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When my favorite fanfic author apologize for writing 3k word counts and more. Like, what do you mean "Sorry, I got a little carried away"??? No love, please don't apolgize. Write as many words as you want. Show us how amazing and talented you are. Mwa💋

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kieran culkin as roman roy in succession's celebration (2018)

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pairing: clark kent x reader cw: smut, implied afab reader, detailed cock description, size kink (girth, curve, heavy leaking), overstimulation (both reader + clark), possessiveness, breeding implications (clark cumming inside reader), messy cum play / excessive cum, mild cock worship, oral fixation (mentions), soft dom clark tendencies (whining, needy, desperate), praise kink (clark praising reader, reader overwhelmed by him), slight somnophilic undertones if interpreted (from exhaustion overstimulation context), implied emotional dependency (clark clinging, not wanting to stop)

you're thinking about clark’s dick again.

because how could you not? it’s almost a problem — the kind of thing that stays in the back of your mind during the day, lurking like a half-forgotten dream, like the heat off sun-baked asphalt or the feel of his calloused palm on your throat.

its slightly paler than the rest of him, with the faintest gradient of color that darkens where it matters most. the kind of cock you can tell stays heavy even soft, obscenely thick — thick enough that when you first dropped to your knees and wrapped your fingers around it, you couldn’t get your hand to fully meet around the base. one of those things you both half-laughed at the first time, though clark’s laugh was tight and frayed at the edges, like it physically hurt him to joke about something that made his stomach twist up so tight.

and it’s heavy, too — warm and weighty against your palm, a pretty flush already gathering at the tip before you even do anything, fat droplets of pre-beading and threatening to spill over at the barest touch. he leaks like it’s a biological malfunction, an embarrassing, syrupy need that never seems to stop, stringing from his tip to your wrist while he hisses through his teeth, murmuring soft, ruined apologies against the shell of your ear like he can’t help it.

there’s a curve to it, one you don’t always catch with your eyes — it isn’t obvious, isn’t obscene. but you feel it. god, you feel it. when he’s got you split open underneath him, when you’re writhing against the mattress and clenching around him so hard it makes him stutter his hips, you feel that gentle bend pressing into the most sensitive part of you, scraping maddeningly slow along your walls until yourwhole body’s tensing like a live wire. mind-numbing is a generous word for it. it’s more like being torn in half and reassembled around him.

and the thing about clark is, he overstimulates himself as bad as he does you. you’ll be beneath him, pinned under the impossible press of his weight, those big hands splayed possessively on your hips or tangled tight in your hair, and he’s whining through every thrust. panting ragged against your skin, muttering broken things like 'so good, so tight, can’t—fuck, can’t stop', because even when his cock’s visibly twitching, so sensitive it’s driving him stupid, he won’t pull out. won’t slow down. he wants to fill you, wants to stuff you so full of his thick, heavy release that it’s leaking out around him while he keeps going. and it’s so much. an actual, shameful amount.

by the time he cums, it’s never one neat pulse — it’s messy, viscous, endless. you swear you can feel it flooding you deeper, warmer than it should be, spilling out before he’s even finished. and clark’s never quiet about it, either. no, he’s desperate. one hand cradling the back of your head while he whimpers against your throat, hips jerking in tiny, needy thrusts as if he can’t bear the emptiness the second you’re not milking every drop from him.

and omfg, his happy trail. keeps it trimmed, neat, because even though he could let it go wild, he’s always a little shy about looking too unkempt, the boy from smallville still somewhere under the god-tier frame. but it’s there, that soft dusting of dark hair starting just under his navel, trailing down to where it thickens at the base of his cock, and you swear every time you catch sight of it, you get a little lightheaded. and yet here he is, flushed and wrecked, reduced to a whining mess in your hands, drenching your insides and clinging to you like you’re the only tether he’s got left on this earth.

and every time, you promise yourself it’ll just be a memory. that you won’t think about it next time you’re out together, next time he wraps an arm around your waist too casually or calls you ‘darlin’ in that low, honeyed voice. and yet here you are, thinking about clark’s dick. again.

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as a society, we need more long fiction where the reader haunts the narrative. yes, I want to be that dead wife at the beginning of each movie. if I disappear or die tragically, i want to haunt the character every moment. we don't need a few paragraphs about how much the character hurts over our death, we want at least 10k where it is established at the beginning of the story that reader is dead, we want to see flashbacks to the past when we were happy. the longer the story goes on, the darker they become, all the way to the present. I never want to leave the character alone.

If you know of any fic like this or are writing one, please recommend it! 🙏🏻🙏🏻

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Harsh Words, Gentle Touches

Lords of Chaos Masterlist 𐴱 Rory Culkin Masterlist 𐴱 Main Masterlist 𐴱 Taglist 𐴱 Reading List 𐴱 Pinned Post 𐴱 Moodboard side-Blog A/N: This was a request for a cute lil hurt/comfort moment <3

Summary: Øystein snaps at you without thinking after you get home from what feels like the worst day ever. You've been waiting all day to come home and fall into his arms, only for it to end in tears.

You’d had the worst day at work. 

You were run off your feet, then berated in front of everyone for not making enough copies of a document for your boss, and you just had to stand there and take it. 

