#so if you feel offended please talk to me

[pinksplace]

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force

alternatively: Clark Kent and the Art of the orgasm

18+ MDNI

what’s this? Oh it’s Clark Kent’s poorly disguised overstimulation kink

word count: another drabble, probably 1-1.5k

warnings: overstimulation, some overstimulation, maybe a hint of overstimulation, some overstimulation if you squint, oh god I almost forgot overstimulation

fem!reader, no use of Y/N

You felt like you were missing something.

Your girlfriends would talk about it, giggle about how their boyfriends had managed to get them off, sometimes even twice. You’d smile and nod, pretend to be happy for them. Sometimes you’d fib, tell a salacious story of your own, never admitting that none of boyfriends had ever actually gotten you there.

As time went on, you began to just assume your friends were lying, or worse maybe, there was just something wrong with you.

Then you met Clark.

You’d told him before you slept together that you’d never actually orgasmed before. The words tumbling off your tongue in a moment of insecurity and nervousness. Years of lame, lazy lovers tricking you into thinking it just wasn’t possible. You thought he deserved to know. You assured him you would still enjoy it, still wanted to feel that closeness with him, just that he shouldn’t be offended when it doesn’t happen.

Clark just kissed you, and said “I’ll take care of it.”

He made you cum three times that night before he even got inside you.

He became obsessed with it after that.

Clark Kent, your sweet boyfriend, the mild mannered momma’s boy, the clumsy reporter in his too-big suits, is absolutely insatiable. He lays you out, expertly kisses you until your lips are numb and presses you until the mattress until you have no choice but to melt.

He crawls down your body, joking that he’s visiting his second home. Then he eats you out until his glasses fog up, when most men might take that as a sign to stop, Clark just takes them off, places them carefully on the nightstand, and keeps going.

He ignores your whines, the way you tug his hair, the way your legs clamp around his head. If anything, it all spurs him on, making him even more enthusiastic. He uses every part of his face to make it happen, his tongue dexterous and fast, never tiring. His nose finding a way to nudge your clit just right.

Clark only uses his hands when he wants to tell you something, using his fingers to get you stretch you, his thumb circling your clit. He’s never not working you over.

“Sweetheart, I missed you so much.” He says, voice dripping with affection, as if you’ve ever spent longer than two days apart.

“Honey you taste so good, please can you give me one more?” Please, as if it’s really a question, you know better and it’s never just one more.

When you’re shaking with overstimulation, thighs clenched around his head, “Baby, stop. I’m doing something important.” He never gives you a chance to comply, instead taking your thighs in his hands and pressing them into the mattress, spreading you open for him.

When he fucks you, it’s all-consuming.

He thrusts deep, each stroke is well aimed, perfectly timed, and leaves you agonizingly full. Clark found that soft spot inside you (the one that makes your vision white out), that first night too. He makes sure to hit every-time now.

By this point, you’re jello, or at least close to it. Half the words out of your mouth make no sense, just babbles of his name and half-slurred ‘I love you’s.

Your hands scratch down his back, never making purchase, never breaking the skin despite your attempts (and much to Clark’s dismay, he loves being marked by you, reminders that he’s yours just as much as you’re his).

Clark has surpassed every man you’ve ever been with, in skill, size and stamina. You thought it would be over after he came, thought it was just average human male biology.

Once again, Clark proves himself to be above and beyond average.

He can go for three, some nights even four rounds. Half the time he doesn’t even break a sweat, he fucks like he’s superhuman. He fucks like it’s what he was made for, specifically like he was made for you.

He tells you as much. His words saccharine and sinful.

“This is everything, you’re everything.” He murmurs against your neck, grinding deeper than you thought possible.

“Never wanna leave you, gonna stay right here, forever.” You believe him. You honestly believe he would spend the rest of his life inside you, you would let him.

“They didn’t deserve you, didn’t know how to touch you. Properly.” He laments, as if you even still think about them, as if you could remember their names when he’s this deep.

“Always gonna make you feel good, always gonna put you first.” He promises, and despite your better judgement, you believe him when he says that too.

You tighten around him, again, and again and again. You moan his name until you’re blue in the face. Wrap your legs around his waist and even though every part of your body feels like it’s on fire, you pull him closer. You kiss him hard, and tell him to cum deep.

Clark has ruined you, if he ever ended things you’d be forced to join a nunnery or risk spending the rest of your life comparing everyone else to him. Then you look in his eyes, and see the future you’re still too scared to talk about out loud, and think that you have nothing to worry about.

He pushes you over the edge again. Apologizing for it.

“I’m sorry Honey, I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot.” Clark’s like a man possessed. Your cunt is so wet and sticky he almost slides out every time he draws back. He wipes the tears from your cheeks, and presses the softest kiss to your lips.

“Just one more, c’mon baby, one more.” You give it to him. body tensing at his command, you don’t even try to fight it this time, you know it’s no use. Clark the immovable object, your orgasm the unstoppable force.

You asked him why one night, after he had cleaned you up and rolled you into his arms.

“I’m making up for lost time.” He said, kissing the top of your head. It’s almost a gentleman’s answer, but you know better. You know the real answer, he says it everytime, right before he falls over that last edge. When he’s too lost in pleasure to pretend like he’s doing this just for your benefit.

“I love that I’m the only one who can make you feel like this.”

It’s usually what sends you over the edge, for the real last time.

You love it too.

The chronicles of Clark Kent and MY poorly hidden overstimulation kink <3

Thank you for reading my friends!!!

Masterlist

[vrystalius]

Hiii vry! It's my birthday and I was wondering if you could do a scenario where Uppermoons (1, 2,3) + Muzan react to reader calling thm good boyᯣ_ᯣ

Thank youu!

Good boy.

You know what? What the hell.

Pairing: Muzan, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza (+Gyutaro) x gn!reader

Genre: Crack, fluffy

Words: Short n’ sweet

Note: This took me out so bad thank you anon 😭😭 HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! I’m sorry if this a little short tho-

Muzan Kibutsuji // The Demon King

The moment the words left his mouth, Muzan felt physical whiplash, as if you just hauled him over the head with a chair. The audacity— He should have you executed on the spot. Count your blessings because sparing you is one of the last things your lover will give to you if you keep this behaviour of yours up.

If any of the other Upper Moons caught what you had called him, there will be an open spot for an Upper Moon spot to take over, no matter if it is Kokushibo who’ll be eradicated or Daki. Nobody can know about this.

If you two are all alone and in private, maybe Muzan’ll allow you call him whatever you want as long as it amuses him. Keep your mouth shut about it though otherwise.

—

Kokushibo // Upper Moon One

What an odd being you are. How dare you believe that you can call him something so humiliating without suffering the consequences?

The consequences aren’t that severe though. Kokushibo stares you down until you apologies for something you weren’t sure you should apologise for, his aura matches one of a disappointed parent in a way. Kokushibo isn’t really mad, only disappointed. Maybe a little offended as well.

He is not “good”, nor is he a “boy”. He is a full grown man, or rather demon, capable of cutting down humans, slayers, hashira and demons without blinking once. If you want to call him a stupid petname, at least call him the best demon or something. Not good boy.

—

Douma // Upper Moon 2

Oh aren’t you sweet! Douma finds it adorable when you call him that, although it is also amusing how you’d be so brave to call a 6'1 and 190lb of muscle a good boy. It’s a little childish but in an amusing way.

He adores it when you’re being affectionate with him, thankful for every drop of love you give him. If it comes in a form of a cutesy nickname, Douma’ll graciously accept it and thank you for it by kissing your knuckles.

If you start calling him a good boy more and more often, your lover start returning equally special nicknames, something like nibbles, yummy gummy, pookiebear and whatever else his brain is cooking up, although every time you look at his eyes you could swear there is no thought behind them.

—

Akaza // Upper Moon 3

He shudders internally. Did you hit your head or anything? Were you talking to him or the stray cat in the bushes? Akaza can’t really handle affection anyway and sometimes doing something to him out of the blue, like calling him a good boy, might make him vaporise from the inside and blush uncontrollably.

Petnames aren’t really his thing anyway. What’s the point anyway? Why not just use your given names. Calling him a good boy makes him cringe and blush in a way that makes him squirm.

