Thinking About Being Some Sort Of Psychic Of Telepath- And When You Sleep Your Subconscious Bleeds Into

If you’re still adding people to the firey familiarity tag list, I would love to be on it 👉👈

absolutely!!! i will add you to it as soon as i post the next part <3

good boy

nsfw!!! sub!xiao x f!reader

edging, breeding, (very) mild possessive behavior, public sex, praise kink, blowjob, handjob, voyeurism (sort of??), kitty is used as a nickname i think, he’s wearing the collar from this fic

Xiao is a good boy.

Always listens and behaves himself, letting you play with him however you wish. Especially after the collar incident, he’s very pliant, allowing you to do more because you both know he loves it.

Speaking of the collar incident, he hasn’t taken it off since. Every time you see him now, that thick leather band is wrapped snuggly around his neck, with the four golden letters attached glinting whenever the light touches it. Purple splotches adorn the space all around the collar from time spent with you sucking on his skin while riding him until he cries.

His neck, you think, looks like a piece of art. You quite like it that way, and continue to darken the marks anytime they seem to fade.

Today is no different than any day. You go up to the top balcony at Wangshu Inn where he resides and expect to see him gazing out at the sky, looking as pretty as ever, and you’ll get to spend the day together.

Except that’s not where he is at all.

Walking out on him slumped back in a chair with that black collar around his neck and a hand pumping furiously at his cock was far from anything you thought you’d come across him doing, but there he is.

He notices you quick, eyes that are as wide as saucers staring up at you from his spot. You give him a small, teasing look and go to sit in the chair beside him.

It’s quiet for a few moments - his body completely rigid while you relax into your seat - until you break the silence.

“Aren’t you going to show me how to do it?” Of course, you already know, but you’d never miss an opportunity to see Xiao take himself apart.

He does, his hand wrapping back around himself to give a few shaky tugs. Seeing the way his hand shook, he must be nervous - he’s never had anyone watch him get off before.

Once he starts feeling it, though - lips parting for small whimpers to fit out, grip around himself tightening while he moves it faster up and down his length - he seems to calm back down.

You watch him quietly, letting him enjoy himself a little, bask in the feeling of his hand jacking himself off.

He’ll look up once in a while, as if wondering whether you’re still there and looking, but immediately whips his head back down to stare at his hard cock when you meet his eyes.

What a good boy. So sweet and shy despite being taken apart by you nearly every time you visit.

Once his hips start canting upwards and his breaths begin to speed up you stop him, gripping his wrist in order to cease his movements. He’s flushed and his chest rises and falls, hand falling down to his side.

You pat his thigh, “good kitty.”

It’s your turn now, both of your eyes glued to your own hand that turns into a fist and gives one single pull.

“A little dry, don’t you think?” You question, and he makes a noise of confusion when your hand releases his cock. “Need to get it wet.”

A look of realization flashes in his lidded eyes as he watches you lean down to spit onto the head of his length. It runs down the sides, all the way down to drip onto his balls. He shivers and whines at the sensation.

You take your job of getting him nice and slick a step further and lean the rest of the way down to take him into your mouth. Slowly, your head slides down, all the way until your lips touch the base.

“Oh god,” he practically sobs, moving lightning fast to grip at the back of your head. “Oh god oh god oh god oh god-“

You hold your head there as long as you can, his dick pushing against the back of your throat. It’s a lot for him, his hips would be kicking into your mouth if you hadn’t taken him all the way in already. A constant stream of moans leave him while you have your mouth around him.

After a quick decision to have a little fun, your head begins to bob up and down, tongue gliding wet along the side of his shaft. The hands that gripped at the back of your head pushed now, and his hips jumped to get himself further inside your warm mouth.

Again, you let him enjoy it for a while, his noises like music to your ears.

He must have been close from his first edge, and began to climb in volume, alerting you that he was getting close once more.

You indulge him, giving him sucks that had him crying out your name. He got really close this time, thighs and abdominals tensing with the oncoming orgasm.

The sensation of wet lips leave him right in that minute and he almost sobs. Your thumb and pointer go to squeeze the base of his cock, successfully cutting off his orgasm right before it came.

He falls back against his chair, eyes closed shut tight while he catches his breath and tries to go away from the edge. You rub comfortingly at the top of his thigh.

“You got really close there, huh?” He gulps in another big breath and nods in response.

