#hypersexual reader

[buckyseternaldoll]

Filed Under: Inappropriate

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Scheduler!reader

Summary: You’ve worked hard to keep things professional—his schedule tight, your distance tighter. But when the scent of Congressman Barnes’ cologne lingers too long, it cracks your restraint wide open. You know better than to touch. But he hears everything.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!), explicit sexual content, p in v, consensual workplace power dynamics, sensory kink, scent-based arousal, referencing hyper-sexuality, audio surveillance (non-malicious), oral (f receiving + m receiving), breast play, desk sex, possessive undertones

Word count: 4,720

You hated being in his office longer than five seconds. Not because Congressman Barnes was difficult—he was polite, measured, always thanking you after meetings. Not because he was cold—though his steel-blue eyes had a way of sliding over you like he was analyzing your pulse rate. No, you hated it because every time you stepped within range of him, something primal and traitorous stirred low in your belly.

It was the damn cologne.

Parfums de Marly Layton. You’d once caught a glimpse of the deep navy bottle on the edge of his hotel bathroom sink while reviewing his itinerary, and you cursed yourself for ever learning the name. Now, you knew exactly what it was each time it hit you: that heady swirl of green apple and vanilla spice, warm cardamom softened by the heat of his skin, all wrapped in something darker—amber, maybe. Something that clung to the cotton of his shirts and refused to leave even after he did.

You never asked about it. You wouldn’t dare. But every time you leaned over his desk to drop off his briefing binder or hover by the door to confirm his next flight to D.C., that scent latched onto you like it had hands.

And he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t.

You were just his scheduler. The woman in black slacks and button-downs who kept his life running in military-level precision. You booked his appearances, called in favors with lobbyists’ assistants, negotiated down overbooked town halls, and sometimes—God help you—had to step inside his hotel room to lay out the next day’s itinerary when he was too buried in calls to read his own calendar.

Those were the worst. When he’d answer the door in a fitted T-shirt, damp hair curling at his nape, Layton now mingling with sweat and steam, and you’d have to act like your knees weren’t about to buckle. You’d linger by the desk, pretending to triple-check the flight number. He’d pace behind you, reading notes off his phone, totally unaware you were trying not to moan like some harlequin heroine because of the way his scent swirled in the air-conditioned quiet.

You knew your place. And you played it well.

But God, if he ever caught on—if he ever looked at you the way you sometimes caught yourself looking at him—this whole operation would go to hell.

──

Your morning began, as it usually did, in his suite.

A quiet knock. A barely audible “Come in.” Then the ritual began.

You stood by the small conference table in his living area, tablet in hand, while Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved with military-grade precision behind you. He never rushed. Never wasted a single second. His routine was something sacred—ironed shirt, gold cufflinks, navy suit freshly pressed and waiting on the valet hook by the door. You glanced at the clock. Right on time.

Then came the part that always undid you.

Three spritzes.

You didn’t have to look to know the bottle—Parfums de Marly Layton. He passed by you on his way to the mirror, the scent trailing him like a shadow: apple-spice and something almost resinous beneath. One spray around the base of his neck. Two on the insides of his wrists, which he then tapped against his collarbone in fluid, practiced motions.

Everything about Bucky was deliberate. Disciplined. Controlled.

You hated that it turned you on.

The ten minutes you spent inside that room felt like a test. You spoke as little as possible, eyes fixed on the screen while your body vibrated with restraint. The scent of his cologne—warmed by his skin and the faint trace of post-shower steam—curled through the suite, wrapping around you like velvet shackles. Your thighs pressed together more tightly the longer you stood still.

You reminded yourself—again—that this was your decision. You were maintaining abstinence. You’d been attending therapy. Learning to manage what had once consumed you. Learning how not to chase every high your body demanded. You hadn’t slipped in over six months.

But today…

Today something broke.

──

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You repeated that over and over again in your head, even as your thighs pressed together, even as you turned toward his chair—the one still warm from where he’d last sat—and let your body sink into it. The scent of him was stronger here. Thick in the upholstery, clinging to the wool of his blazer draped over the back. You exhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as Layton wrapped around you, pushed into every breath like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.

Your body throbbed with need, the ache long suppressed now boiling over. Your self-constraint screamed at you to leave. To remember your progress. To walk away.

But then your hand slid between your thighs.

And it was already over.

You felt the heat there—wet and pulsing—before you even touched yourself. Just the press of your palm over your panties made you gasp, the friction igniting a tremor that rolled through your whole body. The skirt you’d worn today—a rare choice—suddenly felt like a divine mistake. Or maybe it was fate. No slacks to fight with. No belt to undo. Just a soft fabric bunched around your hips as you slipped your fingers down the front of your underwear and found the desperate pulse of your clit.

“Fuck—” you hissed, biting down on your lip. One finger circled slowly, teasing and taunting, while the other hand gripped the armrest of his chair. Your head lolled back, the sharp scent of Layton clinging to your hair, your skin, sinking deeper with every ragged breath.

You didn’t realize how loud your breathing had gotten. The moans that had broken free weren’t whispers—they were real. Hungry. Shamefully sweet. And they drifted into the room like incense, thick and lingering.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that your voice wasn’t just trapped in the still air of Bucky’s office.

It was in his ear.

──

Bucky stood behind the curtain of the press hall, one hand on the mic clipped to his tie, the other curled into a tight fist behind his back. He was half-listening to the event organizer briefing him when something flickered in his earpiece. Static. Then—

“F-Fuck—Bucky…”

His name.

Moaned.

Soft and strangled and real.

His spine straightened like he’d been struck.

The voice was unmistakable. Yours.

The sound came again, clearer this time, riding a breathy whimper. His brow furrowed, sharp gaze shifting toward the assistant speaking in front of him—but he wasn’t hearing a word she said anymore.

He tapped the mic, subtly. The connection flickered. He recognized the signal.

It was from his office. From the hidden mic—one of several—planted into the base of his desk lamp. A holdover from another life. Not politics, but fieldwork. Survival. The kind of instinct that gets carved into your bones when you’ve spent years as a ghost, a weapon, an Avenger—an assassin. Even now, walking corridors of Capitol Hill instead of war zones, Bucky Barnes never truly relaxed. The security team had given him the green light to keep those recordings in place, citing precautionary measures. But really, they were for him. A way to feel safe, to control the perimeter, to know what was coming before it came.

But what he was hearing now had nothing to do with politics.

Your moans filtered through the line again, closer this time. As if you were leaning over the desk. As if your mouth was right beside the mic.

And suddenly he was hard. Painfully so.

The assistant cleared her throat. “Congressman? They’re ready for you.”

He blinked, nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. But his mind was miles away.

Still in that room.

With you.

Bucky didn’t remember half of what was said onstage.

He answered questions. Shook hands. Smiled for the cameras. But his mind was nowhere near the press hall. It was still up in his office—haunted by the sound of you panting his name in gasping, breathless fragments.

He lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.

When the moderator thanked him for his presence, Bucky slipped away with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear without making it a scene. He brushed off staff with a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive wave. “I’m taking a break. I need a few minutes,” he said. “Thinking about my mom. It’s her birthday today.”

A lie. One he hated using. But it worked.

No one followed.

No one asked questions.

And he made sure—damn sure—his guards knew to stay posted far from the east wing of the building. His office sat in the corner of a quiet conference suite, tucked behind a frosted glass door that bore his name and seal. No scheduled meetings for the rest of the afternoon. No assistants buzzing in. No unexpected interns to stumble through.

Just you.

Still in there.

Still moaning like you didn’t know your voice was crawling into his earpiece like the world’s most dangerous prayer.

He locked the door behind him the moment he stepped inside.

The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Bucky leaned back against the wood, hand still at the latch, jaw tight and eyes closed as your voice spilled through the earpiece—raw, needy, filthy in a way that peeled his self-control back layer by layer.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were still in his chair.

One leg slung over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor for leverage. Skirt pushed up, blouse half-open, hair mussed and falling out of its usual neat tie. Your fingers were buried between your thighs, moving in tight, desperate circles. His name fell from your lips in gasps, more broken each time. Whimpering. Pleading. Ruined.

He exhaled harshly through his nose, blood roaring in his ears.

“Christ,” he muttered.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been offended. Professional boundaries, and all that. But instead, something primal settled in his gut. A slow, molten heat that spread into his chest and pulled tight behind his zipper. Not just lust. Not just arousal. Possession.

You had no idea how close you were to being caught.

To being taken.

You didn’t even check the door.

Didn’t think about cameras or recordings or someone else walking in before him. You just trusted you’d be alone. Trusted that you were safe in his space. And instead of hating you for it, instead of calling it foolish—

Bucky felt proud.

Protective.

Turned on beyond belief.

Bucky stepped forward quietly, his boots making no sound against the polished floor.

You were close.

He could tell.

Your moans had gone breathless—rushed, rising in pitch. Each gasp of his name now came through the earpiece like a desperate confession. Faster. Wetter. Louder. He could see the way your hand moved beneath the hem of your skirt, the way your hips rolled against your own touch. That tension in your thighs. That flutter in your lashes. Your head thrown back like the chair was your altar and you were about to come in his fucking name.

He exhaled—slowly. Quietly.

You were so absorbed in your pleasure, so lost in that hazy world you’d escaped to, that you didn’t even hear the subtle swish of the door behind his desk opening. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t just in your head anymore—he was in the room. Close enough now to smell everything.

And God, he did.

He could smell the sweat on your skin, the arousal soaking through your underwear, the lingering trails of your perfume—the one you always wore on days you wore your hair up like that. Professional days, you called them. If only you knew how that messy bun was driving him wild now, the loose strands stuck to your damp neck, the little whimpers you didn’t even know you were letting out.

You made it so easy.

Too easy.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, throat dry with something that wasn’t just lust—it was fear. Fear of what could’ve happened if someone else had come up here. If a reporter had slipped in to snoop. If a staffer came to clean. If it hadn’t been him.

He was protective by nature. Obsessive by consequence. He didn’t trust easily, didn’t let people in, but you—

You were different.

You were the soft place in his otherwise brutal life.

And now, like a loaded gun left on the wrong table, you were vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To pull your hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Because even with all that hunger burning in his blood, the soldier in him still wanted to study. Still wanted to watch.

Your breathing picked up again. Your body began to tremble, pleasure peaking. He could see it—feel it—in every breath.

And then you whispered it. “Bucky—please—” like you needed him to save you from drowning in your own ecstasy.

That did it.

He couldn’t let you finish—not without knowing he was there.

So he cleared his throat. Just once.

A low, deliberate cough.

──

Your whole body jolted.

Eyes flew open.

You froze mid-motion, thighs snapping together as if you could undo the last ten minutes by sheer panic alone. Heart hammering. Lungs stuck in your chest. The shame—white-hot and paralyzing—poured down your spine like ice water.

Then you saw him.

Leaning against the wall, suit jacket still buttoned. Tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His expression unreadable—but his eyes? Burning. Steady. Watching you like a man who had seen everything.

Because he had.

He’d heard everything.

And he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“You didn’t lock the door.”

His voice was low. Calm. But it carried—like a blade sliding from a sheath. Controlled. Dangerous. Precise.

Your whole body jerked upright in the chair, eyes wide, legs snapping closed so fast it made the chair squeak beneath you. You could barely breathe. Heart pounding, cheeks burning, hand yanking your skirt down in frantic, fumbling motions.

“I—I didn’t know anyone—God, I didn’t think—” you stammered, horrified. “I swear, I thought you’d be down there for hours—I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” Bucky said gently.

Your mouth clamped shut.