Please don’t call him that ever again. He is not a good boy. That’s how he feels at least.

—

Gyutaro Shabana // Upper Moon Six (+bonus)

Oh he gets all shy when you call him a good boy. Gyutaro full heartedly believes that he is anything but a good boy, nor is a handsome, adorable, sweet demon. Even if you keep telling him otherwise.

He needs to warm up to petnames so it’s best to start with something light, like ‘taro, and then move onto something more sweeter. One day you’ll be able to call him a good boy without him scratching his face open with his nails and bleed all over Daki’s tatami mats.

Deep down, he can feel his chest bloom and flutter when you calm him something sweet. Just give him time.

—

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANON!! I saw this request really early in the morning and I thought I dreaming because of how random it was, but I loved it! Thank you for sending it in <33

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough <3

Take care of yourself!

[isitreallytissuepaper]

weird separate reply thingy to @cyaniderainfall because tumblr wants to torture me and make me look like a dickwad!

hii, omg! ur ask isn't weird at all, honestly i'm kind of obsessed with this ideaaa... hope i did it justice! if i didn't, please tell me, l'll be more than happy to come up with a new drabble! to be honest, it's more ‘Wife, i will wait for you.Office is not too far.’ but i'm PRAYING u like it!!

y/n closed the building door behind her, mumbling to herself as her heels crunched the salt under her. even after weeks of snow, she still wasn't used to the slap of freezing air against her face. of course, after a second or two, it did feel somewhat freeing to breathe in some fresh air after being cooped up in a stuffy cubicle for hours on end. plus, the thought of blasting the heat in her car after a 5 minute walk to the parking lot helped her avoid sulking too much. so, she fixed the slouching hood of her jacket, resuming her murmurs as she moved.

around the third minute of her hushed complaints, the topic switched from the temperature to her job. to be fair, it was the thing that forced her to make her trek down the icy pavement twice a day. not to mention, even after she was able to relieve herself from the cold as she walked into the office, she was met by the judgmental stares of her coworkers. she could still hear the stifled snicker of the receptionist from earlier this morning. it wasn't like she didn't know her tights were ripped, she was the one wearing them! she shook her head, staring at her feet, wishing she was able to fast forward to when she could he tucked into her bed.

she was so caught up in her wishes (and complaints) that she didn't even notice the man across the street, practically staring her down. nope, not even when he began to creep slowly behind her, listening eagerly to the click of her heels, and the adorable huff in her voice. it was so easy follow y/n that nikto felt bad for the poor girl. walking to her car all alone? in the dark? don't even get him started on her constant whisperec whining. he was definitely offended by her considering a few flecks of snow on the ground to be 'cold.' Yet at the same time, when she was privileged enough to be complaining about a stable job with a few rude coworkers and not even recognize a true frost, nikto considered her to be nothing but a vulnerable ягнёнок. (lamb) he had to protect y/n. the only sensible thing would be to walk her back to her car. and then keep on walking her back to her car, until he knew she was safe. as his wife.

the next evening, nikto found himself standing outside in wait for y/n, after failing to inform the receptionist that he was waiting for his ягнёнок, and he had a reason for staring down each person who walked past him. it didn't bother him too much, of course. not when he was only minutes away from telling y/n that he was ready for her to become his sweet wife whenever she wanted.

the creak of the door made his ears perk up from under his mask, as if he were a dog. and even though it pinched to smile, he couldn't help but grin when y/n's eyes landed on his. "привет. (hi) i will walk with you." sure, his words weren't too intimidating, but the harsh of his voice made the sentence sound like a threat.

"oh, that's alright. i can walk by—" y/n began, only to be cut short by the gruff rumbling he called talking.

"no. i will walk with you. to protect you."

y/n was tempted to deny the offer once more, but the potential of him lashing out upon further rejection waved over her head like a bad omen. and further down, in a more naive part of herself, she was almost fond of the fact he was being nice to her, especially after working in a tense office.

hesitantly, y/n began her steps, only hearing his footsteps about a minute after you started. turning her head, she was met with his eyes, slightly softer than before, staring directly at her from about 12 feet away.

to y/n, it was a kind offer from a strange man. to him, it was a promise of love. yes, he'd love his wife forever.

i'm PRAYING this is along the lines of what you wanted. i'm seriously so sorry if it's not, please make me fix it.

[impactrueno]

[persephoneprice]

i love when people preface whatever bad thing they’re saying about the mentors by apologizing. like no you don’t understand i know they’re all terrible people. insult them all you want. they deserve it.

[linabirb]

anyway all people who use rollo tags only to talk about how much you hate him. i'm in your walls rn <3

[undead-vamp]

uhm uhm I dint have any special drawing for gerards birthday (yet..) so I'm just going to

HAPPY BIRTHDAY GERARD WAY !!!

[blue-hi]

so the museum has still not emailed me and i'm trying to stay normal and calm about it

BUT

the guy who keeps dm'ing me on instagram despite being ghosted since april has tried again!!

[tangents-within-tangents]

The two wolves inside me are the aspiring author and the amateur folklorist and I swear both of them both love and hate tumblr/fandom culture sometimes

[a-hermit-pining]

LADS Men React To Thinking You're Moving Out

AN: Thank you for requesting and yes I did just use an unrelated gif of absolutely stunning Aragorn.

Request: Hello, I absolutely loved your last post!! It was so fun to read, lol. I went through your master list right after and I also read the one about you moving in with the lads men (gold.) Which make me think of a scenario... If you take requests now, what do you think the lads men would do if: You just moved in with them. Everything is fine, but unpacking is kinda slow because both of you need to work. One day you are off from work and decide that day is the day everything will be put in place because it's already suffocating to have that many boxes. He is at work from morning till evening and so happy to come back home to *you*. Just that when he entered the apartament he saw a box next to the door with your clothes in and you packing yet another box with your clothes. But shouldn't you be unpacking? Are you packing your things back?? (Mc just got a better look at everything she owns since she needs to unpack everything and decided to donate some stuff. She had no intention of moving out)

Pairing: Lads boys x fem reader

Genre: fluff

Xavier:

He walks in, probably tripping over the box. Somehow, completely oblivious.

"Xavier!" You rush to him, helping him sit up. "Are you alright?! Oh my god, did you hit your face?"

You both are trouble magnets.

"It’s bruising!" You gasp, already hurrying to grab an ice pack while he sits on the couch, face buried in a cushion.

Please, just sit with him and coddle him until he recharges enough to help you unpack.

Rafayel:

"Where are you going?" Instant tantrum mode. Hands on hips, standing like someone’s disapproving dad.

"I told you, moving in was an irreversible deal. We share the lease. You’re not going anywhere."

Picking up your box of clothes, he strides into your shared bedroom, where you’re busy unpacking his boxes, blissfully unaware, your back to him.

He sighs, pauses, and keeps talking to your back. "Alright, I won’t let the seagulls eat all our salmon. And… there won’t be any more running nude painting jokes..."

"What?" You pull out an earbud, blinking in confusion. "When did you come in?"

Rafayel stares.

"Aw, thanks for bringing in my box! I was just about to get to my closet," you grin, pecking his lips. "When did you get back?"

Let’s just say, Rafayel does not recount the great monologue you just happened to miss.

Zayne:

Conceal, don’t feel kind of guy.

He stands and stares at the box.

Then, without a word, he steps forward and pulls you into a tight hug. He’ll stay there for as long as you allow him to.

"You’re back early," you murmur, leaning into him as he buries his face in your shoulder.

This is normal, him being extra clingy after a long shift.

"What’s the matter?" You turn, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Did something upset you?"

"No," he replies, looking up at you. "I missed you. Let’s go out for dinner tonight."

He’ll go out of his way to make these last few hours with you memorable.

The next day, when he returns home from work, expecting an empty house, the sight of you curled up on the couch is nothing short of pure joy.

He heads to your room, only to find all your clothes neatly hung next to his.

Sylus:

"Have you finally decided to accept the vacation?" he all but purrs, conveniently ignoring the lack of a suitcase.

"Those are for donation, Sylus. And no, I am not taking time off for another vacation." You reply, tossing some of his clothes into the donation pile.