A praise leaves you before you even though about it. “You held on so well. Good boy.”

His cock twitches at that and you grin, giving his thigh a pat.

Really, he is such a good boy. All for you, too - you love it.

When his heavy breathing finally devolves into lighter pants is when you choose to continue pleasuring him. With your hand in a circle shape, you hover right above his length.

“Ready?” You didn’t wait for a response, basking in the sound that rips from his throat when your fist slides down onto him.

This must feel much better than when he first jacked his cock, because the slide is smoother and allows you to create a fast rhythm that has his head falling backwards.

“‘S good, ‘s so good.” He moans so prettily with your hand around him, crying out pleas for more whilst his hands find purchase on the arms of the chair.

“Yeah?” You ask, closing your hold on him a little tighter. “It’s good? I bet you’re already close, huh?”

You didn’t need to ask that, already knew he could probably come any minute - but the way he reacts to your words, the way he answers your questions makes you speak often.

“Mnh-“ Any response he had dies quickly. Glancing up to him, you see his mouth open, moans and words getting caught in his heavy breaths and pants.

“Oh, look at you,” you coo, quickening your pace until his hips were fucking up into your fist and he was tensing with another oncoming orgasm.

Such a good boy, you think while your hand slips up the shaft of his wet cock.

“I can come this time? Please?”

He’s so sweet that you feel a bit bad making him hold back longer. Your hand slows and desperately he shakes his head at you.

“Not yet, kitty.” When he attempts to make your hand speed back up by covering it with his and pulling it up, you let go of him completely.

“So greedy today,” you tut, finger going to tap teasingly at his tip. “We haven’t even gotten to the main event.”

His head perks up a little at that.

Normally, you would straddle and ride him until the two of you were coming, but today you wanted to do things a little different.

Luckily you had brought a blanket along with you the last time you visited him. It had been night, a little chilly and so you had taken a soft fleece-y material blanket in your bag so you could relax on the balcony with Xiao without being cold.

It was folded atop the little table near where you sat, so you snatched it up and laid it out on the wooden balcony floor. It wouldn’t be the most comfortable but it would suffice - you’re sure your level of comfort won’t matter once the two of you finally start what you had planned.

You shed your clothes, fighting a smile when you catch him staring from the corner of your eye. Your head tilts slightly when you turn to face him. “Are you going to join me?”

His eyes were wide and he looked a little distant, but he followed suit, fumbling out of his clothes and joining you onto the blanket you had laid out.

“Kiss me,” you advise, pulling his head away from its spot against your neck, where he’d been sucking and biting at.

“I don’t want to kiss.”

The way his eyes follow your lips tell a different story than his words. He always does that - claims that he doesn’t want to kiss you, as if he’s playing hard to get. As if he doesn’t melt against you right when you place your lips on his.

Unconsciously, his lips chased yours after you pulled away. You laughed into another kiss, murmuring “you’re so needy,” against him.

He whines, not even denying what you told him.

“Kitty,” you call him to attention. “You’re going to do something for me, okay?”

He nods, enthusiastic to do whatever you needed. When you lean down onto your back and spread your legs, though, his brain malfunctions.

“You want to fuck me?”

Xiao hasn’t ever fucked you before. You were always atop him, grinding and riding his cock while he sat brainless and on the edge beneath you. It was somewhat of a reward to him for being such a good boy all the time - you were curious to see how he’d react.

A small shuffle forward, unsure of the new position that put him in some position of control. You widened the space between your legs more to accommodate him, having him slide forward all the way until his cock was resting on top of your cunt.

“Go ahead,” you encourage lightly.

You hear him take a small, steadying breath, before you feel the press of his head against your hole. You’re wet and ready for him so he slips in without a hitch.

As soon as he’s inside, he can’t seem to stop the noises he makes. “Wet, n’ tight, it’s so good- I-“

His hips slid back and bumped forward and he let out a long moan.

“I won’t last. I’ll come, I’ll come.”

A small coo, reaching out to wrap your hand lightly around his neck. “Not yet, kitty. Can you fuck me?”

You don’t need to ask him twice. The feel of your hot cunt around his cock is always so much for him, so once he starts thrusting you know he won’t last long.

“You know,” you murmur into his ear, “i was thinking. You should come inside me.”