He didn’t move toward you, yet. He stood just inside the office door, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. But there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes. That slow, burning intensity you’d only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Behind podiums. In briefings. When he leaned just a little too close with that cologne on and your legs would go weak for reasons you never wanted to admit.

“I’m not pressing charges,” he said. “You’re not losing your job.”

You blinked, speechless, heart still galloping like a terrified animal.

“But…” he continued, pushing off from the wall, walking toward you now with the same deliberate, panther-smooth grace that reminded you exactly who he used to be. Not just the golden boy congressman. Not just the tailored suit. But him. The assassin. The Avenger. The man who moved like a weapon and looked at you like he already knew what you tasted like when you came.

“You are in trouble,” he said, voice lowering with each step. “Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Your lips parted. Breath caught.

Bucky stopped a few feet in front of you.

And that’s when you saw it.

The outline pressing hard against his slacks, thick and demanding, straining against the zipper like it was fighting to be free. Your throat went dry.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. “Having to walk around with this—” he gestured to his head, his chest, his body “—with these senses. With you.”

Your brows knit in confusion, still trying to process the way he looked at you—like he’d already had this conversation with himself a hundred times and finally stopped trying to argue against it.

“I can hear your heartbeat spike when I walk by. Smell how wet you get when I lean too close.” His nostrils flared just slightly, steel blue eyes darkening. “You flinch like you hate me, but baby…” he chuckled, quiet and sharp, “your thighs say otherwise.”

Your apology died on your tongue.

Bucky took another step, now within arm’s reach.

“I know I shouldn’t have left that mic on,” he murmured. “Old habit. Leftover paranoia. I didn’t expect anything from it.”

His vibranium fingers flexed slowly at his side, gleaming under the low light of the office.

���But hearing you like that? Saying my name? Touching yourself in my chair? You’ve no idea what that did to me.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping to a rasp near your ear.

“Would’ve come up here sooner if I’d known you were hungry for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body pulsed with heat.

And then, almost teasingly, he stepped back just enough for you to see his gaze drop to your lap—your thighs still trembling, your breathing still ragged.

“Now,” he said softly, eyes dragging back up to yours, “you’re going to help me.”

He glanced down at the ache visibly straining against the front of his pants.

“Fix the mess you started,” Bucky murmured again, voice low and rough.

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between his face and the bulge still straining beneath those expensive navy slacks. Your breath caught, your lips parted—but you didn’t move.

So Bucky did.

He reached out, warm hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing against your jaw—tender, but firm. Guiding. His vibranium fingers brushed your shoulder, trailing a cold path down your arm as he coaxed you out of the chair and down to your knees, right between his legs.

You looked up at him. The tie still loose at his collar. His jaw locked, blue eyes burning down at you like you were something sacred. Something he’d wanted for far too long.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, unfastening his belt slowly. “Show me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You took him in hand, heard his sharp inhale. He was heavy, hot, twitching in your grip—already leaking from how long he’d been holding back. You kissed the head gently, teasing your tongue over the slit, and felt him shudder above you.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

But something changed.

As soon as you tasted him—salty and masculine, laced with the lingering warmth of that cologne—you snapped. Your restraint, your therapy, your rules—shattered. Your hyper-sensitive body surged with heat and hunger. You gripped him tighter, sucked him deeper, harder, hungry for it—starved for the man who haunted every dark corner of your fantasies.

Bucky hissed. His hand flew to your bun—not to guide you, but to steady himself.

You were taking control.

And he was losing it.

“Shit—slow down, baby—” he grunted, legs bracing, muscles twitching. “Fuck—gonna—”

He didn’t finish the warning.

With a stifled groan and a muttered curse, he came fast and hard, head tipped back, hand fisting in your hair as his body jolted. You swallowed, breathless, the taste of him still on your tongue as he staggered slightly—off balance, caught completely off-guard by just how fast you’d undone him.

He looked down at you with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. Then he gave a breathless laugh—soft, almost reverent.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re trying to kill me?”

You licked your lips and looked up through your lashes. “You told me to fix it.”

Bucky’s pupils dilated.

He was far from done.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Lay down. Table.”

You rose—hands trembling, heart pounding—and climbed onto the edge of his desk, pushing aside the neat stack of folders and your own open planner. You laid back, thighs parting as his hands found your waist. He looked like a man possessed, hungry and undone, all that political polish burned away.

He pushed up your blouse, exposing your bra, then unclasped it with practiced ease—lucky for him (and unlucky for you) that you’d chosen the kind that fastened in the front. Your breasts spilled free into his waiting hands, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t just imagined this a hundred times over.

He didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, biting softly at the swell of your chest, leaving wet kisses and deep bruising marks as his vibranium fingers slid down—cool and deliberate—between your legs. You gasped at the contrast of metal and heat, moaning as they slid through your slick folds with expert precision.

You writhed. He growled.

Then, when you were panting and shaking again, he pulled back—stroking himself once, slowly—then slid his length between your breasts, pressing them together with his hands as you lifted your chin to tease your tongue against the head of his cock.

“Hold still for me,” he groaned. “Just like that.”

The heat in the room swelled—his cologne thick in the air, your arousal coating his fingers, his taste still lingering on your lips. He rocked into your chest slowly, hips rolling, your mouth chasing every pass like it was your last breath.

And for Bucky?

It might as well have been.

“Just like that,” Bucky groaned again, thrusting slowly between your breasts, your tongue flicking over his tip with every pass. His hands pressed them tighter, his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself—like he was trying to savor this, even as every nerve in his body screamed for release.

You watched him from below—eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from sucking him dry just moments ago. There was pride in your gaze now. Power. Your legs shifted, thighs rubbing together with desperate friction as you moaned softly, loving how undone he looked. This man—former assassin, super soldier, now walking the floors of Congress like he didn’t have blood on his hands—was losing himself for you.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

He pulled back, eyes raking over your body like he wanted to mark every inch of it. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. “Hands flat on the desk. Skirt up. Now.”

Your breath caught.

You obeyed.

The desk was cool under your palms as you turned, bent forward, and arched your back—cheeks exposed, thighs glistening. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the low hitch of his breath as he took you in. Then—metal and flesh—his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. “You’re soaking. All this just from my scent, huh?”

You whimpered.

He leaned over you, the scent of his cologne wrapped in heat and sweat now, curling around your senses like a drug. His mouth found your neck—kissing, biting, panting against your skin.

“Do you know how many times I wanted to take you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “Every time you walked into my office, pretending you didn’t notice how hard I was. You think I didn’t know?”

Then—without warning—he slammed into you.

You gasped. Loud. Fingers splayed on the desk for support as he filled you in one hard, deliberate thrust.

Bucky groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back—vibranium palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades to keep you down. Pinned. Controlled. Possessed.

“You like this,” he growled, voice thick with filth and hunger. “You like knowing I can’t fucking hold back with you.”

He rolled his hips again, deep and slow, and your whole body shuddered from the inside out.

And then he lost the last of his restraint.

The thrusts turned punishing—each one knocking the breath from your lungs as his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you in place. He was relentless. The desk creaked beneath you. Your moans echoed off the walls. His name fell from your lips like prayer.

“Say it again,” he gritted. “Say my fucking name.”

“Bucky—oh God—Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”

You felt him everywhere—his cologne clinging to your skin, his heat against your back, the cold snap of vibranium fingers sliding back between your thighs to stroke you just right as he kept slamming into you.

And just as you were about to fall apart, just as your vision blurred and your moans turned breathless and broken—

He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulled you back against his chest, and growled into your ear:

“You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Not when he had your back arched, your hips bucking, your moans punched out of you with every ruthless thrust.

And definitely not when his mouth returned to your neck—nipping, dragging, claiming.

“Gotta warn you, sweetheart,” he panted, voice gone gravel-deep, sweat slicking his chest against your spine. “Cleanup’s gonna be hell.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering as he slid his vibranium fingers back between your legs, stroking where he knew you needed it—circling, pressing, dragging you up toward the edge again. Your thighs trembled. His cock dragged deep inside you, heavy and thick, already swelling again despite how hard he’d come earlier.

He was insatiable.

“You’re dripping down my thighs,” he groaned, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna soak this desk. The carpet.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, dizzy from overstimulation, from the scent of him still curling through the room like a trap.

“Yes, you can,” he hissed, fucking into you harder. “C’mon, doll. One more. I need it.”

He wanted to feel it. Hear it. Your body breaking apart for him like it was made to.

And when your orgasm tore through you again—loud, shaking, guttural—he cursed and pulled out just in time to see the way your release shuddered down your thighs, messy and obscene and perfect.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, grabbing his cock and stroking it hard, fast, as he stared at the wreckage of you—your thighs spread, your mouth open, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

He didn’t last long.

One sharp exhale—your name on his lips—and he came again, painting your lower back and ass with hot, thick ropes of it. The kind of mess that would take more than tissues to fix.

Bucky stumbled back a step, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. A beat passed.

Then he chuckled, dark and low.

“I told you we’d need time for cleanup.”

You groaned, still face-down on the desk. “That’s… not my department, Congressman.”

Another breathless laugh. “Lucky for us, I’ve got some experience erasing evidence.”

He moved toward the far wall of his office, tapped a hidden panel under a shelf, and revealed a small screen linked to the CCTV system. A few taps, and he was deep into the security matrix—something no one but Bucky Barnes had access to.

His fingers hovered over the delete command… then paused.

A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Or…” he murmured, glancing back at you, still sprawled across his desk, flushed and glistening. “I keep this one. File it under inappropriate.”

Your breath caught.

Then his voice softened—still low, still dark—but careful now. “Only if you’re okay with that.”

You looked at him, cheeks burning, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps. And then you smiled—slow and shameless.

“Only if I get a copy too.”

He chuckled, full and rich, before locking the footage away behind a new encrypted file. His name. Today’s date.

And a folder labeled simply: INAPPROPRIATE

He turned back to you, still drinking in the sight—hickeys blooming across your chest like war paint, lips kiss-bitten and eyes half-lidded in the aftermath.

If anyone asked why the door had been locked for so long…

“I’ll tell ’em I needed a moment,” he muttered, tucking his shirt back in with a wry twist of his mouth. “Missing my mother. Or some bullshit like that.”

You snorted through the heat still burning on your skin. “You’re a menace.”

He stepped back toward you, buttoning his shirt halfway, not even bothering to fix the tie. “You have no idea.”

Then he leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder—warm, slow, almost reverent—and whispered:

“We’re not done, by the way.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “We’re not?”

“Nope.” He slid two vibranium fingers through your slick folds again, slow and deliberate, and smirked at your sharp gasp.

“I haven’t even had lunch.”

[aphroditaeon]

someone: makes the most emotional sad art for Levi

me in the comment section:

[sevgilimsatoru]

Error: 410 (Self Aware!AU Caleb Edition) Part 15

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 A/N Spin off

Summary: A self aware!AU with Caleb and NonMC! reader.

Tags: Caleb x reader, Caleb x NonMC! reader, Caleb x fem!reader, fluff, Stressedout!reader, Hypersexual!reader.

Word count: 1k

Inspired by: @ittybittyfanblog

"Your words, eyes, and hands only belong to me My dreams, smiles, and daydreams are solely for you As I couldn't find you, I am getting lost in the sky now I find myself dancing with your own hands"

You have a new message from Caleb!

We'll only say hello from now on, there won't be any goodbyes

You woke up to the embrace of warm sheets surrounding you. You didn’t want to get up, not really. Not when the bed was so warm. You lay under the covers lazily for a while until you heard your name being called.