"Um. No, you’re not." He plucks a dress from the pile, inspecting it like it’s a priceless artifact. "I like this one on you. And this too," he mutters, rummaging through your does-not-spark-joy pile.

"No, we are not keeping it!" You snatch the clothes back. "You are banned from the pile. Hands off."

Somehow, he is more offended about giving away clothes than he is concerned about the idea of you leaving.

He considers everything you own part of his hoard.

Caleb:

Hides the box.

Immediately rushes to the kitchen to cook a feast.

Pulls you to a fully loaded dining table, all smiles.

"So, what are your plans tomorrow?" he asks, piling food onto your plate.

"Mmm, I think I’ll be joining the hunters’ food and clothing drive in the morning. Let me know if you want to give away—"

And he's gone.

Sweating, watching you devour the food.

Oh. Oh, no.

He did not just accidentally drug you.

You’re going to be so mad at him. Especially for making you miss the drive.

Excusing himself immediately, he goes to cancel the flight to his private island.

Caleb is now on damage control duty.

[cherrysinner]

having clark be mean to you in front of his parents.

based on a trend i saw!!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST

"why do you want me to do this again?" clark leaned closer to whisper, "it'll be funny." "i don't think my ma scolding me is funny." your husband raised his bushy eyebrows, making you roll your eyes, "just do it."

last week, you'd been laying in bed with him, clark immersed on an article he was working on while you were scrolling through tiktok, coming across a video where a boyfriend said something mean to his girlfriend in front of his mom to see how she'd react, the immediate scolding the older woman had given to her son making you let out a small snort.

"what, what is it?" clark immediately turned all his attention to you with wide eyes, peeking at your phone, and you turned it around and replayed the video, your husband letting out a soft hum. "well, that's just proper parenting." the dark-haired man suddenly noticed the mischievous smile on your lips, "...what?"

you watched as martha brought the casserole she'd made into the dining room, placing it right in the middle of the dining table before sitting down next to her husband, a wide smile on her face, "i'm so happy you two are staying here for a few days." the woman exclaimed.

"we are too." you squeezed your husband's hand. when it came your turn to serve yourself, clark could already feel his cheeks starting to burn, the man clearing his throat, "honey, do you think- uhm, do you really think you should be eating all that?"

"what?" you feigned confusion, turning to look at him, "i mean, that's a pretty big serving. i thought we talked about how you should be eating less."

martha let out a gasp at his words, her jaw dropping, "clark joseph kent!" she exclaimed dramatically like he had personally offended her, and you could see the blush starting to rise to your husband's cheek. "what, ma? i'm just looking out for her..."

"who are you? i did not raise you to speak that way to any woman, let alone your wife." martha crossed her arms in front of her chest, "she will eat as much as she pleases, and you better not even think about commenting on it." your mother-in-law turned to you, her gaze softening, "does he talk to you this way at home, sweetheart? i'm so sorry, i don't know what's gotten into him."

"ma, it's just a-"

"clark, i am very disappointed and upset with you right now." martha's brows were raised as she looked back to her son as jonathan took her hand in his; as much as you thought it was adorable the way your husband was basically squirming in his seat, scratching the back of his neck with his face as red as a tomato, you could see the disappointment in his mother's eyes and you felt bad.

"don't worry martha." you took clark's hand in yours, letting out a soft chuckle as you squeezed his hand, "it was just a practical joke we saw online that i asked him to try, clark would never speak to me like that." "never." clark mumbled softly

"a joke?" martha's eyes widened, "you shouldn't joke like that, dear! i thought there was something wrong with him."

"i know, i know." you chuckled softly, letting go of your husband's hand as you stood up, walking to the other side of the table and gave the woman a small hug, "if he ever does say something like that to me, i'll let you know immediately." "you better."

© 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑

[lieslostinsilence]

Saltwater & Shadows

Author's note: It is abit late to post this cause it has been a while since Cheol updated his insta. But yea I might have gone feral when I saw the pictures. ESPECIALLY THAT FUCKING TATTOO UGH. I do welcome feedback or any thoughts! Enjoy~ Bye-um~ Description: You teased him first—just a little. He teased you back—a lot. Lingering stares, barely-there touches, heat building like the Hawaiian sun. But when you finally snap and ride him like you own him, Seungcheol reminds you exactly who’s in control. Warnings: Smut (18+), rough sex, dominant Seungcheol, subby/bratty reader moments, lap riding, doggy style, oral (f. receiving, implied), unprotected penetrative sex (wrap it up in real life!), orgasm control, spanking, dirty talk, creampie, strength kink, size kink, power play, possessiveness, overstimulation, teasing, intense chemistry, hotel sex Masterlist for my page: Lies Lost In Silence

He knew what he was doing.

That tank top was tight on purpose. That silver chain, slung just so across his collarbones, caught the sun because he angled himself just right. And that smirk?

That fucking smirk.

Seungcheol was leaning against the balcony railing of your villa now, arms crossed, one brow cocked like he knew you were staring. He was shirtless—again. Skin still warm from the sun, hair pushed back from the ocean breeze, chest rising and falling like temptation itself.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, not even looking at you.

You snapped.

“Shut up.”

He turned to face you fully, blinking, surprised—and then laughing when you stalked toward him with that determined fire in your eyes.

“Did I do something?” he teased.

“Yeah. You exist.”

You didn’t even give him a warning. Your hands hit his chest hard enough to push him back into the deck chair. He went easily, legs spreading wide, watching with that smug look like he’d been waiting for this.

“Oh?” he smirked. “You’re feeling bold now?”

“I’m feeling done,” you growled, crawling into his lap, “with your smug little looks and your cocky mouth.”

“You like my cocky mouth.”

You yanked his chain, pulling him closer. “I like it better when it’s busy.”

His grin widened—but he shut up. For now.

You kissed him like you were mad about it—like his tan lines offended you and his smirk was a personal attack. Your fingers dug into his hair as you rocked against the growing bulge in his shorts. He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your hips, letting you grind as you pleased.

“Thought you’d be tired after the beach,” he muttered breathlessly.

You rolled your hips harder, dragging your heat over him. “I’m not. And clearly, neither are you.”

“Not when you’re on top of me like this, baby.”

His hands moved beneath your flowy dress, fingers trailing dangerously high. But this was your moment—you pinned his wrists to the armrest and leaned in.

“No,” you whispered against his lips. “You don’t get to touch. Not yet.”

His jaw clenched. You saw the way his arms flexed, resisting the urge to flip you over and take control—but he didn’t. He stayed still. Obedient. Dying inside.

You kissed down his neck slowly, biting lightly just above his collarbone. “This is for all the smirks. All the cocky little glances like you’re God’s gift.”

“Maybe I am,” he muttered, grinning.

You rocked down hard. He hissed.

“Still think you’re funny?”

“A little.”

You reached between your bodies, tugged his shorts down just enough to free him. You weren’t even wearing panties—your own small rebellion from earlier—and you lined yourself up without hesitation.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes snapping open when you sank down onto him, slow but firm, taking every inch until your thighs were flush against his. “Fuck, baby.”

“Still smirking?” you asked sweetly.

He let out a choked laugh, hands white-knuckling the chair. “Not anymore.”

You rode him slow at first—just enough to keep him desperate. Every time his hips twitched to thrust up, you tightened around him, warning him not yet. And when you leaned back, hands on his thighs, putting your whole body on display under the fading golden light, you saw it—

The smirk again.

Smaller this time. A little broken. But still there.

“I hate you,” you gasped, slamming down harder.

“Sure you do,” he groaned. “Hate me so much you’re soaking for me.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t. Not really. But his hands finally moved—ripping your dress off your body, grabbing your ass as he thrust up into you with bruising force.

“Done letting you play now,” he growled. “You started this. Now take it.”

And God, you did.

You took all of it—his cock, his praise, the way he held you like he owned every inch of your body. He fucked you until your thighs trembled, until your moans bounced off the villa walls, until his name left your lips like a prayer you couldn’t stop chanting.

When you came, it was sudden and overwhelming, your body clenching around him as stars exploded behind your eyes. And when he came—hips jerking up one last time—it was with your name spilling from his mouth, broken and raw, as he emptied into you with a growl pressed into your neck.