Even though he always come inside, the thought still has him whimpering out a plea.

“You can breed me,” you add, “and make me all yours.”

That was new. He must like the idea of that, because he pistons in harder, faster, in a way that has your head falling back in pleasure.

“All mine,” he repeats, “all mine.”

“Mhm, all yours.” You regain your composure as best you can so you can continue speaking. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Breed and fill me up so much it’s leaking out. Do you want that?”

You wish there was a way you could record his reaction. He had paused half-thrust, whole body shuddering at the thought of doing what you suggested. It was so sweet, the minute he had to take so he didn’t come right on the spot.

Already, he was close, voice high and loud while he keeps fucking you. You assume he isn’t used to the work it takes to fuck into you repeatedly like this, but he’s doing so well that you give him some sweet praises that mix with your breathy moans.

He’s such a good boy.

“Can I come, c’n I come, please- oh fuck.”

“Aw, you want to fill me up?” He whines high at that, collapsing into you while his hips work hard against yours.

You don’t give him permission, letting him get desperate while you get closer to the edge yourself. For not being experienced in doing the fucking, he was hitting so good inside you, so good that you were clamping down onto his cock.

He was so loud you were surprised no one came up here worried and wondering what was going on - truthfully this has been going on long enough for them to have figured it out.

More please spew from him, and, a little out of it, you nod.

With a few harsh final pushes inside, he releases, and the feeling of his load inside you has you tipping over as well. The rhythmic pulses of your cunt around him, milking him of every last drop makes his hips kick and a pathetic little overstimulated sob leave him.

“Mine,” he says breathlessly to nobody in particular - just voicing it.

What a good boy.

co-ed

pairing: shinsou x reader genre: college au!, drama, humor, fluff, tiny angst status: ongoing updates: mon, weds, fri 3pm EST  summary: when UA said they has co-ed dorms, you didn’t think they meant rooms as well masterlist | join the taglist

orientation: intros

one: roomie of opposite sex

two: common room

three: night one

four: binding rope

five: is that a simp?

six: insta pics

seven: tutor

eight: study date

nine: one hundred

ten: socially inept 

eleven: when he 😩

twelve: rejected

thirteen:

fourteen:

fifteen:

sixteen:

seventeen:

eighteen:

nineteen:

twenty:

twenty-one:

twenty-two:

twenty-three:

twenty-four:

twenty-five:

twenty-six:

twenty-seven:

twenty-eight:

twenty-nine:

out: 

bowtie birds

Spare a place on the tag list, my lord 🤲

yes, for sure!! i’m sorry it’s taking me so long to update, i’ll post soon i promised <3

୨୧﹕༊﹒ lucifer morningstar (demon form) gifs — please credit me if you use these!! i take requests for gifs too! lucifer soft gifs <3

i’m going to fucking BIND THIS into a book so i can keep it on my shelf forever!!! god this was so hot, thank you for the food 🙏😭

On the concept of ‘want’:

Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader (written with early-ish seasons Spencer in mind)

SMUT!! (and fluff, and aftercare because im not a total hedonist), allusions to both Spencer and Reader being switches (but he’s mostly just down bad), autistic Spencer (the way it should be), mean reader (to everyone but him), reader has a very very high IQ when it comes to everything but a pretty genius— Spencer just wants that cookie so fucking bad.

Warnings: sub spencer (but also not entirely; he talks about human anatomy as he destroys her), maaaaaybe slight corruption kink (what? who wrote that there???), mentions of prior bullying and insecurity, first time (for Spencer, yess devirgin that hot nerd!!— do you think the BAU will get him a cake after?), brief mentions of past hypersexuality for reader, kinda rlly domestic. Some undertones of degradation but predominantly praise. Begging, crying (pussy so good he cried), etc etc

w.c: 5k (I feed)

a/n: Spencer’s first time getting fucked, my first time writing smut (we’re both going through it here). I’ve been watching too much Criminal Minds recently, so i’ve reverted back to my tumblr roots (im home i’m home). This is a new acc so like…. hi!!!

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Right person, right time. It’s a concept that Spencer Reid is more than aware of. Define luck, at surface level, it’s a made-up hypothesis, idealistic, fantastical. Conjured up to aid the desperate (or the delusional). It’s something he refused to humour, obstinate to the notion, well, that was until you came spitballing into his life, sharp features, sharper tongue. You could cut with your words alone, a weapon to the BAU, jagged and fast-thinking, and so entirely unattainable. Rorschach tests, and an endless sea of profilers, it doesn’t matter— he’s not sure anyone is ever capable of truly pinpointing you.