You sat up with a groan, stretching your arms. Picking up the cup of coffee placed on the bedside table. You woke up just in time; it was still warm. You stood up, taking a few sips of the warm drink. That felt so much better. Coffee always made waking up a little bit better.

Walking outside of the room, you saw Caleb already standing in the kitchen. He was making breakfast, leaning against the kitchen counter, the morning paper held in his hands.

“Morning, sunshine. It’s 8:45 in the morning. That’s a new record for you on the weekends, isn’t it?” He asked, a smile on his face. You just rolled your eyes in response, walking over to the kitchen, sipping on your morning coffee.

“That’s rich coming from someone who wakes up at 1:30 in the afternoon.” You said, walking up to him and resting your head on his arm, letting him press soft kisses on your forehead.

“Not really since that was a one-time thing, and you never wake up before 10 on the weekends, 9:30 if I’m being generous.” Caleb said, watching you put your empty coffee cup in the sink.

“Mhm… Good morning to you too.” You said, walking over to the bathroom. He could be so annoying sometimes. You picked up your toothbrush. The sound of plates clicking from the kitchen echoed through the apartment.

When you walked out of the bathroom, the breakfast was already set on the small coffee table in infront of your couch. You sat down in infront of him, muttering a small thanks as you picked up your plate, glancing at the newspaper that he had placed beside your usual seat.

“What’s your schedule this month?” You muttered, focusing on your breakfast. His cooking was always so good. Fluffy and soft pancakes that are not too sweet. Just how you liked them.

Caleb was a good cook, a great cook, in fact, but sometimes the things he’d give you would almost make you question his sanity and taste buds.

“You know, the usual.” Caleb said in reply, his brown eyes looking at you. Both of you could get so caught up in work that sometimes you couldn’t find time to spend with each other. “You want me to take a few days off?”

“No, it’s fine… Besides, my schedule is full. I have a few cases lined up, so it wouldn’t really be a wise decision to take days off when I’m still going to be working.” You said, chewing on the pancakes in your mouth, leaning forward to take a blueberry off of his plate with your fork. “Unless you want to spend it on yourself.”

Caleb shook his head, his warm brown eyes finding yours. “Was that something you did in your past relationships?”

“Not really. I mean, my dad used to. He is really fond of traveling, and my mom isn’t. So, he’d usually plan trips with his friends, and sometimes they’d fight about it, but in the end, he would get his way and go whenever he and his friends decided they wanted to visit.”

“And how did that feel? Didn’t you want to travel around with your dad, or did you prefer staying at home like your mom?”

“It was fine, I guess. Sometimes I wanted to go, but I knew he wouldn’t take me with him, so I just never said anything. And the house was always slightly calm compared to the usual whenever he would be away... That honestly sounds so horrible to say.” You said with a small chuckle. You didn’t even know why you told him that.

“Hmm... well, would you prefer traveling with me?”

“Yeah, I’d like it a lot…but in the future—just not now.”

Hours later, you and Caleb were lying on the couch together. His head lay on your stomach, his fingers tapping your thigh as your fingers ran through his hair.

Honestly, you both preferred this over usual dates. Of course, dates were always amazing, but sometimes you just want to stay in bed and relax and binge-watch some TV, which was perfectly fine.

Caleb’s hair was really soft. That thought had crossed your mind multiple times since you had started watching this Netflix series with him, The Crown.

You glanced down at him, and he looked completely focused on the series. “You know, I don’t really get it.” You said, shrugging as you shifted your gaze to watch the episode playing on the screen.

“Get what?”

“I don’t know why you watch all this. I mean, there is no monarchy in your world, and it’s just a bunch of people’s lives being played up for drama. Why is this interesting to you?”

“Should I ask you the same question when you’ll eventually sit down and watch those crime documentaries?”

“That’s different.”

“It really isn’t. Besides, it’s something new, isn’t that a good enough reason?”

“I guess…”

Slowly, you and Caleb had built a home with each other. Saved up money together and bought an apartment together. Though it was more about the feeling of being safe and being together that made this apartment a home for you two.

Even though everything was like a fairy tale most of the time, every relationship has its own flaws.

It was nothing you both couldn’t handle together.

But it did worry you, especially his nightmares.

He had been getting them almost every night.

You groaned, pulling the sheets over yourself, your hand reaching out to touch Caleb, but your hands found cold sheets instead. He wasn’t here. You yawned, sitting up on the bed. One of your eyes closed, trying to cling to the comfort of sleep.

Caleb was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, one of his hands resting on your ankle. He didn’t even turn to look at you. “Go back to sleep, honey.” He said, his voice sent shivers down your spine. It sounded... scared.

You rubbed your eyes, disregarding his words and crawling up to him. You wrapped your arms around his torso, pressing your cheek against his back. “You should’ve woken me up. I don’t mind…”

“I know… I was just—I didn’t want to worry you.” He said, with a sigh, his hands reaching up to hold yours. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses on your fingertips.

“You want to go back to sleep… or we could go to the kitchen and eat something. Maybe watch a small movie if you want?” You said, your free hand rubbing the side of his arm gently.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?” Caleb asked, intertwining your fingers, squeezing your hand gently.

“I can take a day off; it won’t kill anyone… hopefully.” You asked with a smile, yet Caleb didn’t reply, just letting out a hum in response. “It was a joke…”

“A really bad one.” Caleb replied, letting go of your hand. His hand found your ankle, pulling you closer against his back. His hands held your thighs, picking you up in a piggyback style. Your hands are wrapping around his neck.

“I found it funny.”

“Of course you would.” He replied. Walking out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. He gently sat you down on the kitchen counter before letting go. “What do you want to eat?”

“There is chocolate ice cream in the freezer.” You replied, picking up two spoons, watching Caleb open the freezer and take out a tub of chocolate ice cream. He handed it to you, taking one of the spoons from your hands as you opened the tub of ice cream.

You scooped up the ice cream, putting it in your mouth—it was rich and sweet but so, so cold. Making your face curl up. Caleb chuckled, looking at you as he put a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. “Too cold?” He asked, smiling when he saw you nod.

He stared at you for a minute, letting out a sigh. He couldn’t stop having nightmares. It terrified him because every time he slept, all he could dream about was you dying. Something happened to you when he wasn’t here, when he wasn’t holding you close.

You could take care of yourself, he knew. And if that wasn’t enough, he can teach you how to.

A nudge broke him out of his thoughts, looking at you to see a spoonful of ice cream in your hands, near his mouth, your other hand hovering under the spoon to make sure nothing would spill.

Caleb smiled, leaning forward and taking the spoon in his mouth, letting himself savor the taste of the dessert.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

He was happy like this.

With you.

It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine and he’ll be fine.

Because at the end of the day;

you were together.

A/N: Wow, this is the last chapter of the series. I don't have a lot to say right now but there will be a (probably) long author's note about this series posted in a few days. Please leave any comments you might have about this series in the comments and I'm gonna answer it to the best of my abilities in the Author's note.

There is gonna be a spin off series. I'll talk to you all properly in that post, answer any questions you might have so stay tuned. Have a nice day!

Tag list: @browneyedgirl22 @aneertawrites @etsuniiru @demon-master-zero @angstylittleb1tch @mcdepressed290 @ittybittyfanblog @winwinwrites @alifyairl @huhleighna @calebsbeanpeeler @bookworrm1999 @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @babyx91 @multisstuff @beomluvrr @sunnylittleapple @lunia-likes-pomegranet @imhere2dosomething @lostpsycho13 @april-likes-smut @calebsbabyapple @mephisto-with-a-knife @wooasecret @anatherone @asgardiancoffemaker @sadsaidthesadthing @beppybeesnuggets @lilacflower667 @mangooes @sunnyx07

[yellowroseswrites]

“Can you see right through me?”

Roommate!Spencer Reid x hypersexual! traumatized! reader

she/her is used, bras are mentioned! if anyone would like this with a gn or male reader, please lmk!

-The one where your roommate knows why you are the way you are, but no one else does.-

Authors note- {this wasn’t requested, it’s really just me projecting, but i hope this helps someone!}

TW-{plenty of sex mentions, talks of underwear, talks of smut (but no actual smut), talks of porn (nondescriptive, but reader watches it), sex as a coping mechanism, allusions to non-con, reader doesnt really want to be this way, reader is traumatized, but the trauma is nonspecific so you can self insert, use of y/n, reid is autism coded but thats just how i write him all the time, plenty of whore/slut usage, please dont read if being called a whore/slut triggers you, plenty of negative self talk, i feel the need to bring up the non-con again.nothing is described in detail but its heavily implied. please be safe when reading!}

1.2k, enjoy <3 

Whore

Honestly you were so used to that comment. That's what everyone thought, even yourself most of the time.

Logically, you knew why you were like this. You had enough Psychology knowledge to understand the way trauma responses worked, and you knew full well that that's what this was.

But it was so much easier to just call yourself a slut and move on. You just liked it, you would tell yourself, It has nothing to do with anything they did to you.

So what if you wished you were innocent and naïve? So what if you wished you could just wear comfortable clothes? So what if you wished you weren't always thinking about sleeping with someone? So what if you wished you could erase every trace of porn from your memory? You were a whore, you couldn't change it, you couldn't excuse it.

Your roommate Spencer knew what people thought of you. He knew the rumors and he saw the glances. He didn't quite believe it all when he first moved in with you into your small shared apartment, but he quickly picked up on some of the signs.

There was that time when he offered to wash your clothes for you when you were sick. He didn't try to look, if anything he was putting them in the wash with his eyes half closed, but he couldn't help but notice that every one of your undergarments were frilly and lacey. Certainly you would get tired of wearing cute bras or own some underwear that wasn't a thong? Or maybe he just didn't know women as well as he thought? He brushed off that incident, until there were more.

Like when he looked through your bookshelf only to find every spicy scene highlighted or bookmarked. It wasn't his place to judge, and he didn't, but he could have sworn you said your favorite books were classic novels, and these certainly weren't.

Or when he found porn on your laptop. He, again, didn't judge, but he was confused. You would shutter at any sex scene on TV, and you couldn't stand the subject. Sure, people called you every name under the sun, but not Spencer. Spencer didn't think you were a slut, but he did think you were in pain. He just didn’t know how to bring it up to you, it certainly wasn’t roomate or coworker appropriate, it was barely even friend appropriate. There was a line he didn’t ever want to cross with you, in fear of making you uncomfortable, but he wanted nothing more than to help you.

I was a random friday when he somehow found the confidence, and audacity, to bring it up. You just got back from your afternoon run, in shorts that definetly showed more than you liked, and Spencer was cooking dinner for the two of you.

You untied your running shoes and placed them on the shoe rack near the door like you always do. You walked to the kitchen and basked in the lovely arauma, if their was anything you loved about being Reid’s roomate, it was definetly his cooking.

He told himself to be gentle, to not bring it up when it wasn’t the right time, but when has he ever held something important back?

“Do you like having sex?”

Woah, wow. That’s not how he meant that, but now it’s too far to go back. So he put the timer on for his water to come to a boil and he turned to face you and wait for your answer.

You were nothing less than taken aback by his question. You never discussed sex with Spencer, there was always a silent boundary on the subject. It wasn’t his business, you both knew that, so why did you want to answer honestly? You didn’t, you couldn’t. That’s a can or worms for a different day, with a therapist, who you didn’t live with. So you simply laughed it off.

“I mean, you’ve heard the rumors, I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure that out.” You said it as a joke, Spencer didn’t laugh, he simply shifted his feet a bit.