You slumped against him after, boneless, skin slick with sweat and the late-day heat.

“Still smug?” you mumbled, breathless.

He huffed a tired laugh. “Less smug. More obsessed.”

You smiled into his neck. “That’s fair. I’m obsessed too.”

But then he shifted.

You gasped as Seungcheol stood, still inside you, lifting you effortlessly like you weighed nothing at all. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, arms flung around his shoulders.

“Cheol—” you whimpered, already too sensitive.

He growled low, possessive. “Since you want me so bad, baby… you’re gonna take me.”

And then he threw you onto the bed, body bouncing against the mattress, too stunned to even gasp. You hadn’t even caught your breath when he flipped you onto your stomach, hands firm and fast.

“Face down. Ass up,” he barked.

You buried your face in the pillow, breath hitching. “Wait, I—I can’t—”

He lined himself up again, his thick length teasing your dripping entrance.

“Yes, you fucking can.”

And then he slammed into you, deep and full, no warning, no mercy.

Your scream was muffled by the pillows, your fingers clawing the sheets as he bottomed out inside you, cock pressing into every sweet, sore spot at once.

“You feel that?” he groaned, gripping your hips tightly. “This is what you’ve been begging for. Every look. Every time you fucking moaned when I put sunscreen on you—”

You gasped, legs shaking as he snapped his hips forward again, harder.

“All weekend,” he growled, punctuating each word with another brutal thrust. “Wearing those little shorts. Letting me touch you under the water. Acting like I wouldn’t wreck you the first chance I got.”

You choked on a moan as his hand came down—hard—against your ass.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you fucking love this.”

“I-I love it—” you sobbed, voice shaking. “I love your cock—God, I love it—”

“That’s right,” he groaned. “Say you want more.”

“More, please—Cheol, please—”

He grabbed your shoulders, yanking you back to meet every ruthless thrust. “Fuck, baby. That’s it. Take it. Take all of me.”

You didn’t even know how many times you came anymore. It blurred—moaning, shaking, clenching around him until you were soaked and dripping, tears falling into the pillows. He fucked you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

When he came again, it was with a loud, broken moan, cock pulsing inside you as he filled you to the brim.

You collapsed, barely breathing.

He didn’t move at first. Just laid over your back, kissing your spine.

Eventually, you turned your head, cheek to the sheets. “Cheol… don’t tease me anymore,” you whispered weakly.

He kissed your shoulder gently.

Then whispered against your skin:

“God, I love you.”

[cosmicmunsonwrites]

i’ve never known someone like you

best friend!rafe cameron x innocent!virgin!fem!reader

cw — fluff, rafe spoils reader

summary — after talking to some of your friends, you question if all best friends actually do the things rafe does.

authors note — i’m gonna start a tom of au’s cause i have so many ideas so please lmk if they’re actually interesting or not…

do not copy or post my work anywhere else.

“what do you want, sweetheart?” rafe asked as he glanced over at you and pulled into the drive thru of your favorite coffee shop, one hand on the wheel and the other gently stroking your thigh. he wasn’t really sure why he asked. he pretty much expected you to answer the same way you always did.

“the same thing i always get, please,” you replied and you grabbed your purse from by your feet and began to look through it.

he ordered like usual without a single hesitation or even a second thought because you’re his best friend, of course he knew your coffee order by heart. it made you smile to yourself while you pulled out your card from you wallet.

you handed it to him as he pulled up to the window and he took it absentmindedly until the barista appeared and was ready to take a payment. the moment he looked down at the card in his hand, he almost looked offended. his brows furrowed as he placed it back in your lap and reached into his own wallet for his black card.

he grabbed the drinks and wished them a great rest of their day, placing them into the pink decorated cup holders before sparing a quick glance back at you. “what was that?”

your head tilted slightly in confusion. “what was what?” you asked curiously. the fact that you weren’t seeing an issue made rafe raise a brow.

“what do you mean what was what? i mean you handing me your card,” he stated like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “i always pay. you never touch your card when you’re with me. that’s how its always gone.”

you shrugged and sank a little deeper into you seat, a comforting hand returning to your thigh. “i don’t know. i just feel bad, rafey. you pay for everything. that’s a lot of money,” you said with a pour on your glossed lips. “i was talking to kie and jj the other day, and they said they barely ever pay for each other. only if they really need it.”

he gave a gentle squeeze to your thigh and took a deep breath. not one of annoyance, or frustration, just him trying to find the right words. “well, i’m not jj and you’re not kie. i pay for you because i can and because i wanna show you how much i appreciate you bein’ my best friend,” he replied sweetly. “i don’t care about how much i’m spendin’. if its for you, i’d spend millions. don’t worry about any of that, pretty girl.”

[shotmrmiller]

johnny dates your friend and then asks her if she's got any friends (you) for his friend (simon). but simon freaks you out. he can't hold a conversation— or won't, you're not sure; you're lucky if you get monosyllabic grunts out of him as if he were a neanderthal. the only times you've seriously heard him talk is to bark out words at either johnny or the bartender.

he walks around with a poorly concealed weapon on his hip, almost like he is expecting trouble. he wears all black, which is completely fine, but then a skull balaclava that he refuses to take off, even to drink his liquor. you don't try to hide the grimace on your face when you watch him sip through the thick fabric. he's got skeleton gloves on his hands too, like some sort of shit cosplay to match his mask.

and he fucking stares, unashamedly so. it is unblinking, scrutinizing, intense— his dark eyes, pools of midnight, keen. he stares at the people walking in through the door, stares at johnny when he takes your friend to the dance floor, and when you tell him out of courtesy that you're going to go get another drink, you can feel him boring holes into the back of your head as you walk away, piercing flesh and bone.

the phantom fingers of his gaze trace icy paths along your spine, erupting your skin in goosebumps. you find him immensely creepy, and you thank the fucking stars you're only here as a favor for your friend. you don't think you want to do this again. he's either a wanted serial killer or just a goddamn freak.

a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders once you're at the bar, and with a sneer on your lips, you turn to the owner of said offending limb, only to come face to face with johnny. he leans into you, close enough to where you can feel his stubble grazing the shell of your ear. (back up, brother.)

"listen, bonnie!" you wince; it's really not that loud in here for him to be yelling like that. "ah ken, ghos— er, simon, might no' be yer average man. he can be a little off-puttin'—" a little? if he doesn't follow you home and skin you alive, you'd be incredibly fortunate— "but ah promise ye, while he may no' be boyfriend material, he's an incredible fuck."

excuse me? he's got to be positively pissed. "maybe you should slow down, yeah? you might already be three sheets to the wind if you're gassing up your unsettling friend's cock. no offense."

"naw! ah'm tellin' ye. long ago, we had a mission tha' ran everyone tight, 'n so we relieved tension the only way we could— big, strong guy like him had me limpin' for a few days after."

you're about to ask for an angel shot because there is no way in hell that your friend's boyfriend is making casual conversation about him getting absolutely railed by—

"give 'em a try. jus' the once, i swear he don't bite," johnny pauses-- the rosy flush on his nose and cheeks vibrant, "unless ye ask nicely. yer friend said ye needed to get laid, anyways." oh, you're gonna fucking kill her, that long-tongued cretin.

"right!" you drink the remainder of your cocktail in one big gulp, liquid warmth trailing down your throat, before not-so-kindly shrugging him off. "i'm gonna go, you, uh— we didn't have this conversation, for the sake of my friend." you gesture at the bartender. "one more, please. i'm gonna need it."

-

damn. now johnny's got you thinking about getting your back broken by simon. maybe you really are just down horrendously, or maybe it's the alcohol in your system that has decided to toss all self-preservation out the metaphorical window because now you can't stop noticing him.

he's real tall— enough to have him slightly tipping his head to walk through a doorway. his shoulders are mountainous, his hands the size of a bear's paw. his physicality is undoubtedly impressive and well, you've always been weak to burly, commanding men.

you make eye contact with johnny from across the room, his bright blue eyes alive under the dim light of the dingy bar, and the bastard shifts his gaze from simon to you, giving a cheeky wink.

lifting your glass, you drink the last of your liquid courage— the taste of it bittersweet. it has been a long time since you've gotten laid.

double damn.

