dialogue a tad, so might be wonky! Tho, I got to draw my fav guy in the planet excessively so who’s rlly winning? :] Might do an alternate colored version sometimes soon! :3

close ups below because I can.

Can you tell who my favorite is? It’s rlly difficult.

[hyyhhope]

soft sweetheart ♡ for @jjungkkook

cr. 0613data

[charlie-shoeshine]

I've gotten better at his proportions surprisingly.

[sodaneko]

people getting upset over oikawa still living in argentina and considering japan a place he visits but not a 'home' anymore is wild to me because. leaving your birth place far behind because there's no soil for you to grow anymore is something so deeply personal to me and the thought of someone expecting me to return to my birth place eventually after being gone for a long time makes me wanna hurl?

you don't choose where you grow up but you can choose (to an extent) where you wanna build a home, who you wanna call home, what home is to you. i think it's a beautiful thing to ask yourself all of this! it's freeing. oikawa, as tortured as he was during his high school years, has always been the most free character to me in his journey and i really love watching him grow and finding peace in his place and his people

[666lola666]

he looks so beautiful on his knees♡