“I am smart enough to figure it out. Except the answer I came up with, is that you don’t like it.”

You laughed again, this time shifting your eyes to the ground. Two psycho-analyzers living together had it’s quirks, such as exposing each other’s darkest secrets on accident.

“Come on Spencer, I’m like, a slut. Of course I do.” You were still smiling, mostly to deflect.

“Don’t say that.” He was serious. You certainly wish he wasn’t, but fine. If he wanted to be serious, you would be serious.

“It’s true.” You were surrounded by criminals on a daily basis, lying was second nature to you.

Reid wasn’t having it, “No, y/n, it’s not. You’re not a slut, you’re not a whore, you’re not just some sex toy to be traded from person to person.”

“My sex life is none of your business. I can sleep with whoever I want to-”

“That’s the thing! You don’t want to sleep with them. You don’t want to be looked at like that. You don’t want to consume any of the content that you’ve been looking at. I know you don’t.” He kept a steady voice, but a dominate one nonetheless. He let everything just roll of his tongue, as though he didn’t just send a wrecking ball through every wall you’ve built up since you were a child.

You couldn’t find words, you couldn’t come up with a lie or excuse, you couldn’t figure out how to let out the truth, you simply stood in your astonished silence. 

Spencer looked at your face, searching for any sign of emotion, but you stood still as a statue. 

“Look, y/n, I didn’t mean to-”

“I’m a slut.” Your voice cracked when you spoke, almost like Reid’s heart when he heard it.

“No, no my love you aren’t.”

“No. That’s what I am. That’s what I do, that’s what I’m good at. I-It’s what I’m good at. I’m good for sex, that’s what I’m good at.” Your gaze fell back to the floor as you spoke, your words quickly becoming muddled and rambled. Your body started shaking as you spoke, causing Spencer to quickly make his way to your side.

“Slut, I’m a slut Spence, it’s what I’m good at. It’s okay, I’m okay with it, I promise. I know, I know I am. It doesn’t bother me-”

“Shhh, Breathe honey. Come on, deep breath in-” Spencer breathed with you until you steadied yourself. You gathered your thoughts and your feelings. You tried to gather the pieces of the wall Reid broke, desperate to put it back together, but when you looked back up at Spencer, you let it all go again. He made you feel safe, that’s all that you wanted.

“I can’t stop it Spence.” Your voice was soft. You were letting go of something you held onto for so long. Soemthing you hid behind, something you felt comfort in, you just placed it down in front of him. You felt bare, naked, and yet somehow felt more comfortable than you ever have before. You could breathe easier. Someone knew now, someone knew you.

“We’re gonna get you some help. Okay?” You replied with a nod before wrapping your arms around him. He placed a kiss on your head before speaking again, 

“You’re not a slut, I never thought you were.”

[starboye]

imagine loser!simon with hypersexual!reader, it's to much for that man to handle, as much as he wants to fuck you all the time you're just to much for him, you ride him dry all the time and damn when he tries to take a break you give him those cute begging puppy eyes and he's right back down

but sometimes you can be rather... wild with your urges, on several occasions price has caught you both getting it on (his words not mine) in the storage room and every time he has to lecture you both about work place decency but guess who cant even think right now because your jerking him off under the table, if you guessed simon you would be right

watching how he has to bite down on his knuckles to stay quiet and answer price at the same time as you tease his tip and edge him so much, by the end of the lecturing he's just nodding his head to whatever price was talking about to get out of the room quicker

once he's out of that office he's taking you to his room and begging you to ride him, you teasing him about what price was just talking about and how you could both get in trouble but at this point he just wants to cum and he knows you want it too

(wait i kinda like this pair up, might have to dive deeper)

[loveyhoneydovey]

thinking about hotch with a hypersexual younger girlfriend, that old man would be FIGHTING for his life. going to work exhausted, convinced every day today’s the day he’s gonna die of a heart attack cause she simply can’t get enough of him👁️👄👁️

[couldeatthatgirlforlunch]

Hello!! Can I request dating hcs of Rex x hypersexual!reader? With him helping them heal from their trauma and fear (and longing) of intimacy and being touched? Thank you, i love the way you write fics 🫶🫶

Thanks baby😘

This is based on my own experience with hypersexuality and the topics you described

Rex Sloan X Hypersexual!Gn!Reader

I think Rex is also hypersexual, or at least has some tendencies, so he'd understand a lot. I also think he would learn more about himself while trying to help you

He knows how sometimes your mind is buzzing with bad thoughts and stress, and the only thing that seems to calm it is by thinking about sex, especially when you're trying to sleep and just can't 

He knows sometimes sex feels like the solution to all problems

And that hipersexuality is a problem because it’s prejudicial to your life, in the sense that maybe you're trying to focus on something else, like studying, working, or a hobby, but your mind just. Won't. Stop. 

Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex

But he's still learning to think before talking, and he just came to terms with the fact that he's actually very empathic 

So he might ask how you feel and what you're thinking from time to time, and what do you think that made you be hypersexual 

He doesn't want you to commit the same mistakes he did, so he makes sure your sexual dynamic with each other is very healthy, obnoxiously healthy, to the point that it's even funny how he’ll just stop in the middle of it to ask “do you want it or do you enthusiastically want it?” with the most serious expression, one it's even weird to see on him, because he's just so goofy

Because if the bar is high enough, you never will accept anything less, just like people with healthy families usually don't accept other people treating them like shit 

He's scared shitless that he’ll accidentally or indirectly hurt you, either because he didn't make sure how you felt, or because you were too good at pretending

He's ruined so many good things before, he doesn't want to do it anymore 

You might have intrusive thoughts, like really, intrusive thoughts. Not the ones most people are used to like “what if I threw my phone out of the window?”, but the real ones. If you have it you know what I’m talking about. 

I’m not sure he has them, because if you have them, you probably hide them, but he surprises you when he takes it seriously, not just thinking you're a freak, or a creep, or a weirdo. He understands right away they're not something you want, you don't condone those actions, you think they're the worst thing the could happen, and yet, your mind is so broken that it throws those thoughts at you, trying to make you hate yourself, and it might even work, and Rex makes sure you know it's not your fault, it's just a mental illness, there's nothing wrong with you, it's common, just talk to him baby, talking will make you feel better

He also becomes clingy, even performing PDA if you're into that. Just because your mind is thinking about all the different sexual scenarios you could do, doesn't mean you want sex, half the time you just want to be held, kissed and feel important. Just receive some attention and love. And he’ll enjoy doing that

Especially in the beginning of your relationship, he understands you might be confused on how to proceed, overthinking, and you might even try to distance yourself from him

Jokes on you, he's not gonna let that happen

I mean, see how his relationship with Rae started on the 3rd season, bro really worked for her

If he didn't like you as much, he would give up, honestly. Rex from the 1st and 2nd season would just offer himself to be your booty call

If you're touch starved, he understands that maybe you feel insecure about that, that the simple act of holding hands and rubbing your thumb on someone’s skin just isn’t second nature to you, isn't your first instinct, when you do it, you're actively thinking about it, afraid to move and disturb the peace, or make him stop touching you

Like one of those videos of abused animals who freak out at the simple mention of someone getting close to them, and when someone does, they need several minutes to get used to it 

He won't judge you for maybe being somewhat socially awkward on that aspect, he actually likes that you aren't used to just throwing yourself at anyone who gives you crumbs of attention, and ruining yourself in the process, almost like he did. It's not worth it, it's humiliating, it changes you so much that you can't recognize yourself in the end

It takes some time, but you get used to having him clinging to you at all and random moments of the day

He wants your first time together to be especial, and when you truly want it, so he doesn't even takes the first step, you have to do it 

I see you just sleeping in the same bed, fully clothed, every night, for several weeks (even months, if that's your thing), before actually having sex

Doesn't mean he won't make out with you, when you're comfortable with that. And he tries not to be the old him that would just grab your ass right away, instead, Rex learns that he likes to just… Explore 

He squeezes your waist, he touches your hair, your scalp, he breathes your scent. He rounds his arms around you and just has nice, quiet conversations. He lays his head on your chest, stomach and lap, closes his eyes, and his mind is suddenly empty, while you take initiative and run your fingers through his ginger locks. He holds your hand when he takes you out

He spoils you, he was never the type of guy to do that, he liked being spoiled instead

Now, he just thinks he needed to meet the right person

He cooks, it's not good, but he's trying to impress and make you happy

He learns your hobbies, and spends quality time with you. You have to know he's not with you just for sex, just for your body, your mind is just as sexy to him babygurl~ (in a gn way)

He shows you his home magazines and you talk about your future home together, despite how surreal it feels, how impossible it seems, how scary, not only to you, but also him. But he wants this. He finally has something good. A purpose in life

And even if you express some negative thought, he’s surprisingly good at comforting and reassuring, on his own unserious and abrasive way

Suddenly, your mind is a lot more peaceful

General masterlist

Like, comment and reblog 🥰

[soaraes]

thinking about gooner!art / hypersexual!art,,

mdni — ageless blogs included.

💬 warning: holy shit, he’s DISGUSTING and a LOSER. but that’s the point.

genuinely became a problem once he reached college.

no parents around, GOD FORBID he has an apartment style dorm + some money on him.

he’s going to town A LOT (obviously). but more than he would if he had a roomate for sure.

since it’s the early 2000s, he doesn’t use the internet to get off sometimes.

classic magazines, not a playboy kinda guy though.

definitely whimpers n’ whines, gets kinda shaky when he’s about to cum.

often fantasizes about getting dominated since he genuinely believes he doesn’t stand a chance with the lack of confidence he has in bagging some of his favorite girls.

YES, he has favorite girls.

jerk off rate per day? on average? probably like five-six times.

one when he wakes up, one before he falls asleep (him cumming usually causes him to go to sleep because he’s just tuckered out for the most part), one after practice (if he feels like it), and always after an exam. (he’s stressed), and pretty much any other time he might randomly get hard.

even if that’s just his shorts coming up a bit too much, moving his dick through his underwear a bit too much.

he mostly does when he “can’t sleep”. (which is most nights.)

goes multiple rounds if he can.

a pillow humper!! sometimes he gets really tired of using his hand so sometimes he’ll just use his pillow and rub his dick on it over and over. (he uses a towel, sometimes multiple to cover up where he MIGHT cum.)

has definitely done the walk of shame to the laundry room a few times just because he accidentally came on his sheets.

he has definitely had a fantasy about some of his favorite professors from time to time.

he’s a good student, so whenever he gets praise from them, he often gets a hard on and then has to either get one off when he gets to the dorm or in the nearest bathroom.

sometimes he pees a little after he cums because he’s just trying to drain his balls and sometimes does a little too much but he kinda likes it so he keeps doing it.

when the internet starts to become a bit more functional and people start making porn sites, it’s actually over.

getting off daily, FOR SURE.

favorite category? probably into creampies or breeding. facefucking lover + loves facial finishes.

he also finds his favorite girls on the internet too.

likes to sometimes watch those videos where the couples are like passionate with it because it makes him feel some sense of love in his life because he’s just such a degenerate.

whenever he goes home for a weekend, it’s actually torture. he tries not to do it once he’s there in his bedroom, but most times it’s just fucking impossible.

loves cam girls to death once he finds out they exist.

it’s like endless goonery for him, it’s great.

like i said earlier, god forbid he has money. — getting sex toys + donating to said cam girls for special requests.