"hey." you lean slightly toward simon, cupping your hand around your mouth. "you and i both know why we're here. take me home?" the way he looks at you has you shifting restlessly in your seat. did you perhaps make a mistake? oh, fuck. did you just throw yourself cunt-first at someone who is not interested? your face burns with embarrassment, heat licking up your cheeks. maybe the earth will split open, right here ri—

"let's go then." oh thank fucking god. you don't know what you would've done if he'd said no. shrivel up and die, probably. "uber'll be here in 4."

when it arrives, he places his leather jacket around your shoulders, cocooning you in its warmth— the heady scent of nicotine clings to the garment— and leads you outside with a hand on the small of your back.

-

the world outside the car blurs into a hazy painting as the driver navigates the streets. colors blend together, once sharp outlines now dissolved. the rain gently taps on the window, a soothing sound that could easily lull you to sleep until you start when a roughened palm suddenly glides along your thigh— fingers slowly tracing intimate patterns on your skin.

simon's hand is hot, and it only burns hotter the closer it gets to your center under your least favorite skirt. he cannot be serious right now. you place your hand over his, short nails biting into him because there is no way you're about to be fingered in an uber—

his voice is deep, a deliciously thick rumble, right by your ear. "nice kitty." you've never been one for pet names or anything else for that matter, but the pulse of arousal that shoots up your spine has a shaky exhale leaving your lips, a ghostly breath fogging up the window.

the tips of his fingers tease the seam of your knickers, a generic cotton fabric that clings to your dampening cunt like a second skin— desire trickling onto the gusset. your whimper is drowned out by the terrible music the driver is currently playing when his small finger grazes over your slit, featherlight.

"so wet already? i've barely even touched ya, love." again with the cunt-clenching nicknames. he has no business purring them out like that. "i can smell your sweet pussy from here. you really must be achin' for it." of course the time he chooses to be vocal, it's to spew filth. "don't worry, i'll treat ya good."

somehow, you actually manage to choke out a response. "i'm sure. johnny-" you hiss through clenched teeth when he slips under your knickers, a finger brushing along your slick entrance, "said you had him walking side to side once." you buck your hips, seeking the friction you need, but it only makes him pull away a bit; how unsurprisingly cruel.

"only because he was bein' a brat. you're not a brat though, are ya? gonna be good f'me?" your tongue is heavy in your mouth, words lodged in your throat— all you can give him is a slight nod. "i expect verbal answers. i'd hate to spank your arse raw. how would ya sit down after?"

the idea of being bent over his strong thighs, face pressed into his couch as his firm hand takes you into the needy subspace you crave is too much, or maybe not enough because you're tucking your face into the side of his neck in an instant. "please," you warble, unsure of what you're even begging for.

he curls his finger, slipping between your lips, and when he finally brushes your clit— a fleeting, tantalizing touch— your eyes threaten to roll into the back of your head. "needy little thing. i bet there's a damp spot right where you're sittin'. drippin' all over my fingers—" your breath is ripped from your lungs when he abruptly pulls his hand out and away, the sodden material of your knickers snapping against your heated skin. you're about to snarl out a vicious what the fuck, but the once-blurred scenery outside sharpens into focus.

the driver parks and looks at you from the rearview mirror. "we're here." you mumble a muted thank you, stepping out with quivering legs and a drenched cunt. a crisp breeze dances across your skin, a refreshing contrast to the stifling heat from inside the car.

as soon as the car drives off, you're hoisted onto a broad shoulder. the world tilts, and you fist the back of simon's shirt for stability. "highly unnecessary. i can wa—" you let out a squeak when he slaps the back of your thigh, the sharp bite of it sending a jolt straight to your throbbing center.

"hush."

you sputter indignantly as you hold on tighter, breaths coming out in short gasps, syncing with each step. "i beg your pardon?"

you yelp when he gives you another slap, this time closer to your cunt. "then beg." you're rendered speechless.

wow. maybe you've actually bitten off more than you can chew.

the wet cement under you is a blur, the texture lost in the rush of his movements until he comes to a stop, and you hear a familiar jingle of keys. he bursts through the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and you're staggeringly planted on both feet.

"nice place." a lie. it looks unlived in— brand spanking new. you vaguely hear the lock behind you as you take in your surroundings. a perfect, leather couch, not a crease in sight. the rug under it is pristine and bland, a cream color that matches the rest of his flat. impersonal. not an ounce of real personality anywhere. you begin shrugging off his jacket when you're suddenly pressed against the cold door, simon bent at the knees in front of you, his dark eyes— sharp as blades— lock onto yours.

"gonna beg?"

the fire in your lower belly reignites at the sight of his unmasked face. ash-brown hair in a simple crew cut, thick brows with the right one bisected by a pink, gnarled scar. slightly crooked nose, broken one too many times, and thin, pale lips. a countenance to match his rugged personality.

you're pulled out of your thoughts when he licks a hot stripe over your covered slit and you mewl at the sensation. "i asked you a question."

the words rush out of your mouth before you can even think of stopping them. "yes, yes! please, god, i don't- just- please let me come! i-" his thumbs hook into the waistband of your knickers and tug them down slowly, strings of arousal sticking to the gusset, smearing on your inner thighs.

"alrigh', since ya begged so prettily." your vision goes white when he throws one leg over his shoulder, and his slick tongue slides through your folds, the tip flicking your clit lightly. he laps at your cunt like it drips milk and honey— nourishing and sweet. simon groans into you, the sound crawling up your vertebrae and into the base of your skull.

he begins to draw lazy circles around your pearl, every swirl of his tongue has your back bowing as if winding it, inching you closer to the precipice. your toes curl in your shoes, hands finding purchase in his coarse hair, knuckles staining white as you start the feel the familiar tightening in your lower belly.

and then he pushes one thick finger into you, down to the scarred knuckle, and crooks it. the squelching noise your dripping pussy makes when he presses on the tiny patch of rough skin inside is loud and obscene; practically echoing off the dull, ivory walls of his flat.

"gonna come f'me? make a mess all over my hand?" simon adds another finger, a slight burn nipping at the heels of the pleasure coiling under your navel.

"c'mon. give it to me, pet." his lips encircle your clit, giving it a light suckle and it's—

the coil snaps, a sudden release of tension. it is violent and oh, so exquisite. white noise in your head, your ears, coursing through your veins. it prickles, it stings; it's pleasure and pain. your soul sinks back into your body— like a feather returning to its nest— and you blink, momentarily unbalanced.

"ya with me?"

you breathe deep— the taste of salt in the air, the scent of sweat-slick skin, your heart pulsing with life. "yes. i'm here." the man took you to the stars and laid you on them. jesus.

"good." the room spins, and you're weightless, nestled in his arms. it'd seem innocent if it wasn't for the stickiness in between your thighs, or the prominent bulge in his jeans occasionally pressing into your arse.

simon kicks a door open, knob bouncing off the wall with a crack, and quickly places you on the bed before tugging his shirt off. the belt and jeans come off next, and—

"you don't wear pants." why would he let that monstrosity just hang like that?

"good observation. is water still wet?" he asks, tonelessly. you narrow your eyes at him, pushing your tongue against the back of your teeth.

"fuck me for having eyes and using them as intended, i guess," you mumble under your breath. he grabs you by the ankle and tugs the skirt off, then your shoes, "ouch, i like my feet where they are, thank you," and literally rips your shirt in half. "you'll be giving me on of yours before i leave as recompense."

he holds himself up with his arms over you, your thighs burning as they cradle his hips.

his cock is a heavy, hot weight on your stomach— ruddy, leaking tip right under your navel. you're not small by any means, but he's going to tear you in half. there's no surviving such an onslaught. he's not just leaving you with a limp, he's going to turn your two smaller holes into one big one.

he tears into a golden wrapper with his teeth, and expertly rolls the condom on. simon lowers down to his elbows and nudges your jaw with his nose. "i'll stop the moment ya call it. tap on me if you're feelin' overwhelmed."

that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to you, and the fact that it comes from a massive creep who stares at people like they owe him money has you a bit dumbstruck.

his stubble grazes the side of your neck as he glides his cock along your slick folds; once, thrice, until the head catches on your swollen entrance. simon pushes in slow, agonizingly slow— you don't know if it's better or worse because you feel every devastating inch of his length as it forcibly wrenches your walls apart.

your senses are solely focused on him: his body enveloping yours completely. his breath, sweetened like malt, wafts gently across your skin. his thick waist that you can't fully wrap your legs around. everything about him is big— his physicality, his presence, his cock.