Rocky start— after you became a permanent member to the team, it took months to coerce you into dropping your guard. A year and 14 days, to be exact.

But, it was possible. Hardened words and blunt comments shifted into something more with time. A gravitational pull, perhaps, that led to evolution— you, softer with him, more tender than you’ve ever showcased before.

Maybe it was that night when he told you about highschool, about what they did to him, boys like him, who were too intellectual for their own good. Different, in every sense of the word. Bullying at such a young, impressionable age can have prominent effects, chronic stress inflicted on an underdeveloped brain, they tied him to goal posts, stripped him naked, endless torment that he still carries with him now. Maybe that’s why you lowered your defenses. Put down the sword.

And sure, he never expected anything, nor asked for anything. He was definite that he wouldn’t get to experience cliche-dating. Longing glances and anticipated moments. It’s not like he was ever the most appealing candidate, too nervous, too neurotypical. It’s hard to grow out of the mentality that no, everyone isn’t making fun of you, not when it consumed the entirety of his adolescence. That you can walk into a room, and not be seen, targeted, as an outcast. He’s just different. But he’s also human, and the chemicals in his brain do make him want.

You apparently. Because, you looked at him softly once, and he was done. Ruined. Gone for good. Or, in Morgan’s personal opinion, whipped.

And illogically, you wanted him too. That wasn’t ever part of the equation.

But theres a pattern now— dates every weekend. Movies, cafes, museums, an endless onslaught of you. Because somehow, thanks to luck, you reciprocated. He’ll never understand why, you’re too beautiful (it’s a hazard), but he tries. He tries.

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December. A haze of christmas markets and blanketing coldness. You kiss him outside and he thinks he might be dying. You make him burn cold. He’s a logical person, so obviously he’s aware that he’s only freezing because your hands are shoved in his pockets, a desperate bid to seek warmth, but regardless, it’s more than he ever expected.

He laughs against your lips, fingers gripping the front of your coat as he draws you backwards so that you’re resting against a wall. “Mm..” he hums, “You should kiss me more often.”

Everyone knows. The entire team is aware of this, an unspoken agreement that your lingering moments and aimless touching are not platonic in the slightest. You work with profilers, secrets are never quite effective. Everyone knows, but it’s taboo, something that needs to be left undisturbed. Do they expect you to break him? Does he? Maybe, maybe it would be worth it— to hurt for you, because it’s always been you. He’ll take anything, he’s not greedy. He’ll live off scraps if he has to, anything to satiate this want that burns solely for you.

“Actually.. you should just always be kissing me,” he suggests, tone soft, “Every day of the week. All the time. And—“ he laughs, “You should also stop stealing body warmth. It’s rude. Hypothermia usually occurs when body temperature dips to around 95F, oh oh but there are so many factors to consider—“

“Is this you trying to imply you’re cold?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Or maybe i’m implying you should be working harder to warm me up.”

You’ve grown soft, he thinks. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with this level of affection. But its okay, you justify, mostly because it’s him. Spencer, and his pretty smile, and strange habits (sitting cross legged on tables, drinking coffee with excessive sugar, endless facts and a plethora of soft yearning glances at you when you’re interrogating— as if you’re not tearing an unsub to pieces). It’s terrifying, constant eggshells, because you can’t hurt him. Not like the others, distant fragments of your past.

You laugh in response to his comment, admiring the sight of him: flushed, with swollen lips and dilated eyes. He deserves to be like this, so thoroughly assured that despite all odds, you’re invested. All cards on the table. “You have a lot of requests, boy genius.”

He smiles boyishly. You’re hard lines, sure, a blade that can draw blood, but somehow, somehow, he’s always left unscathed. “Alright,” he answers, “You want requests? Here’s one, stay the night. Come over, stay over, i’ll cook breakfast and try not to burn it— and, and you can have the good side of the bed.”

“Spence,” you mutter, because of course there’s an underlying intention to ‘staying over’ and you're trying to be good here. To not let this fall into your past mistakes of sex and inevitable self-inflicted disgust. A cyclical cycle that clings to your skin. Everything is so new to him, the intimacy, the affection, and it’s nice being able to witness it— to see his reactions to innocuous touches, always disbelieving that he’s capable of this.