LOVESSSS it whenever the cam girls say his name because it feels like he’s actually receiving the touch of a woman.

loves phrases like “your cock is so deep” and “your dick is so big”

post nut clarity? absolutely deadly and dreadful.

knows he won’t ever be successful with a woman in bed because porn + cam girls have rotted his brain and ruined his reception of sex for a while, probably.

premature cummer when he actually gets inside of a woman in his sophmore year.

it’s like his dick gets absolutely freaked out at the warm and wetness of it all because it’s just so overstimulating to his cock.

so used to the hand and the toy that when he experiences the real thing, it’s absolutely foreign to him.

first blowjob? same thing. extremely nervous.

shakes when overstimulated. (when he’s with an actual woman, it’s like 10x worse.)

jerks off to the thought of some attractive women he sees on campus that he’ll never see again because of his disgusting imagination with some depraved part of his brain.

imagines how they look naked and what it be like to fuck them, even if it was just five minutes of what he likes describe as pure heaven.

loves getting off in his car, has a fantasy about getting caught by someone and them joining him (because of his porn rotted brain).

too pussy to actually park it somewhere where there’s a risk that some people might actually see him.

tells himself that he’ll eventually stop jerking off so much. (he won’t because he has no self-control. <3)

has cum so hard that he’s cried a few times and then just kept going because it felt so so good to be at the peak and to feel so euphoric for so so long.

hisses a little whenever he sticks his cock in his fleshlight after not using it for a while. his favorite nonexistent pussy in the world.

“ffffuck. god, i’ve missed you, sweetheart.”

yes, he talks to his toys like they’re actually women. let a man dream, yeah?

gooner!art with his first girlfriend.

moodboard !

enjoy you filthy people ! okay bye. <3

[swordsandholly]

Thinking about hypersexual Simon Riley and aromantic reader. He doesn’t have time to date with his job, or the patience to find new hookups all the time. Dating apps are the bane of his existence. If he’s honest with himself, despite his wants, he doesn’t enjoy unfamiliarity. He doesn’t like having to explain himself over and over to people who often don’t understand (or care).

Instead he finds you, a pretty little thing that moves into the flat next door. You don’t demand commitment, or that he opens up more than he likes. You’re easy, kind, soft under his hands. You offer companionship when he needs, make conversation without expecting more than he’s able to give right now.

You’re in much the same position. Despite how men often say they want to hookup without any strings beyond maybe a casual friendship (if that), as soon as you’re the one to set that boundary they start whining. Can’t handle the idea that you don’t want them in every way possible. Can’t stand losing out on that control over the women they’re with. In your experience, at least.

You dread the day he inevitably finds someone. He’ll leave you behind, of course, and it’s not that you’d hold it against him. Simon deserves love like no one you’ve ever met. That impending day has become a little more real since he’s been talking about this “Johnny” from his work, though.

Obviously partially inspired by Service Dog Johnny by @void-my-warranty and a little bit by Harmless Fun from @rememberwren (if you haven’t read their stuff please please please do, they’re both incredible)

Update: I started it (LINK)

[elliezlils11utt]

‧₊˚🖇️ ₊˚🎧⊹♡

A/n: okay so im hyper sexual due to trauma and it’s getting pretty bad again, so i was thinking about how Ellie would react to hypersexual!reader! here’s for all my traumatized babes! 💋

parings: Ellie x hypersexual!reader!

WARINGS‼️‼️: this dabble contains reader who has gone through sexual harassment/assault, or any form of sexual trauma! there are no mentions of the act but talks about it happening in the past! resulting in hypersexuality!! if you are uncomfortable with this in any way please do not read ! :)

~~~

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ it’s obviously kind of a hard thing to tell someone, especially a partner. so I think when telling her she would be super understanding. I think she would have a lot of questions and would take boundaries so seriously.

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ I also think that she would be like mad/concerned.? not at you or anything. but I kinda feel like Ellie having to sorta go through all that shit she would be mad at herself for not being there 4 you. :( even if you guys didn’t know each other at the time I feel like Ellie is js that typa gal.

‘༘ ⋆｡ ˚ ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that baby!! are you okay now?’

~~~

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ ‘I wish I coulda stoped it sweetheart, im sorry.’

then her mood would switch if she saw u we’re okay with talking about it.

༘ ⋆｡ ˚ ‘I’m going to beat their ass !! name, address? social security number maybe…?’

༘ ⋆｡ ˚on days you wanted nothing to do with anything sexual she would never push any of that shit on you. she’s js a little cuddle bug !! I feel like if she was in the mood on one of these days she would ask and if you said no it was no biggy!

༘ ⋆｡ ˚speaking of, she needs verbal consent before anything. a nodd or body language has nothing to do with it atp. she needs you to tell her that everything she is doing is okay.

‘hey love is this okay?’

~~~

‘how you feelin, wanna continue babe?’

~~~

‘pretty girl, can I touch you?’

༘ ⋆｡ ˚now on days your the horniest mother fucker around she totally feeds into it. I mean who wouldn’t? when you go through hypersexual episodes she will do anything to make sure ur satisfied and okay !

༘ ⋆｡ ˚now during these episodes if she found that you may feel icky about urself and thoughts she will make sure to love you extra in every way! and if you feel icky after sex she will take the aftercare till the max and won’t leave it side for the next 5 hours!! (AWAHHH)

༘ ⋆｡ ˚Ellie wants you to know that there is nothing wrong with you. all she wants to do is make you comfortable. she loves you !!

A/n: my fluff fics never do well but I needed to share this because hyper-sexuality isn’t represented enough and the effects of sa and what it can do isn’t talked about enough. so I thought I’d make a cute little Ellie fluff comfort fic about it to help anyone who is going through a hypersexual episode right now!! I love you all and you are seen.

[alexispunkkk]

animal

♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰

god only knows — chapter 5

read the series!

last chapter | next chapter

- warnings: religious trauma + guilt, kissing, kinda forcing yourself onto joel (?) I wouldn’t consider it dubcon or noncon tho!!, mentions of masturbation prior to this chapter, super super descriptive sexual thoughts, arousal in a religious context, blasphemous themes, mentions of the bible, sexual repression, extreme hypersexuality, emotional breakdown, emotional and physical intensity, seduction, emotional vulnerability, grinding if you squint, breakage of consent boundaries, so so much craving and yearning ugh it's awful, joel is a SWEETHEART and i love that man

- summary: showing up at joel's in the middle of the night in an absolute craze--one that he both feeds and puts the fire out of

- word count: 5.8k

on ao3

JOIN THE TAG LIST FOR POST NOTIFICATIONS WHEN I UPDATE!!!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don’t change your sheets. Not right away, at least.

There’s something so sacred about the way your body trembled as you whimpered Joel’s name, finishing and gasping into your pillow with your church dress hiked up to your stomach. Something you can’t bear to wash out yet. It turned a corner in your life, leaving you on your knees again.

But not for God anymore. For something more physical than that.

The feeling of truly touching yourself for the first time, allowing your body to let go and succumb to what’s imprinted as your brain as impure, felt incredible. Like you’ve been missing out on it for so long–loserish, almost. Twenty-one and never having an orgasm or sex before.

It’s always been in a way to keep your devout innocence, like your father and the church had taught you to. Save it for marriage, don’t touch yourself. You’ll go to hell. 

But there you are, laying in your bed with a small patch soaked into your sheets, evidence of what you’ve done. Finished with a man’s name on your tongue. For once, you don’t feel dirty. You feel refreshed. Replenished, discovered. 

You’d lit a little candle when you came back to your senses after the orgasm. Usually, it was lit for prayer–now, it feels like something entirely different. The room smells of vanilla and smoke, air thick and heated alongside your own feverish need and confusion with what’s happening to you.

The shame seemingly vanished, changing color. Nothing is pitch black and suffocating anymore, but more of a deep red. Open and wanting. 

Exploring yourself like this for the first time, genuinely exploring yourself, seemed to open up a whole new world. It’s no longer worth it to save it, fuck that. God can go fuck himself if it felt this good to finish, and you’ve never even known.

And Joel. Oh, Joel. He’s now the only thing possibly occupying your mind. Like the Lord doesn’t even exist.

For the next six hours, you don’t leave your room. Don’t go downstairs for the lunch your dad offered, not even when you smelt dinner cooking later. Joel is completely inhabiting your thoughts, along with a mess of hypersexual images that you would’ve slapped yourself for envisioning just a few years ago. An entirely new spectrum. 

Joel bending you over, fucking you dumb into your mattress. He’s hitting deep inside your cervix, where your fingers can’t reach. His probably could. The cross above your bed would be gone. Joel’d have his head buried between your thighs, sucking relentlessly at your clit like it’s the sweetest treat he’s ever tried. Joel’d pull at your hair while you’re kneeling between his legs like he’s an altar, his cock stuffed deep down your throat until you gag and cry real tears. Utterly sinful, but beautiful. Nothing has ever felt so good compared to this, compared to finally opening the window to sexuality after a quarter of a lifetime. 

It’s overwhelming, actually, but in the best way. Everything seems to unravel in the next few hours and you’re in an absolute frenzy, fixated on the mere thought of Joel while your hand travels back between your thighs every few minutes. 

Like you’re unable to stop. You couldn’t finish anymore, but it still felt good. You came to like the feeling of overstimulation, especially the thought of Joel being the one doing so.

 He’s got you in a psychosis. A dirty, religious, sexual, sinful psychosis.

You’re tired by nightfall, but not ready to give up. Your mind finally travels back to the thought of church, remembering what Joel told you–he likes to go there, alone, every night around midnight. So maybe, just maybe, you’d show up to see him.

But it’s a little too far: showing up at church two hours after finishing on your fingers with an image of Joel painted in your mind. Sure, you don’t feel as guilty anymore, but doing that would lack basic decency.  

Instead, you’re at the edge of the bed, a quarter past twelve. There's a little lipstick smudged on your mouth, the one you bought and hoped to use in college. Sadly, it wasn’t worn much. Saved for a proper occasion, and tonight felt like the right one. 

The top of the package read ‘burgundy love,’ a corny but accurate representation of the color smeared unfamiliarly on your lips. It’s foreign to have makeup of this color on, but you want to feel sexy. Especially after today. A journey of sexual discovery most definitely calls for cheap red lipstick. 

In like manner, you have a thong you bought last summer with your friends on college break. They insisted on getting matching ones during a trip to the mall, as a gag, and you couldn’t opt out–plus, it could’ve made use one day. Today’s that day.

The fabric is lacy and untouched, resting perfectly on the supple skin of your ass, barely covering much of it at all. It covers your cunt enough, but will surely be soaked through in ten minutes when you’re thinking about Joel again. Girlish, sexy, feminine. Makes you feel just how you want to feel.

You’ve always known you’re pretty–the women in town praised you as a young girl, telling you you’d be a model and whatnot when you grew up. And sure, you feel pretty. But you’ve never felt sexy before, not like this. It’s truly an awakening for you, an overwhelming punch to the gut to masturbate and put on a thong and partake in all these little things that most girls would’ve done by sixteen. 

Your legs are shaven and bare, recovering from scrubbing them so hard the past few days. But still soft, moisturized with your favorite vanilla lotion. It’s paired with a matching perfume scent, sprayed on all the most important spots: collarbones, behind the ears, wrists, behind the knees, and your ankles. Nice and slutty. 

An oversized button down, one roughly resembling Joel’s (at least in your sick mind) gets thrown over the little thong and bra set you put on for the first time in your life. It’s black and thin, usually only worn when doing deep cleaning or on laundry day. But tonight, it feels ceremonial. Like armor. 

Like sin dressed up for worship.

You know Joel goes to church almost every night around midnight, he’d told you the other time you saw him. And you may or may not have watched him once. Not on purpose, but you caught his truck driving down the old road while staring at the window, and just had to get in your father’s truck and follow. 