"take a deep breath for me, pet. feel everythin' i'm givin' you."

your lungs expand as you do, and when you exhale, your muscles slacken. rapturous pleasure begins to bleed through the delicate membrane that separates it from the bite of pain, until boundaries are blurred and—

and he sinks into you like a rock breaking the surface tension of still water, bottoming out in one, smooth stroke. you can't help the mewl that falls from your lips nor the way your walls clamp down around him.

"fuck, there it is. so bloody tight, this greedy cunt is takin' my cock like it was made for me."

there isn't a single coherent thought in your head and you're glad for it. finally, someone to fuck you stupid.

simon gives you an experimental thrust, dragging his length along every single one of your nerves, and then another— desire overflowing from where he stuffs you to the very brim. "good. ready?"

he takes your tiny nod as an answer this time and begins to fuck you in earnest. it takes everything in you to not black out from how perfect it felt.

simon puts his weight behind every thrust, a steady pull out, and a spine-jarring push in. you can feel him deep in your stomach, a delicious pinch of discomfort each time he presses against the plug of your womb.

"so fuckin' wet, your cunt's droolin' all over me." he hooks an arm under your left leg and lifts, the angle he's put you in tittering dangerously on the tightrope of rapture and ache.

it's so good, so fucking good, your slick walls fluttering as he carves himself into you, your soul, your cunt when you feel a tight snap inside.

simon pulls out in an instant, taking your breath with him as he does. you look down at his cock and notice that—

"the condom broke. i've got another in the drawer, gimme a sec."

there is some weird thing that lodges in place somewhere deep in your sternum when you realize that he's been nothing but considerate and attentive to you since he brought you home and hasn't fussed over anything once. it's an extremely low bar, you are aware. rewarding what should be the bare fucking minimum is sad, but you're not completely altruistic in your motives anyway. you want to feel his bare cock inside as he rearranges your insides.

"no!" he quickly turns to look at you, "no. it's okay. i'm clean and i'm also on the pill. if that's okay with you, of course."

a man his stature should not move as fast as he just did, blinking from one side of the room to the other. he quickly throws both of your legs over his shoulders, heels resting on his back when he sinks back in, this time letting out a guttural groan as he does.

you can feel the ridge of his flared head, the warmth of his cock seeping into your tender walls— a new level of intimacy. he fucks you with fervor now, a precise snap of his hips that has your teeth clacking with every thrust.

your climax takes you by complete surprise, crashing into you like waves on a rocky, jagged shore. burst after burst of blinding pleasure threatens to consume you whole, and when your limbs are loose and syrupy— body limp— only then do you realize that he came just as fast. thick white ropes of viscous spend cover your stomach and trail down to your abused cunt.

your hamstrings already hurt with delayed onset muscle soreness. you might actually need a wheelchair to go back home.

(thank god your hips held out, and no, you don't care that it's essentially sacrilegious of you to even think that.)

his breathing comes out in ragged bursts, beads of sweat dripping onto the valley of your breasts.

and he's back to the fucking staring. "simon."

"pet."

"please stop looking at me like that."

he huffs and dips his head to flick your hardened nipple with his tongue, making you hiss with over sensitivity.

"make me."

-

as dawn breaks, the world begins to stir awake. hues of pale pink stain the sky, the first blush of morning. light and shadow begin to blend in the bedroom.

your phone vibrates under the pillow, simon's arm tightening around your soft waist at the buzzing sound. his lips press a light kiss on the sensitive skin by your ear, and his large hand begins to weave its way downward, pads of his fingers gathering the evidence of last night (or early morning) and gently parts your folds, brushing light strokes on your clit.

when he places your leg around his hip and sinks into you from behind, your phone buzzes again-- alone and forgotten.

good morning!!! i expect a full, detailed report by lunch or so help you god.

sent 5:30 am

about time you got laid, you're not you when you're horny.

sent 5:49 am

[whisperedmeg]

NAILED IT ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: spencer’s been away too long, your nails are too long, and you’re getting a little desperate. good thing he’s always happy to lend a helping hand.

genre: fluff, smut | w/c: 2.1k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, spencer calls reader sweetheart & sweet girl & angel, hand/finger/nail kink, masturbation (f; only attempted/discussed), fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, spencer cums in his pants lol, no use of y/n

a/n: based on anon’s request! loved this idea so much. couldn’t help making spencer the ultimate super whipped boyfriend lmao. enjoy! 💅🏼😉 p.s. if you zoom in on the far left photo you’ll see my sad photoshop attempt at the manicure I described lmao

You send Spencer the photo just before sunset.

It’s nothing fancy — just your hand resting on your thigh, fresh from the nail salon, skin still warm from the hot towel they wrap your hands in at the end of your appointment. The polish is indigo, with little gold stars forming teeny tiny constellations on each nail. They catch in the light when you move — you know he’ll appreciate that. You type out a quick caption and hit send:

You: new favorite set?

His response is almost instant, a flurry of three successive messages:

Spence: How do your hands keep getting more beautiful?

Spence: Also. Yes. Definitely a new favorite.

Spence: Wish I was there.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, debating what to send next. You want to say something clever — something flirty or offhand or designed to make him blush a little in public — but instead you just type:

You: come home soon, please

—

The TV hums low in the background, something forgettable you haven’t really been paying close attention to. You sit in the quiet for a while, curled into the couch like it might hold you tighter if you’re still enough. Outside, the sky is bruised and soft and growing darker by the minute. You keep staring at your hands.

Spencer always pays for your manicures. It wasn’t your idea — the first time you mentioned how expensive a full set was, he’d looked almost offended on your behalf and insisted you let him cover it from now on.

“Let me. You’re not just getting them done for you,” he’d said. “You’re also getting them done for me.”

And it’s kind of true. Spencer loves to watch your hands when you talk, like there’s a whole language he’s learning just from your fingers. He traces your knuckles during movies, plays with your rings when you’re standing in line, thumbs over the backs of your hands while you read, threads your fingers through his and presses them down into the mattress when he’s on top of you. He holds them like they’re precious artifacts. Like they’re rare.

You’d gotten this set done a few days after he left for a case out in Denver, and much to both of your chagrin, it ended up being a bad one that would keep him in Colorado for much longer than expected. You hadn’t realized how much of a problem your new nails would be until later that night, when you were wound tight and lonely and craving something warm and familiar. You’d lit a candle. Touched yourself under the blanket. Tried to make it quick.

But it hadn’t worked. You’d scratched yourself twice and gotten the angle wrong three times, and by the time you gave up, your whole body felt edged and annoyed.

You’ve tried again since. Twice, each attempt more frustrating than the last. You can’t say it out loud — I can’t get myself off because my nails are too long — without feeling ridiculous, so you don’t tell Spencer when he calls you each night from the hotel.

You press your hands between your thighs and exhale slowly, willing the ache to dull.

It doesn’t. You know it won’t.

Not until Spencer’s back, not until his hands are on you again, not until you can tell him in person how frustrated you’ve been — half-ashamed, half-hoping he’ll find it as ridiculous and kind of hot as you suspect he might.

But for now, you just sit with it.

The polish catches the light. The stars on your fingers shimmer. And you wait.

—

After a long ten days without him, Spencer finally calls you from the jet to let you know he was landing and would be at your apartment soon. You barely say anything on the call — just a soft “okay, baby,” because anything more might unravel you with want. The line goes quiet for a moment until he says he misses you, and you say it back, and then the silence stretches again like it always does when neither of you wants to hang up first. Eventually, he does. Reluctantly.

You don’t move until you hear footsteps approaching the door.