Fresh-eyes, so untainted to the sharpness of modern ‘love’.

You cup his face, god, under the dim shadows of the streetlight he’s beautiful. It’s a little alarming to be honest. More so disheartening really, because despite how much you remind him, he never believes you— obstinately refusing your compliments, as if you’d ever mock him. No, he’s different. He’s tender and disarming, and sometimes it feels unholy to touch him with calloused hands.

But, to Spencer, there is nothing unholy to this; the second you touch him, the entire universe crashes down into a singular moment.

“Just stay the night,” he reaffirms. It’s taken him over a month to get to this point, to be able to voice his wants, to comprehend his wants. Now, his thumb traces its way down the side of your face, tangible, real. “And tomorrow morning, there’ll be coffee and pancakes and—“ he laughs, “And there won’t be any regrets. I promise.”

You’re looking at him, wide-eyed and slightly disbelieving (because he’s somehow stumbled through the minefield of you without any consequences). He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours. “Don’t make me beg. I will beg.”

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To confirm, he makes you incautious, irrational, willing to blatantly disregard any sort of control. Of course you end up at his apartment; the moment he mentioned begging, you were already half-way down the street.

Spencer’s place is… well, it’s everything you’d expect of him. Scattered novels adorning the floor, a mess of untidy thoughts, neglected papers on science, endless open textbooks left half-abandoned for other pursuits. It’s so him, clean but discombobulated.

He wants to apologize, make excuses for the lack of order, he probably should. He doesn’t do that though. He only crosses the room, stopping when he’s standing right in front of you, just gazing down. He has no idea what’s to come— for once, there are no patterns, no statistics he can reference.

So, he reaches for you, fingers tugging at the edges of your jacket. “Arms. Up,” he instructs and god, it’s a stupid order, but you follow it without any protest. He folds it over the couch, abandoned. Putting it back on alludes to leaving, and he’s hopeless enough to never want you to leave.

His hands then gravitate back to you and he starts to tug aimlessly at the material of your shirt. It’s been raining, and the fabric is soaked. “Hm,” he hums, “Off. Take it off.”

You laugh at that. Straight to the point. You don’t follow his orders, because one was certainly enough, and you’ve never been the type to obey blindly. Instead, you grip his waist, drive him back towards the nearest surface. An end table, some books go clattering, light damage, they’ll survive. His response is a gasp, a hitch of the breath.

“I was promised the good side of the bed, breakfast, pancakes. But sex? Hm, did you invite me over just to get in my pants? I’m wounded, Reid.” you mutter, pressing a series of soft kisses along the curvature of his jaw.

“No! No,” he retorts, breathless, “I was going to get you some comfortable clothes to change into. Damp clothes breed bacteria. You made this dirty,” Adding, “And not in the way I was concerned about.” under his breath.

You roll your eyes, “Oh, here we go—“ sure, you have the experience he lacks, but you’ve been on your best behavior. Dirty? That’s an insult to the exhausting self-restraint you’ve upheld recently.

“Yes— i’m the dirty one here, clearly.” you scoff, “Just casually corrupting you,” You tug him away from the end-table because you don’t want him bruised in any way, shape or form (it’s actually distressing; when you’re working, you seem hellbent on making sure no one even thinks about laying a hand on him. Unsubs be damned.)

Ego-centric, completely independent, individualistic until he came along.

You push him back against the couch, watching as he stumbles, as he falls. For a minute he just lies there, looking up at you with hazy eyes— pupils dilated and lips parted on a half-pained gasp.

And it’s a sight to see, the brilliant prodigy, the young genius, his normally-composed features now twisted into something stricken. His hands tighten around the material of the couch and he lets out a sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan.

“Oh—“ that’s just a clear-cut moan, “You can definitely definitely keep corrupting me, in fact I endorse it. Completely.”

“3 PHDS, 2 B.A’s and you’re currently asking me to corrupt you? I don’t know, Doctor Reid, that’s certainly very forward,” you say, moving to sit on his lap, aware that you really should entertain this spot more often, even if you’re at severe risk of deflating.

Deflating. God. When did it come to this?