As bad as it is when you’re in a weird state of sexual hysteria, something called to you. Told you to follow, told you to go. But, to keep the smallest bit of decorum, you couldn’t bring yourself to step into a church again today after the events earlier.

Instead, you go. 

To Joel’s. 

Slipping on a pair of tiny pajama shorts with the button down, you retouched the lipstick and gave your eyelashes an extra curl. Another spritz of perfume, a gargle of mouthwash, and you’re out the door. Sheets still unwashed, of course.

You get in your dad’s old truck, trying to start it up as quietly as possible in the late hour. Now it’s twelve-thirty, and Joel’s sure to get home soon. 

The drive isn’t long, you know where he lives from going there as a child to barbecues. From dropping things off for him with your father as a teenager. From last Friday when you watched him return home from his usual late night church trip. 

Joel, at least, is attempting to hang onto his religion. Even if it’s difficult and not very effective, he’s been going to church extra–every night, almost. Praying and trying to reconnect with the Lord after whatever it is that caused such a horrible disconnect with him and the church.

He’s still a man of God, just not as strict as he used to be. Slipping into the same habits and hole you’re falling into, but gripping harder onto the edges. He’s stronger, has more restraint than you. Maybe it’s because of his age, maybe it’s his faith. Or maybe it’s just you who belongs in Hell. 

You, on the other hand, have managed to become a complete mess in six hours. After returning from church and spending just a few hours in your bedroom, you gave up on hanging onto the Lord like Joel is. Slipped away, unregrettably. You’ve somehow managed a complete turn, abandoning the girl you were trying to grip to and switching to one who’s addicted to one of the worst sins. 

Within minutes, you’re waiting on the man’s porch. Getting there was kind of a blur. Dark sky and trees and cemeteries that you drove by, giving the night an uncomfortable chill.

Your hands are folded in your lap like a child who’s done something bad and doesn't want to admit to it, your throat dry from today’s activities, and the cold air biting at your bare knees. You’ve been practicing, planning. Not exactly praying, you’re not sure what to call it anymore.

When his car door opens, it pulls you out of a trance. You’d zoned out, didn’t even notice his truck pulling up in the gravel driveway, slow and steady. He slowed upon seeing you, not wanting to scare you.

He walks out, and you flinch. His shirt half unbuttoned like he’s already ready for bed, hair mussed and eyes dark. He stops moving and sighs at the sight of you sitting on his porch chair–seemingly innocent, for now, at least. But hiding the worst feeling yet. Also hiding a little thong soaked through and the thought of him fucking you deep in your mind.

He sees the lipstick, the way you’re holding your elbows as if trying to hold yourself together. There's a thin line of resolve drawn across your eyebrows, making you look somewhat confused. He can’t really read you this time. 

“Sweetheart…” Joel starts, almost like a soft warning but also a question. “You alright?”

He moves again, slowly stepping toward the porch and clicking his keys to lock the truck. You hear the sound of it, stealing a glance at the vehicle before looking back at him.

Looking back at his looming figure, the graying chest hair just barely peeking out where his shirt is unbuttoned more than usual. You can hardly see, lit only by the light of the porch in the dark. But he looks handsome as ever, distressed and sexy. He’s everything to you. Your new God.

Your neck cranes when you look up at him as he approaches, like you’re still kneeling to something holy.

“No.” You answer honestly. “But I think I figured it out.”

He’s skeptical of you–you’re acting different. Normally, you’re scared, shaking like a leaf whenever you see him ever since that night at the church. Too freakishly casual now, like you’re hiding something.

Which you are, of course. Hiding the desperate need for him, for his body, that’s threatening to escape you. You can’t scare him off, though. Not at his own house. He’s helped you, after all, so that’s not the goal.

“Yeah? What’s that you figured out?

You sit up in the chair when he asks you, pulling your leg up to set it underneath you, sitting on it. Your heel digs between your legs, trying to nonchalantly settle the now familiar wetness and aching that’s building while the two of you speak.

“God never felt close. Feel like I should give up.”

Joel doesn’t speak, lets you continue. 

“Been reading my Bible cover to cover all week, scrubbing myself raw in the shower and starving myself in hopes that it would help. But I still feel it.”

His eyebrow quirks, eyes widening at the suggestion. He steps forward again, stepping his right leg up and propping it on the steps of the porch. Makes your eyes flicker down between his legs for a second, imagining a bulge that isn’t quite there yet.

“Feel it?” He questions, tilting his head and running a hand through his beard of salt and pepper scruff. Hands look big. Beautiful.

“Yeah. Feel you, Joel. I feel you like I’m supposed to feel Him.”

His brows knit this time, something like pain flickering across his face–or maybe interest. Arousal? Confusion? You can’t tell. Neither can he. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“I don’t know what it is. Not love. But I’m scared it’s something worse.” You feel nervous telling him this, the weird flash of confidence from earlier slowly dissolving under his hard gaze. Your voice quivers for a second, quiets. “Like, devotion. I don’t know.” 

Joel’s jaw tightens like he’s bracing for an impact upon hearing you admit you’re devout to him. It’s bad, you both know–but he doesn’t want to guide you away. He wants to help you. Or fuck you. Whatever it is, he’s gonna be gentle.

You’re trembling, hands held in little weak fists now instead of open palms, no longer ready for a prayer.

Joel still doesn’t speak. Just stares, leg propped up as if begging for you to look. You do. Again and again, flickering between his face and crotch desperately.

“I lit a candle for you.” You continue, more breathless, ashamed and proud all at once. You feel the confidence coming back the tiniest amount when he doesn’t tell you to leave, doesn’t seem disgusted by the idea. “And I’m wearing the lipstick I bought in college. Never got to wear it. Thought it’d make me seem like a whore.”

“You’re not a whore,” he answers, too quickly. It’s the one thing he wants to remind you: you’re not a sinner, not a whore, not disgusting. Only human. But his expression is unchanging, still somewhat blank and hard to read. Joel’s never been too good with his show of emotions.

“I know. Maybe. But tonight it made me feel worthy.”

He nods, takes a careful step forward. Arms crossed, not too close yet, but standing next to the porch chair you’re sitting in. He hasn’t noticed your heel between your legs, pressing into the ache that he’s worsening by the moment. 

“You’re overwhelmed,” he finally continues, gently this time. Letting something show, at least. “Don’t gotta explain yourself to me.”

“I want to, though.” You whisper, eyes glancing up when he moves closer. Closer, closer, but so slowly. Until he’s almost above you, arms uncrossing. One hand holds the back of the chair behind your head, the other on his hip. Almost caging you in on that chair.

“I need you to hear it.”

At that, he nods. He reaches and gives your head a single stroke, reminding you of how he’d held you in the church that night. Stroked your hair the same way, whispered the sweetest reminders to help you out. But it worsens your case. Soaks you. You’re dripping by now.

Joel steps back, getting his keys from his pocket to open the front door. Score.

He opens it, walking in and turning to wait for you. Keeps his hand on the door, above your height, letting you walk under it so he can close it again in one swift motion. Slow and smooth and cautious. Perfect.

You’re pacing now, nervous energy unraveling in real time, getting better or worse every few seconds. You’re in his house. Alone with him. Wearing sinful lipstick and a stupid slutty thong all for a man almost three times your age. A man of God. Who’s somehow become your religion. 

“It’s like I discovered fire–I can’t unfeel it.” You start, breathless and messy while you try and move around the room mindlessly. 

He shushes you, but doesn’t say anything, grabbing your shoulder to stop you. Keeps his hand there, grounding you to the best of his ability with that rough gaze but gentle, warm touch. Sure, it helps calm you down, but it also adds timber to the fire burning in your lower stomach. Need.

“You’re–Joel. Joel, you’re like warmth to me. I found it, I need it so bad.” You continue, giving up now. He’s here with you, and you’re already dressed for the occasion. You didn’t wear a thong for nothing, so you practically beg him. Give in. Submit. “Please, I know it’s wrong. I know the Bible says it’s wrong, and you’re gonna tell me it’s wrong. But, please. Joel.” 

You finally stop, and he freezes in place. Stares, his chest barely rising with his breath like it’d been knocked out of him with your words. There’s nothing seductive about it yet, to Joel. He’s not smirking, he feels more like he’s witnessing and breaking something sacred. He’s almost scared to see you break down like this after the way you’ve been struggling for the past few days.

He saw the way your collarbones have been showing extra in your church dress, face thinning out unnaturally. Saw your legs scrubbed red and raw to cleanse yourself of sin. Now, you’re standing in his living room, begging. Entirely unholy and making a complete 360 of the girl he once knew. He’s terrified, he feels awful for you. 

Your whisper is softer now after admitting all that, after seeing the look on his face that demonstrated a sort of fear.

“I didn’t come here for anything. I just wanted to tell you–”

You begin, but he cuts you off. 

“You sure?”

The question drops like a stone, stopping you in your tracks. Shocks you, almost. His voice is careful, eyes scanning your face as if searching for something specific now. An answer, a reason to stop you before it goes any further.

You know you’re lying. Of course you came here for something. You wore something for Joel, put on lipstick and put perfume on the back of your knees. Lotioned your thighs and showered and shaved just for him. Maybe you don’t want to admit it, or maybe you do. Joel makes everything more confusing.

But all you do is nod. 

It’s not permission, not yet. Faith, maybe. 

Neither of you speak for a moment, the silence between you stretching out like a held breath. Your heart is beating against your ribs like it wants out, as if it could crawl up your throat and confess everything your body hasn’t yet exposed. You could explode right now, tell Joel what you did today. Tell him you thought about him the whole time, too.

The way he’s watching you is tender, understanding so deeply that it feels like he’s mourning. 

“You’re not a bad person, kid,” he says, quiet.

Your throat tightens uncomfortably, keeping in the wild mix of emotions. Just barely.

“But it feels like I am. Like I’m trying to make you one.” 

That makes him wince again. The thought of you feeling so bad and him being part of the cause breaks his heart. Little does he know, though, that tonight it’s not a grief thing–not more of that religious shit you’ve been crying about, but something else for once. You want him so bad that it physically hurts, and that’s what's breaking you. 

“No.” He denies, shaking his head. “You’re not.” His voice is firm now, just a bit. He’s trying his best to get you to believe him harder than you want to believe it yourself.

“You’re scared, you’re lonely. And you’ve been carryin’ that for a long time now.” 

He’s partially right. Of course, that’s true. He knows it and you know it. But he’s focused on the wrong issue right now, being gentle because he thinks you’re upset about church or God again. Thinks you need some help, some comfort. Doesn’t know that it’s because you’re so needy it pains you, doesn’t know that’s the reason you even showed up in the first place.

You blink fast, playing into the bit so he doesn’t figure you out. 

“Yeah. I don’t know what to do.” You whisper.

He steps closer, and you don’t move. His hand comes up, slow, so slow, brushing a hair back from your face. The same way he touched you in church, but somehow softer–almost reverent. His big fingers trace your temple and jaw, the curve of your eyebrows. 

And you feel it in every inch of your starving body. Especially between your legs again. You’re absolutely pounding, the same way you were on the way back from church earlier this afternoon.

Your thighs squeeze together, but Joel is too focused on your eyes to notice, trying to be a hero and read you. A hero isn’t what you need right now. You need a body. Touch and taste.

A few moments pass where he stares at you. The clock on his mantle next to the little carvings of birds he made ticks, so slowly that it gives the allusion that time is slowing now. All you can do is feel Joel. Feel his warm hand on the side of your face, feel his breath ghost against your skin like a spirit. 