He lets himself in with the key you gave him months ago and drops his go-bag to the floor. You rise slowly from the couch and walk to the entryway, taking in how his messy curls framing his forehead, suit jacket slouched and travel-wrinkled, dark circles beneath his eyes like parentheses around something unsaid. You can see how the case wore on him, the heaviness of whatever weight he’s left carrying even after it’s over. But the second he sees you, his posture softens.

You don’t say anything at first. You just meet him where he stands and wind your arms around his waist.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he left.

“Hi,” you murmur.

He hums it back into your shoulder. “Hi.”

You stay like that for a while, his arms tightening around your back and his lips pressed to the side of your neck, like he needs to confirm you’re really here — still warm and real and his.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to look down at your hands.

“Let me see.”

You raise them instinctively, fingers spread. You watch his expression shift — first curious, then sweet, then something that edges towards arousal before he tamps it down with a swallow.

His thumb grazes over your ring finger. “These are… unreal.”

“You picked the design,” you remind him with a soft smile. “Sort of.”

“I told you I like stars. I didn’t realize you’d get a whole galaxy just for me.”

You shrug. “You pay, I impress.”

He smiles and lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing each fingertip like a habit. You feel those kisses everywhere.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine,” he says as he shrugs his jacket off. “Mostly. There was some turbulence. I didn’t sleep.”

You nod, even though he doesn’t need a response. The closeness is enough.

But when he leans in to press his forehead to yours, when he closes his eyes and exhales like the hard part’s over, you don’t relax the way you normally would. You’re warm, and full, and grateful he’s home, but there’s still something tight in your chest. In your belly. Lower.

He senses it instantly.

His hands still at your waist. His brow furrows just enough. “What is it?”

You hesitate. You could lie, say you’re just tired or overworked or don’t feel well. But the truth is sharp behind your teeth and strangely tender at the same time.

“I’ve just been a little… frustrated,” you say.

He stills. “Frustrated how?”

You glance down at your nails, then back up at him.

“I, um, got them done right after you left. They’re a lot longer and pointier than usual. I didn’t think it would be a big deal, but I haven’t…” You gesture vaguely. “Been able to… you know.”

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. “You haven’t been able to… to touch yourself, this whole time?”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s harder with longer nails. Awkward. I gave up. Maybe I should just give in and buy a vibrator.”

His mouth opens, then closes as he processes the words. “You waited?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly. “This isn’t, like, a guilt trip or something. I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

He blinks. “No, no, I’m not feeling guilty, I’m feeling… lucky.” Then quieter: “And, okay, maybe a little like a negligent boyfriend.”

You smile, a little sheepish. “Not at all. You were out solving murders. That takes precedence.”

“I would’ve solved them faster had I known.”

You laugh, and he wraps you tighter into his chest.

After a pause, his voice comes low, reverent. “Let me fix it,” he murmurs. His fingers tighten at your waist, and his eyes don’t move from yours. “Come on.”

He walks you backward to the bedroom, his palm warm over the back of your neck like he’s trying to keep you grounded. He kisses you once before you sit back against the pillows, and again after — soft, open-mouthed — as he settles between your legs.

“You sure?” you whisper, even though you already know the answer. “You’re probably so tired. It can wait, really. I’m fine.”

He huffs a breath against your collarbone like it’s laughable. “You, my sweet girl, are not fine. You’ve been walking around like this for over a week. Of course I’m sure. Let me do this for you, please.”

You lean back on your elbows as he lifts your shirt and kisses the newly bared skin, slow and thorough. The reverence in his hands makes your stomach tighten. Like he’s not just touching you for the sake of it — he’s reacquainting himself. Like he missed you with his whole being.

As he peels your underwear down, his gaze catches on the shimmer of your nail polish again.

He parts your thighs slowly. Kisses the crease of your hip before shifting again to kiss your jaw. And then, with a careful breath, he drags two fingers between your folds and lets out the softest, most ruined sound you’ve ever heard him make.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”

You want to say yeah, no shit, Sherlock, I told you I’ve been frustrated, but then his fingers dip in and curl just right and your mouth goes completely slack.

He watches your face like he’s cataloging it. Each shift of your expression, every twitch of your hips. He keeps his fingers slow, consistent — long strokes that press deep and purposeful, curved just slightly until your thighs start to tremble.

“You’re so tight,” he breathes. “So wet, sweetheart. You needed this.”

You nod, helpless. “Spencer—”

“I know.” His thumb moves to your clit, light and rhythmic. “Let me take care of it. I’ve got you.”

The build is fast — shamefully fast. You’d almost be embarrassed over how fast it is if it wasn’t for how sure you are that Spencer loves it. His fingers never stutter, never pause, and when he leans forward and kisses you again, you whimper his name.

“Come for me,” he says, soft and certain. “That’s it, angel. Want to feel you come around my fingers.”

And you do.

Your hips jerk forward, mouth releasing a sound you barely recognize as your own, and you feel yourself clench. He slows the pressure and rides the rhythm through it, eyes locked on yours until you collapse back against the mattress, gasping.

But Spencer? Spencer doesn’t stop. He simply adjusts, changes his position, presses a few kisses to your stomach. Then lower. Lower.

You jolt when you feel his mouth over your center.

“Spencer—oh, fuck.”

He looks up at you from between your thighs, curls already messy, mouth flushed.

“Put your hands in my hair,” he says, voice low. “I know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.”

You groan. “You’re such a cocky—”

He licks a slow stripe through you before you can finish the statement, and your back arches clean off the bed.

His fingers stay inside you — deep, curling just right — and his mouth covers your clit with obscene dedication. Tongue and lips and hands and pressure so steady it borders on unbearable. Your second orgasm builds sharper, thinner, a frayed wire stretched between nerve endings. Your thighs start to shake again and he presses in deeper, sucks a little harder, moans loudly against you when your nails graze his scalp.

You feel it in your whole body — his hunger. His focus. The way he wants this for you more than anything. You’re not even sure if you’re breathing.

“I’m—” you start, but you can’t get the warning out in time. Besides, he already knows.

You come again with a cry that tears out of your throat, and this time it overwhelms you — your body writhing, hands pulling at Spencer’s hair hard enough to make him groan. You’re too lost in the moment to notice how lost he is alongside you.

And then, as your limbs shake and your head falls back to the pillow, you hear a low, choked sound that didn’t come from you.

You glance down, dazed.

Spencer’s still between your legs, breathing heavy. He looks completely boneless, cheeks red, eyes half-lidded and glazed, limbs trembling a little, a combination of his sweat and your slick glistening on his skin. Then it hits you — you’ve seen that face before.

“Did you just…” You blink at him. “Spence, did you just come in your pants?”

He rests his forehead against your thigh and nods, clearly trying to catch his breath, clearly a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to.”

You start to giggle. It bubbles up through your chest, soft and stunned and fond beyond belief. “Oh my god, you totally humped the bed. Does getting me off really turn you on that much?”

He groans again, this time in embarrassment, but he’s smiling. “You were… god, you were just so perfect. And the way you pulled my hair and scratched my head… What was I supposed to do, not lose my mind?”

You smile and comb your fingers through his hair again, gentler now, your nails grazing his scalp. He hums.

“So,” you murmur, “would it be cruel to say I might keep my nails like this a little longer?”

Spencer kisses your inner thigh, still breathless. “Cruel? No. Cruel would be not letting me do this every time you need it.”

—

At some point you end up tangled sideways across the mattress, half under the covers, one of his legs still dangling off the edge.

Spencer’s cheek is pressed to your hip, his eyes fluttering closed every few seconds, hair mussed beyond recognition. You’ve managed to wriggle your underwear back on — barely — but he hasn’t made any attempt to move.

“You good?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the crown of his head.

“Mmhmm.”

“You sure about that? You came in your pants and then passed out,” you tease.

“I did not pass out,” he mumbles. “I’m resting. You’re comfortable.”

You smile and let your nails trace gently over his scalp again. He hums.

“You really missed this, huh?”

He opens one eye, gaze lazy and warm. “I missed you.”

His sincerity hits you. Your cheeks heat up, and you manage a soft hum in response — your chest is a little too full to find the words to speak properly.

He finally shifts, crawling up beside you and nuzzling into your neck. You wrap your arms around him and let your nails scratch lightly at the base of his skull, just enough to make him shiver.