You were new and needed the job to get your foot in the door for what you hoped would be your career one day. 

To make matters worse, you’d spilled coffee on your white blouse halfway through the day, and the strap for your bag had finally given out after years of use, sending all your belongings clattering to the ground. 

The whole way home, all you were thinking was ‘can't wait to get home to Øystein and just relax.’ You said it over and over again inside your head until you didn’t feel like crying anymore. 

A sigh of relief fell from your lips when you locked eyes on your apartment building. 

Just another minute and you’d be home. 

But then, you walked in through the door and found Øystein rifling through the kitchen drawers angrily. 

For a moment, you contemplated turning right back around and going back out, knowing full well that you were not going to get the warm reception you’d been hoping for. 

As soon as he spotted you standing in the doorway, he asked you if you’d seen his guitar strings.

Your shoulders slumped. 

“No, sorry.” You muttered, shrugging your coat off. “Did you check the closet?” 

“Yes, I checked the fucking closet!” He snapped. He looked about ready to pull his hair out. “Help me look.” 

“Øystein, I’m tired. I just had an awful day at work-” you sighed, but were cut off. 

“Would you stop whining about your stupid little desk job, some of us have real jobs, and I need those fucking strings to do mine.” Øystein snapped, obviously not thinking about what was coming out of his mouth in his frenzied state. 

He brushed past you and went to look under the bed. 

Your lips parted in shock, and you stood there frozen in disbelief. 

Øystein was never this unkind to you.

He got snippy sometimes and could be mean if he wanted to, but this was so out of left field and pointed that it felt like completely new territory. 

You hadn’t realized that he thought your job was stupid. 

You also didn’t understand what made his job ‘real’ if yours wasn’t. Being in a band is not really a job. 

Tears welled up in your eyes despite your efforts to keep them at bay, and your hands started to shake at your sides. They gravitated to the ends of your hair, which they tugged on as an attempt at a distraction.

He seemed to realize his mistake after a moment and snapped his head over his shoulder in your direction, only to feel his heart sink into his stomach. 

Fuck. 

“I didn’t mean that!” He scrambled over to your side with wide apologetic eyes “Shit, I am so sorry.”

“Stop pulling your hair.” He grabbed your arms gently, pulling them away from your hair, and lowered them to your sides so he could wrap his arms around you.“You’re gonna hurt yourself.” 

Øystein clutched you to his chest, and your body melted into him, still stiff, but desperate for comfort as a sob tore its way out of your throat. 

“Oh, don’t cry,” he muttered into the top of your head, pissed at himself for taking his frustration out on you. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m such a fucking asshole.” 

You didn’t protest when he herded you into his lap on the couch. You just curled into a ball and tucked your head under his chin, crying softly into his chest while he ran a soothing hand up and down your back, feeling like a total jackass. 

He didn’t speak again until you calmed down, still curled up in a ball in his lap. 

“Your job isn’t stupid.” He muttered as if he could read your thoughts, “I don’t know why I said that. I’ve just been going crazy all day with everything going on between Varg and the new album.” 

“You must mean it at least a little bit, or you wouldn’t have said it.” You sniffled. 

“Maybe I’m putting my shit on you.” he sighed, frowning “I’ve never had consistent income, even with the shop. I’m stuck with Varg if I want to keep making money, and I think I took that all out on you.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Are you okay?” He asked softly when you didn’t say anything, gently nudging you in an effort to coax you out of your hiding spot. 

“Yeah.” You breathed, pulling back to look at him with your red-rimmed, wet eyes. 

“What happened today?” Øystein reached out to cradle your cheek in his hand, wiping your tears with the gentle swipe of his thumb. 

“Everything.” You huffed, leaning into his touch “I spilled coffee on myself and my bag broke and I didn’t make enough copies of something for my boss, so he called me out in front of everyone, which was humiliating.” 

“What an asshole.” Øystein muttered despite wanting to express the desire to go down there and rip into anyone who made you this upset. 

“I was an asshole too.” He frowned, pressing his lips to your forehead, “I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s alright.” You sniffed, curling back up under his chin. “Could you just hold me, maybe?” 

“Yeah, baby.” Øystein chuckled softly, tightening his grip on your more relaxed body. “I can hold you.” 

Dividers and Banners by me on my side-blog @dividers-are-us

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This is goodbye

to all the hopes and dreams of any dumb motherfucker who thinks a death threat will keep me from writing the filthiest, fuck nasty Joel Miller smut exactly how I want.

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Joy Sullivan, from “Culpable”, Instructions for Traveling West

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Tom Glynn Carney as Aegon Targaryen - House of the Dragon season 2

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rory culkin in halston (2021)

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look, everyone knows it's not rape if we're both drunk, so just have another glass with me, and when I undo your pants just shut the fuck up and let it happen, yeah?

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kieran culkin as roman roy in succession's shit show at the fuck factory (2018)

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google show me this guy’s balls

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rory culkin in lords of chaos (2018)

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rory culkin in castle rock (2018)

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when you stop moving your hand, just holding it lightly around his cock to tease him and he thrusts into it, desperation outweighing shyness or obedience…hot