He laughs, “You’re the only person in this entire world that makes me act without a single coherent thought,” IQ abolished. “So yeah,” he murmurs, fingers tracing mindless patterns across the exposed strip of skin above your waistline. “Defini-definitively corrupt me.”

It’s taken so much to get to this point. So much to unpack, to understand, from Spencer’s perspective. There’s a lifetime of bullying that he has to dismantle, and sometimes he still anticipates the punchline when you kiss him— the biting laughs, not entirely dissimilar to school, when someone would belittle him, fake being his friend just for entertainment value.

So, when you stumble into the bedroom, when you remove his shirt, he knows this is improvement. He’s fighting this internal battle, unsure on how he should act: coy or defiant. Both, really. He wants to cover himself up, to pretend like you don’t disarm him, to fight and fight until you make him bleed. Anything, he’ll take anything from you.

“You are so so pretty,” you mutter when he’s sprawled out across the bed. You’ve never been someone to resort to praise; sex had always been cold and clinical, something to relieve stress, to undermine the burden of work, and the endless weight of sanguinary. But now? If he is the eye of the storm, then you’ll happily commit to the chaos of this.

“Careful, you’ll make me inherit a disorder here.” he mutters. Narcism— he’s the least likely to ever develop such symptoms. “Or cry. I could cry, it’s a potential. Maybe break-down?”

“Or,” he adds, his hands tracing up towards your shoulder blades. “All of the above. The trifecta of issues. It’s very likely.”

He rolls over on top, you’re down to just your lingerie now, pretty lace contrasting against your skin. Removing your clothes had been a whole ordeal, he’s fairly certain he almost died; you’re the epitome of beautiful, and he’s not sure how he ended up with everything when he was so resolute, silently accepting, he would always obtain nothing.

“I want to kiss you, but I don’t know, I feel like my body has lost the ability to function at the moment.” he breathes out.

“You should definitely kiss me,” you confirm, posing it as a choice, one that he has any say over— when in reality, youre already tugging him closer. Lips meeting lips. It’s not sane how the world fades into a nebulous haze the moment your mouths connect; time remains constant, logistically, nothing has changed. But it’s just so much that for a moment you doubt the concept of existence, doubt everything but him.

Genius falling for genius. Only you could laugh when he traces molecules into your skin. Spelling out words with elements: Livermorium, Uranium. LV U, it might not be an exact replica of the three worded phrase, but it certainly gets the point across.

“Spence—“ you bite into his lip, tugging the soft tissue between your teeth.

He groans, whimpers, pulls you closer, eliminating every infinitesimal distance between, slotting his hips against yours. He draws away from your mouth, lips leaving a trail of kisses down your neck as he reaches for your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and pinning it against the bed. His free one is now wandering, slipping beneath your panties to touch.

“Do you know how much I studied about human anatomy after you first kissed me?”

“Weeks.” he answers when you respond with a muffled groan. Your hands are on his back now, tracing the journey of his spine. He’s in over his head, but there’s so much want, so much he wants to do but never thought he would be capable of. And oh, when he begins to draw circles against your clit, slow experimental halos, those soft touches of yours evolve into grasping, gripping. By the time he’s got a finger slotted inside, he’s fairly certain he’s being scratched. Nail indents and faint white lines, souvenirs.

“I know about every erogenous zone the human body possesses, every single one.” He says, because whilst he might lack in physical experience, he has enough intellect to memorize placement, biology. Plus, he’s a fast learner. His finger bends, and both of you moan.

“Spence— fuck, feels good.” you gasp, tangled hands clutching tighter, tighter again until your knuckles are white and you’re trembling.

The human body is something of a fascination to him; the way it reacts, how each nerve and ligament can respond to even the most tentative of touches. But you aren’t every human, you are you, and he has an insatiable desire to discover and catalog every single response your body gives.

He adds another finger, slowly, eyes fixed on your face, gauging the reaction. When he curls both digits, a sharp exhale is your response. “I’m convinced I’ve discovered new anatomy facts in the last few months, just because of you.”

Maybe it’s not fair that he’s so good. First times are supposed to be fumbling and awkward, a mess of hormones and inexperience. To say you haven’t been touched like this before is a severe understatement. The meaningless sex, the onslaught of bodies doesn’t measure up to him, the way he’s so focused on how you respond, on what your body enjoys— it would be endearing (and it is!), but you're currently too preoccupied to voice such a notion.