“Seriously, though,” he says, barely a whisper now. “Keep your nails long like this. Please? I’ll take care of you.”

You kiss his hair.

“Anything you want, Spence.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[blueivyy99]

Calm and Serenity (Part 2)

Sylus x Non!Mc

summary: you didn't know what sylus saw in you. he said you were calm, quiet and serene and that's what he needs. you believed it. he showed it. not until little miss hunter came. she's everything you're not. news that she's in danger can make the ever so calm sylus to run and leave everything behind. it made you think, would he do that for you as well?

tags: angst, romance, hurt and comfort, confused sylus, non-mc reader (this is it for now)

note: thank you for the love in the previous chapter 🥹

Series Masterlist

It's been a month or two since the last time you've been with Sylus. It saddens you that the time you get to spend together is cut short, only seeing each other at night when he pleases to have dinner or greet you goodnight.

You asked Luke and Kieran about what's happening, but they don't know either. They just know it has something to do with Miss Hunter, about Aether Core, about something that you have very little knowledge about. You mentally noted to search about it later.

“He is very grumpy lately,” Luke said, "He was glaring at us like he wants to skin us alive whenever me and my twin are being a little louder than normal.”

"The only one safe from his anger is Miss Hunter,” Kieran added. "I don't appreciate that Boss is playing favorites in our team.”

You tried not to let out a shaky breath. Luke noticed and he had to elbow Kieran to make him shut up.

"Sorry, Y/N.”

You gave him a small smile. "It's okay. I'll try and catch Sylus one of these days. I'll talk to him.”

The twins scurry away while arguing. They think they offended you and they are passing on the blame with each other.

On normal days, it's not easy to get you offended but lately, every little thing just makes you … sensitive.

Maybe it started when you wanted that crow brooch that is neatly placed on Sylus's table …

When you asked him for it he just said, “It's for Miss Hunter,"

He took it from your hand. Albeit gently, it still weighed heavy in your heart.

You know you don't always get your way but with the little seeds of jealousy slowly growing in your heart, it's easy to feel hurt and feel neglected.

You just wanted that damn brooch and you know that he can buy another piece. Or even make you a custom-made one, one that is more inclined on your taste.

You took a deep breath.

Sylus is stressed. You know that and it's not right to add more to his burden. It's just a brooch after all.

“I-I didn't know, but when you have the time to grab one, remember me, okay?” you said.

"Next time, sweetie.” He replied and quickly went back to reading reports.

You don't know if he took your words seriously, but you have enough faith in him to trust that he did.

Or maybe the disappointment started when you wanted to go to Linkon.

There's a newly opened arcade shop that you're really itching to go.

Normally, Sylus would agree and watch you play. He's not the best when it comes to the claw machine, anyway.

So imagine your surprise when he rejected your offer. Not only that, the answer that followed chipped away at your heart little by little.

“Me and Miss Hunter already went there. It's not as fun as the other ones you've tried. You're just gonna waste your time there. Not even new plushies,” he even had the audacity to roll his eyes at that.

It seemed like he didn't think before speaking or he didn't see anything wrong with what he said.

Truthfully, there is none. The logical part of you knows he didn't say anything wrong. But for fuck's sake! Really telling your girlfriend that you went to the arcade with another woman? That's new. That's not something she expected of Sylus.

“You went with her?" you asked. You're anticipating his answer. Praying it's something logical. Something acceptable.

Please tell me it has something to do with those missions.

He looked at you, trying to see what's in your mind but you didn't show anything. Blocking any negative emotions from seeping on the cracks of your face. You tried to look as curious and as genuine as you can be.

Thankfully, he believed that.

“Yes. We went there after getting some intel around the area. She dragged me inside and she played until her heart's content. I remembered she went home with that crow plushie with a bib. She looked happy,"

You almost wanted to scoff at his face. You wanted that plushe as well, he seemed to forget about that. If it's only about the plushie maybe you can push down these negative feelings but here he is looking so endeared while saying that. As if he's not talking to his girlfriend.

Patience. Patience.

“I see. Good for her.” you said. "I also want that crow stuffed toy. Good thing to know they have them."

You tried giving him a hint. It's not like you to make anyone guess what's on your mind.

But then there's silence. And a beep on his phone. He tore his gaze away from you and your statement long forgotten.

At that point, you're holding yourself together trying not to scream and yell at him.

Maybe that's where it started. Maybe it's when you know that the distractions were not just caused by the missions but by Miss Hunter herself.

==

You sighed. It's evening and Sylus is still nowhere to be found. You texted him but you're met with silence. You wanted to call, but you hesitated. It feels like you don't have the right to do it.

Worry starts gnawing at you when Luke and Kieran hurriedly go out. They didn't even have the chance to say a proper goodbye.

Minutes kept ticking, and you heard it.

Explosions.

Your heart stopped and you wanted to run to where it was because something tells you that Sylus is there. He's in danger.

But before you can even step out of the base, Sylus's men stopped you.

“Boss’s orders to not let the Madame go out when the mission is in full swing. Please wait for him here."

You wanted to pull your hair out. You're trembling with worry but anywhere you go, someone will stop you. You can't even sneak out because that will surely trigger the alarms.

With a heavy heart you slumped on the couch.

“Fucking hell, Sylus what is happening when are you coming home!” you muttered to yourself.

You kept pacing and pacing every second seemed to last a lifetime.

Until the door opened.

And there he was, shirt torn, hair deshiveled and a few scratches on his body.

"Thank God you're alive!” you exclaimed and caught his heavy body before he lost consciousness.

"Sylus? Sylus!” you tried shaking him, but he won't wake up.

You settled him on the couch and grabbed the nearest first aid kit you can reach. Sylus might have the fastest regeneration in the world but it won't ease your worries about the small cuts that still remains on his body.

You tried suppressing your tears seeing him like this but you just can't. As you press the cotton on his cuts, you can't help but open your mouth and nag him about being careless.

“I know you think that this body is invincible, but please be careful! You need to come home to me. You have to come home to me. No matter how I'm annoyed at you right now, you don't have the rights to make me worry like this.”

“What's so important in that mission that you exhaust yourself like this? What's so important about Miss Hunter that you're willing to do such great lengths?"

You know that he can't hear you, but still you talked to him until you calmed down and ask his men to help you settle him in bed after changing him. You called the physician to check him up for anything. You kept yourself busy to shrugg of the nerves but those questions still linger in your head.

Sylus is a strategist even though he looks smug and arrogant. He carefully plans everything and tries to move in quiet only letting the results speak for themselves.

But this? This is not the usual.

Explosions everywhere and declaring a full on war with his enemies is not his style. You know that there's nothing really beneficial for him in this deal with Miss Hunter.

You managed to understand a bit about what their goals are. Getting that Aether core for Miss Hunter.

Tough mission, yes. But Sylus won't grab it if he won't benefit from it. And that's what you're left puzzled with. Sylus is a businessman, everything should be give and take.

So? What's in it for him?

==

You didn't expect the answer to voluntarily come to you. You went to his study to look for something or anything that you can help him with now that he's still unconscious when you stumbled upon a journal.

You thought it was not Sylus's. You never see him as someone who will write down his thoughts but you were dead wrong.

You opened it expecting it to be a list of things related to Onychinus, but you were greeted with phrases, sentences and some sketches about Miss Hunter.

You read each of them, it was a jumble of words. You almost thought it was a fairytale.

Past lives.

Dragon and Sorceress.

Kindred Spirits.

Energy Linkage.

Sweet Evil Trap.

All of it is too much. Too much for your poor little heart to take. And from what you understood, Miss Hunter is from his past. Someone who has a part of his soul.

Someone he waits for.

And the bitter realization although still unfounded, you concluded that maybe she's someone he still loves.

But what about you? What's your place in the grand scheme of things?

“I’m keeping you around because you’re still useful.”

Those lines ring in your ears. Sylus always say that to everyone but you. You thought that maybe you are an exception. That you're not someone disposable to him because you matter.

And as you soak up all the information that you knew, you started to doubt yourself as well.

note: aaackkk thank u for reading lemme know your thoughts! Part 3 soonest!