You’re expecting him to continue, to tell you the same lines he’s been reusing each time he sees you. You’re not dirty, you’re only human. But this time, you don’t want to believe that. Maybe you want to be dirty, rebel against the Lord after the torture the church has put on you these past few years. 

After a day of obsessively touching yourself to the thought of Joel, he seemed unrealistic. Unreachable. Sexually, at least. He’s here physically, wanting to help you. But you’d never imagine any fantasies would come true. 

As if a prayer was answered, by some strange supernatural form of luck, Joel leans in.

He fucking kisses you.

It’s not of lust or need on his part. It’s soft, just barely there, like he’s afraid to scare you away. Quiet and intentional, his lips warm and slow against yours. Makes you feel like you’re alright for once even if something is breaking open inside of you. In his mind, you’re going through more guilt right now–you’re upset and scared and needing comfort.

But to you, it’s the most sensual thing you’ve ever felt. To be fair, you’ve never experienced something so intimate. A lousy kiss with a college boy you didn’t learn the name of until three days later, three days after he drunkenly left your room and left you with nothing. But this is sexy. So incredibly intimate, making the ache worse–a million suns burning in you.

Joel is solid in front of you, though. The fragile moment juxtaposes your first kiss, making you forget about it entirely. Surely it wouldn’t even register in your brain anymore. He’s cradling the sides of your face, trying to make you feel good, but you’re going insane.

He tastes incredible, a little soured by the taste of cigarettes and maybe some beer from earlier that day. But you don’t mind. He’s perfect in your eyes, in your mouth. In the feeling between your legs, in the heat crawling up your neck and in your lower belly where a fire is increasing past comfort. 

You let his kiss and touch settle over your skin and sink into your bones, finally allowing touch for the first time in your life. Both grace and sin in human form. Sexy but soft. 

Joel pulls away before it deepens, not allowing himself to get carried away because he knows it’s not what you need right now. To him, it’s not somewhere either of you are ready to visit.

But when he looks at you again, his forehead rests against yours and his thick thumb brushes against the corner of your mouth like he’s blessing you. 

“We’re gonna figure this out.” He murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. He’s gentle, too gentle. Fatherly with it, almost. The way he treats you so softly and kisses your forehead, it’s like he’s only trying to save you. You may have appreciated that a few days ago, but it’s not what you need anymore. Not enough. Not nearly. 

The absence of his lips against yours almost hurts. You’re craving him so badly, and now you’re cold again. Starving. There’s only a breath of air where seconds ago there was fire and weight.

It’s not just romance and comfort, but need. A low, deep ache curling in your belly in replacement of hunger. Him. So, so painful. You crave him, crave the weight of him pressed into you. The scratch of his beard on your neck. You want his voice in your ear, breath on your neck again, telling you that you look so beautiful in the lipstick and pretty little red thong you wore just for him. 

But it’s just the little kiss. He doesn’t want more, and you need more. Your fingers are twitching at your sides like they don’t know what to do with themselves–searching for something to cling to, to hold and feel. Joel. Your body is screaming. 

You move before you think.

In an act of utter desperation, your hands reach for his shoulders, gripping him and tugging him impossibly closer like a lifeline. You press your mouth against his in another kiss: this one messier and harder, no longer delicate. Outrageously frantic. Your breath hitches, your smaller stretch of chest flush against his big one, fingers finding the soft of his neck. Finding everything you can. The buttons on his old shirt, the little patch of hair on his stomach that leads to things you can’t seem to get out of your head. You want to undo the buttons, strip him, take him. 

To show him you’re not the little girl he once knew. You’re a woman, in lipstick and perfume and everything, and you’re done pretending you believe. You want him, he’s all that you believe in.

Joel stills. 

His hands catch your elbows gently, face moving quickly away to stop the desperate excuse of a kiss you pressed to his lips. His grip is firmer, pulling your hands away from his warm skin that you want to take a bite of. To lick and worship and savor.

“Hey–hey.” He whispers, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. Slow down.”

But you can’t. You cannot stop.

Your thighs clench together, the low pulse between your legs somehow quickening more. The ache that began in the church closet today and never went away buzzes in your fingertips when they meet his stomach again, trying to push up his shirt while your lips drag back to his. 

You press your hips forward into him without realizing, lips leaving his in mere seconds to drag across his jaw animalistically. Across his throat, groaning ferally against his Adam’s apple like a dog in heat. 

“Please.” You practically whimper, almost crying out to him. Like a plea to the Lord. Him, now. “Joel–I just–please.”  

“Shhh,” his hands envelop your wrists, pulling at your arms to anchor them in place and stop them from dragging into uncharted territory. 

When you ignore him and keep gnawing at his skin and kissing everywhere you can get, he toughens up–firm, harder than you’ve ever seen him.

“Hey.” He growls, yanking at your wrists to finally capture your attention. And he gets it this time. 

You look up, eyes once hazy with lust and now a little worried. You thought he wanted it–he kissed you, after all. How could he be stopping you now?

“Look at me. Enough.”

You don’t want to. You don’t want to look, don’t want to stop, don’t want to listen to what he’s saying. The notion of having Joel–a physical body, something arousing–instead of God, was supposed to be freeing. There were no longer rules, no more restrictions about what or what not you could do, what you could touch.

The only thing you want to do is burn everything to the ground until only he’s left with you. His touch. This. 

He says it again, tightening the grip on your wrists. 

“Look at me.”

This time, you do.

His face is flushed, jaw clenched tight–you’ve never seen him like this. He’s always quieter, keeps to himself, doesn’t let much emotion show. But he looks full of it now, full of something you can’t quite understand–not rejection, not disgust. But a similar ache to yours. Like it kills him to have to pull away like this, but he forces himself to.

“You’re not in the right place right now,” he starts again, trying his best to stay gentle, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles while anchoring your wrists in place. “This ain’t gonna fix you, kid. Not like this.” 

The gentle approach doesn’t work. Tonight, you’re something that needs to be chained up. Tamed and stopped. An animal, after just discovering how good it feels to be dirty. 

You try again, leaning forward with a desperate gasp and attempting to land your lips on his. Not even just the skin of them, but like you’re trying to get in his mouth. You want to be physically inside of him, he’s your God now. You want to sink your teeth into his tanned skin and melt into him. 

Your hips press again, and that’s his breaking point. He shakes his head for the millionth time, grabbing your waist with one hand and your hands with the other. The waist to stop you from moving closer, the hands to stop you from reaching down and touching him–partially in an attempt to stop you from discovering the fact that he’s hardening in his pants, as much as he hates to. 

“No.” He nearly shouts, but holds himself back. He can forcefully stop you, but he’d never actually yell. 

His hand on your waist pushes you, making you stagger backward until your knees hit his old leather couch. Creased and indented from many years spent lounging with a beer, his belt undone and tummy hanging out in comfort.

He wants to help you, not feed into those desires. Not that he cares about you not believing anymore, but this isn’t the way to go about it. 

“Sweetheart, you’re still your father’s daughter,” he huffs, stepping in front of you once you’ve fallen into a sitting position on his couch. “Don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doin,’ forcing yourself onto me like that. Ain’t the way to go about this.”

You try your best to listen, but your mind is consumed by the way he pushed you back onto the couch. Even in a moment where he’s trying to keep you in line, save you from going too far, you’re being disgusting. Can’t stop looking at him. At his vascular hands, at his angry face, at his stomach where his shirt is coming untucked, and definitely at his crotch where he might be twitching under the layers of fabric. 

Still, you manage to calm down. He’s never gotten angry with you like this, so it gives you a tiny moment of clarity. You gulp and nod mindlessly, finally giving up on the idea of getting into his pants tonight. 

So much for the thong.

He sighs, at least a little glad to see the fire in your eyes die down. And when your gaze flickers up from his body and finally lands on his face, he can recognize you again. 

“Look. I’m not gonna pretend to get it. I understand you’re goin’ through something, with God and shit, but this is too far. Just because you don’t believe anymore doesn’t mean you should be throwin’ yourself away like this.”

His words come to you in a more vivid understanding once you’ve managed to calm your filthy mind down, and it starts to hurt a bit. The realization dawns on you of what you’re doing, forcing yourself onto a man–on a Sunday, of all days. 

Tears sting your eyes in seconds. Not exactly shame, but frustration. It all feels like an unbearable fullness, you don’t know what to do. Not with your body, not with your heart, not with Joel. Don’t know what you want.

“I need you, though. Please.” You try one last time, except this time it’s quieter–unbelieving. You rub your nose when it leaks a little alongside the tears, sniffling and shifting in your seat.

Joel sighs. He looks so tortured, stressed. It makes you feel a little bad.

He sits down on the couch, leaning back and letting out a quiet noise with the crack of his knees. Old and manly. Hands reaching down to rest on his thighs. 

“Gotta slow down. Ain’t you, angel. Not what you need.” 

His hand moves from his own thigh to yours, just resting on your knee like a grounding presence. Settling you. And after all you just tried to do, he’s still patient with you. Like he actually believes in you and wants to help. 

Your savior. Your God. Your Joel.

A few quiet moments pass where you stare at each other, a few lonely tears dropping from your eyes, weighing down your lashes. Your lipstick is smudged. The wetness and ache between your legs is going away. 

And now, part of you wants to wait and believe him.

“...I need you.” 

The same words leave your mouth again, but in a different meaning this time. Instead of desperation and sexuality, it’s a softer yearning. You don’t just need him physically, you’re realizing you do need him to help you.

He nods in understanding, squeezing your thigh. His free hand snakes up behind you, wrapping around you to grip your shoulder. He brings his lips to your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of it, feeling your soft hair on his skin. Brushing against his cheek, making him want to rest his head there for eternity. 

“And I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere, but I’m not gonna take anything from you when you’re like this. You’re not steady.” 

What he says makes sense. You need to learn to control yourself, to deal with the urges and act slowly. What you did today wasn’t only desperation but a subconscious ‘fuck you’ to God–an extreme, blasphemous rebellion. It wasn’t the right move. 

You want to pull him close, but not to have you. Just to hold. 

Except you listen to him, not acting on everything you want. You go at his pace, let him hold you, because to you, he knows all. He makes it better. He’s ready to shield you from the world and guide you, even shield you from yourself.

“I’ve got you. Promise. You’re not alone in this, not tonight.” 

And somehow, for the first time since you returned home, you believe something. You believe Joel. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

HIII thank yall sm for all the support recently! i've been loving writing this fic so so so much i adore where the plot is going and DON'T WORRY there'll be some real smut soon (dual-sided, don't fret) comment or go in my asks if you're wanting anything specific to happen or be included and i'll try my best to feed yalls delusions! thank u love u mwah mwah mwah

@joeldarling @ssssc0m @melmel-fandom @rafeovermorals @lilac-boo @funkifiedzee

[sevgilimsatoru]

Error: 410 (Self Aware!AU Caleb Edition) Part 14

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 15 A/N

Summary: A self aware!AU with Caleb and NonMC! reader.

Tags: Caleb x reader, Caleb x NonMC! reader, Caleb x fem!reader, fluff, Stressedout!reader, Hypersexual!reader.

Word count: 910

Inspired by: @ittybittyfanblog

A/N: Short chapter, it's not that good I think. Have a nice day!

"You bloomed from the abyss Climbing walls to reach the sky See the universe shine And the starlight in your eyes

When the darkness blinds my sight I will find you by your scent If I slumber forevermore Tell me you won’t leave my world"

You have a new message from Caleb!