“Doing so good, holy shit—“ you mutter, blissed out beyond comprehension. You're making art on his back, only vaguely aware of the pain. Though when you realize you’ve scarred his skin, you're drawing away, moving to tangle your hand in his hair instead. But Spencer doesn’t even care, doesn’t even register the inflictions; he likes the physical marks you leave behind, a tangible remnant of all you do to him.

And sure, he’d laugh, usually, at your responses. But it’s hard to laugh, when his own ability to form any coherent sound has been completely destroyed. He’s a mess, his breathing shaky, and his brain is a constant buzz of fragmented musings consisting of you, you, you.

He draws his fingers out, earning a discernible groan, maybe a fuck you (which he does intend to do). But right now, he’s already slotting his face between your thighs, removing those soaked, ruined, panties of yours. He doesn’t have a single thing to compare it to. But he already knows this is his favorite place to be, and he’s fairly certain he’ll be spending most nights between your thighs, learning and memorizing every reaction and noise, each movement, and the ways to repeat them.

He runs his tongue along your clit, savoring just how wet you are, a mess that he can bury his face into. You’re looking down at him with something akin to shock now, and he can only laugh, blow air against your clit, then drag his tongue back over the sensitive bud, drawing it into his mouth to suck.

His movements are tentative at first, unpractised, but soon gaining confidence. He doesnt need to do this, you're aware— you could take him now. And yet, hes here, between your thighs for no reason other than want. Your reaction is visceral, because it’s always been about efficiency in the past, quick touches to get you there before the other person can derive their own pleasure from the act.

He’s not like that. God, hes not like that at all.

“Oh,” is all you can say, gripping his hair down to the root, instructing each movement until he gains incentive, finding repeat patterns that your body reacts to. Then, you can only arch and moan, noises filtered out into the air. He’s back to opening you up now, two deft fingers pressed inside, working diligently to tear you apart.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say to me? Oh?” he retorts.

“Shut up,” you huff, “Put that mouth of yours to work.”

“Mhm— I plan to. God, you’re so perfect.” he mutters, voice distorted, muffled. “That’s it—“ he fights the urge to explain exactly what’s occurring in your body every time his fingers abuse that spot. Instead, he keeps his mouth busy.

He’s certain he’s memorized most areas of your body from years of pining, and that’s what brings him an unrepentant sense of satisfaction. Because he was memorizing your body, you, long before he even got the chance to touch or taste you.

“Wanna stay here,” he says, and he’s being petulant now, because there’s something so good about being reduced to movements. To follow the pattern, to take care of your body, mindless to anything else but you. Pussy-drunk, to put it less eloquently.

“Shit,” you buck up against his mouth, watching as he buries his face entirely into you, as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, nose bumping bumping your clit, consuming his senses entirely.

“Use my face, yeah. ‘M all yours anyway.”

“Fuck, fuck fuck— Spence. Gonna cum—“

When you fall apart, inevitable, he doesn’t stop— not until you’re boneless and spent beneath him. Back arching, stars burning through closed eyes. Pretty constellations that have you blissed out beyond belief. The pleasure is white-hot, feverish in intensity.

And then he’s moving, shifting his body back over you. He’s all soft touches and languid kisses against your mouth, not bothering to break contact as he settles himself fully over you, the weight of his hips pressing into yours. He’s hard, dick pushing up against his boxers, his sexual libido had always been low until you came into his life. Now, his wants seem to fight for release constantly.

“My turn, I believe.” he grins, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “Not that you have to, of course. It’s not an obligation, uh— more so a beg?”

“Of course it’s an obligation,” he goes to protest, to say you don’t owe him anything, so you sigh. “A thankyou, maybe?”

Fumbling hands, still shaky from pleasure, undo buttons. Unclasping his belt, removing loose fabric until he's bare before you. There’s something nervous to his gaze, something unspoken, lingering in the air. “Hey, hey. I’ve got you, yeah? You’re okay,” you promise, before your eyes shamelessly look down. He’s straining, pre-cum lingering at his tip, dick pressed up against his stomach now. “Fuck, okay— yeah. Good. Great even.” first time you've ever stumbled over a sentence in your life.

There’s so much to be concerned about. The fact he’s naked, that you could destroy everything with a few serrated words, years and years of rebuilding, reconstructing. But you don’t— and he can’t help but laugh nervously. “Glad to be up to your standards. I’d uh, hate to disappoint.”