"Returning to this world with you by my side is the greatest miracle... that fate has given me"

“No, I get it. I’m just glad you are here.” Your fingers caressed Caleb's cheek as you spoke. You were both lying in your bed, just talking about whatever came to mind.

You still couldn’t believe he was here... It had been a few hours since he picked you up from work. From the moment he brought you home, you were trying to soak up his presence as much as you could.

“So… what did you do in these past four years?” You said, poking his cheek. Looking at the soft smile on his face. He just shrugged in return.

“Well, when I first came to this world, it was very different from what I’m used to. I knew I had to find you, of course, but I had to learn how to live here first.” Caleb said, squishing your cheek as he chuckled, “I wanted to get a job that was at least familiar to me. Get myself through flight school to get the job I wanted.”

“How did you even get the money to get yourself into flight school? Isn’t it expensive?”

“Yeah, it is. Well, I did a lot of odd jobs. For loans I needed to have an identity, but I wasn’t exactly a real person until a few years ago. So, I had to get myself registered on documents. I was working while gettin’ myself through flight school.”

“When my studying was finally complete, I spent the better part of last year gettin’ a job, repaying my loans, and trying to find you.” Caleb said, his shoulders sagging, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. “It was hard, but I could endure that and more since it meant being beside you.”

“You can stay with me for a while. I can help you out with… whatever you want.” You said, your fingers curling around his shirt. Rubbing the fabric between your fingers.

“I can stay with you forever, but I’d rather not burden you.”

“It’s not a burden. You’ve got to stop trying to act so tough all the time.” You said, watching as he shifted in your arms. Resting his face in the crook of your neck, your fingers brushing his hair aside.

“I’ll be fine, sunshine. I promise, and I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

“Alright.” You said with a sigh, it was no use trying to fight him about it, he wouldn't budge.

Caleb did start staying with you, and it was comforting having him there. Your schedules didn’t quite match, but he was here now; that should be more than enough for you.

You sighed, opening the door to your apartment. Kicking off your heels, you walked inside. Your feet were starting to hurt so bad. “I’m home,” you said, putting your bag on the couch and taking your phone out.

“Welcome back.” Caleb said, his words coming from the bedroom. You followed his voice, walking inside the bedroom to see Caleb standing in front of the mirror. He was in his uniform, getting ready. You walked up to him, wrapping your arms around him from the back.

“You have a night shift?” You asked, pressing a kiss on his arm. Watching him nod, you pulled away, walking beside him. Your hands found his tie, fixing it slightly. “Stay safe…”

Caleb chuckled in return, patting your head. “I’ll be fine, sunshine. You worry too much.” He said, waiting until you were done.

His hand wrapping around your arm, pulling you closer. His other hand held your chin, leaning his head down inches away from your face. An easy smile on his face. He saw your breath hitch, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Just waiting for a moment.

“May I?” He asked, his warm brown eyes looking into your eyes, waiting patiently for your agreement.

You let out a breath, nodding. You could feel your throat drying up. His eyes softened as his finger tapped your cheek. “Words, sunshine. I need a yes or no.”

“Yeah… yeah—you may.” You squeaked out, swallowing back the dryness in your throat.

Caleb leaned in, pressing his lips against your own. His lips felt soft, the warm breath he let out against your lips. It was slow, hesitant even, as if he was nervous about it. Caleb leaned away slightly, licking his lips before kissing you again and again. Both of his hands gently holding your face. Kissing you until you could feel air leaving your lungs.

He leaned away; the tips of his ears were flushed a pretty shade of pink. Pressing small kisses all over your face. You let out a giggle, making him smile when your hands covered his own.

When Caleb stopped, his eyes stayed glued on your face, taking you in for a few moments. He stepped back, picking up his suitcase. “I’ll get going now, otherwise I’ll be very late,” he said, walking out of the room, while you followed him behind.

You stepped in front of him, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him tightly, and he reciprocated the gesture. Squeezing you tight and then letting you go. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. Stay safe.” You replied, watching as he put on his shoes.

“Mhm… I’ll be back in a while.” He said, standing up straight, his hand resting softly on your head, patting it.

He sighed, walking over to the door and opening it. He looked over his shoulder, smiling at you.

“Don’t miss me too much.” Caleb said, walking out of the door and closing it behind him.

Tag list: @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @aneertawrites @etsuniiru @demon-master-zero @angstylittleb1tch @mcdepressed290 @ittybittyfanblog @winwinwrites @alifyairl @huhleighna @calebsbeanpeeler @bookworrm1999 @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @babyx91 @multisstuff @beomluvrr @sunnylittleapple @lunia-likes-pomegranet @imhere2dosomething @lostpsycho13 @april-likes-smut @calebsbabyapple @mephisto-with-a-knife @wooasecret @anatherone @asgardiancoffemaker @sadsaidthesadthing @beppybeesnuggets @lilacflower667 @mangooes

[starboye]

hypersexual!reader jerking off loser!simon under the table at dinner with the team

he was struggling to even keep conversations going with your hand tightly wrapped around his dick, gripping the arm of his chair tighter and tighter to stay sane

"ya alright there lt" johnny asks chewing on the delicious food in front of you all "yeah he's fine just a little flustered thats all" you rub the pad of your thumb around his tip making him jolt up "i would to if i had a lad like you" johnny jokes "aww thanks" you blow a kiss towards him

"you sure you're ok simon" price asks and he could barely get out a response with how good it felt having you jerking him off, he wishes he could just have you bouncing up and down on his cock right now in front of everybody but he knows if he tells you that there's a good chance you'll actually do it

"mhm, just a little tired thats all" he drips his head lower, lowly letting out small moans he hopes no one can hear "yeah i bet you are after working all day huh" you whisper in his ear, you could feel his hips slightly bucking into your fist "please" he huffs "please what" you tease him some more

"please let me cum" he whispers, he could feel his dignity slowly being drained out of him i mean getting jerked off in public with others around was just so nasty of him, but he did say please so you gotta gove him what he wants so bad, speeding up your movements a little to finally ket him cum, spilling it all over the nice floor that you would definitely clean later along with all the other loads

xoxo, starboye💋

[orphiclovers]

This guy's a homosexual or something even IF he wasn't mad at KDJ for almost kissing girl due to jealousy as everyone thought. Being like "ew. you're attracted to women? That's pathetic. That could never be me" is still pretty gay IMO

Also YJH saying he doesn't want horny people as companions (?) vs Kim Dokja's confirmed Sangah related wet dreams + infamous Chinese dress fantasy on Persephone + saying he will court Hades all in the previous chapter is. Certainly a contrast. KDJ watch out you're sleeping on the couch

[hendrixthepolitesnake]

Hey pookies 🤭

(Hey y'all sorry I've been gone for a while I already the been in highschool this shit sucks already 🧍🏾‍♂️ but anyway I'll give y'all a lil headcanon eheh 🧍🏿‍♂️)

Warnings: kinks ,dom poc reader overall sexual shit if you are a Minor or sensitive to shit like this please leave with that enjoy

How the hashira react to their s/o with big veiny hands

Giyuu: To be honest with you giyuu is definitely sensitive to the touch so I bet if you touch him on any place of his body with your veiny hands he's going to melt and most likely beg to be touched more because come on on y'all can't tell me giyuu pale ass wouldn't get turned On Might even get him a little wet too

Shinobu: While she may be small and petite this women will demand you touch her with those veiny hands of yours , I feel like she'd be the type to run her fingers down your veins and secretly fantasize how good they'd feel inside her, when I say she is a freak she is a freak that elegant and soft smile is a damn cover up

Misturi: She's such a sweetheart but she loves it when you caress her it's like a reward for her , she doesn't mind if you grope her, rub her down it doesn't matter she likes anything you give her especially how it gets her hormones going wild she may be bubbly but this girl definitely likes it when ya get her moist fr and call her a good girl while your at it makes it 10x better

Obanai: This mf is a brat I swear he's too damn short to be acting like a bitch when you try to touch him he acts all rude and bitchy but as soon as you give that ass a nice hard slap and he can feel the sheer veins and strength coming from your hands he is folding immediately, legs gon be wide open and all like he's ready for you he definitely pisses off on purpose so you can angerly fuck him while choking him

Rengoku: You thought tengen was a freak man rengoku is a no shame freak you could be minding your business doing nothing at all then here comes this ray of sunshine comes in and obediently asks if he could ride or even suck on your fingers due to how big and veiny they are like I definitely see him using your hand to jerk himself off while you sleep

Tengen: Not only does his wives love your fingers but he does too he is one cocky beat though he'd taunt you or talk about how your fingers could never make him cum or fold as big as he is he sure is a loud one as soon as you make him ride your fingers he's begging you to go faster or it's too much for him, that he can't take it but then proceeds to ask for more

Sanemi: This hot- headed bastard is something else he acts tough and tries to be dominant just because he thinks being a sub is for the weak but has the audacity to suck on your fingers like the whore he is as you aggressively jack him off to teach him a lesson and he'd let you do it too, he likes it when you trace or rub his scars as well

Gyomei: Wow you must be bigger than him because he's big ASF he has veiny hands himself but yours just hit different he may not be able to see you, but sure as hell can feel you, holding his hips as he cock warms you, your hands slightly rubbing his ass or making him get your fingers moist so you can finger his tight hole yeah definitely a submissive dilf in my opinion.

(Hey guys I'm still alive I completely forgot about this so as an apology I made this 😭✋🏾 don't beat my ass ok)

[little-saw]

🕯 little ! billy lenz headcanons pt 2 !

little billy waaaa he means sm to me<33 haven't done anything for him in AWHILE, but I haven't forgotten about him. Typical warnings for: hypersexual intrusive thoughts (marked w/ a *), canon violence, aggression, etc. DNI if you think Billy Lenz is a rapist.

Billy gets little sometimes when he calls the sorority girls. Mainly because he hasn't had a grounding female presence his whole life. So when he goes to harass them, he occasionally will go nonverbal and babble, they'll obviously hang up, which makes him aggressive and violent.

Billy is semi-non-verbal when small. You have to figure out what he wants without him speaking to you. He is easily worked up and frustrated, so patience is key when taking care of him.

Little Billy means a wholeee lot of drinking milk and eating cookies, he loves them, ESPECIALLY Pillsbury Christmas cookies, he will sneak down from the attic to help bake them, and he loves to eat the raw dough.

He likes to crawl on all fours when small and will usually oink and snort when happy. If you call him piggie, he gets grumpy, but really, he's happy.

He is easily frightened and will retreat to the attic or under the bed when scared. He doesn't like loud noises or sudden movements.

Very sleepy baby. He barely sleeps when big, so when he regresses, he spends most of his time snoring away.

When he does speak, it's in broken sentences in different voices. He also will get very cranky if you refer to him as "you", he only wants to he called Billy.

Eggnog makes him very happy, he will drink cartons of it, so it has to be hidden in the deep fridge or somewhere out of reach, however he has sticky fingers so it's really a matter of time before he finds it.

*Being hypersexual, it means those thoughts can happen even when he's little. Sometimes, he will touch himself and cry while doing it. He's never punished but is coaxed away from those thoughts and redirected.

He chews on his nails and yanks his hair when stressed or overstimulated.

Oral baby, he goes through pacifiers very quickly because of his teething habits, he prefers to suckle then chew, but his teeth have a mind of their own.

He needs a nightlight to sleep. If there isn't a light source, he will cry out.

Lashes out when he isn't given enough attention and becomes extremely violent. Sharp objects have to be hidden, or else he will use them.

Everything has to be baby proofed. He is the stereotypical baby that will eat batteries if given the chance.