“Always the over-achiever,” you respond, shifting away from him— there’s amusement to your expression when he groans, pitifully, when he rolls onto his back, draping an arm over his face.

Predictable. Condoms in his bedside table. At least he's prepared. You open the wrapper with your teeth, discarding it somewhere amongst the tangle of limbs and sheets, too hellbent on finding him again.

Oh, in this position, you have full, unrestricted view of his body. Endless planes of skin, begging to be marked, sentenced indefinitely to your touch. By the time you straddle his hips, hes a flushed mess beneath you. “I— um, you look really really pretty right now.” he stumbles, idiot.

His dilated eyes take you in. Every contour and curve, the way your hair hangs over your face, eyes up eyes up eyes up. He fails when you run your hand across his dick, thumb brushing against the tip. By the time you’ve slipped the condom over him, hes gone. Bucking and moaning, and so so much better than his hand could ever be.

He wants to be inside of you, but it’s hard to think right now, let alone vocalize the words. I want, he thinks, I want everything, with you.

Your name is on his tongue, muttered and repeated, a reverent prayer of sorts. He needs to gain back his control here, to return to equal footing.

“Yeah—“ he breathes out, “So much of an overachiever, considering I had you making all of those noises—“ his words falter, die out, when you sink down. When you take him. Wrapped around, tight. Warm heat that sets alight every nerve in his overstimulated body. He has half the mind to apologize for his comment because you’re about to ruin him, he knows.

“I thought you wanted me to corrupt you, hm?” you retort. The pace is slow, mostly for his own sanity. Though, the feel of him, the way he slots into you, warm skin pressed against warm skin is intoxicating, and it’s a battle to keep your composure. To not just fall apart under the weight of him.

“What’s that, pretty boy? Struggling? Because you were so egotistical a few seconds ago? Where’s all that ego gone? Straight between your legs, I think.”

A whimper. It’s a whimper, a pained thing ripped straight from his throat. He’s making indiscernible noises now, messy sounds pooling from his swollen lips. The praise, the strained undertones of degradation? It’s too much. But god does he love you for it, because that’s you through and through. Sharp, and brittle to everyone but him, he wants to look, he does, albeit he has to turn his head to the side, bury half of his face in a pillow because he’s gone. At this point, he can only take it.

“I— um, mhm. Yeah,” he slurs. He’s almost incoherent at this point; he’s been reduced to nothing, just a mass of skin, bone, and flesh at your disposal, to own and use and he can’t find it in himself to feel humiliated about it, not when it’s you.

“Can’t— um, I was wrong, you’re— oh god,” the sounds of your body hitting his, back arching as your pace picks up. “Oh, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry —baby, can’t, can’t take it. That’s…”

It’s a lot for his first time, that’s for certain.

“Yes, you you can. I know you can, Spence.” you mutter, interlocking your fingers, letting them hang near your hips. “You feel so good— so so fucking good. Look at you, so brain dead for me. Taking it all so well, love.”

Love?— oh he wants to be buried with that one. He’s a mindless disaster, impenetrably devoted to you alone.

He doesn’t even know how he’s saying words at this point, it’s as if his brain-to-mouth connection has been severed by your very presence itself. It’s not possible to form a coherent thought when you’re riding him like this, taking him so deep that he’s seeing stars. There’s tears pooling in his eyes, he looks pretty when he cries. Especially when it’s derived from pleasure, when he can let go of the burdens, everything he’s endured, when it’s just sensation. Nothing more, no more thoughts.

There’s safety here, an element of home, home home bliss, that has him keening. He wants to stay buried here forever, where nothing can ever hurt him again. When it’s just you, and your pretty words, and your exploitative power to destroy him. You never do, anyway. Even when you could, you restrain.

“Can’t, ’m gonna…, Please, please, don’t stop.” he whines, “Pleasepleaseplease— oh, can’t— I can’t.”

He grips you tight, rolls you over, mostly so he can feel you closer. The sight of you riding him was excruciating, but this is worse because now there’s no gap separating you. Now, he can bury his face into the crook of your neck, burn himself in the warmth of your touch.

“Spence..” you mutter.

“I know. I know—“ hes ruined, sloppy thrusts, whimpers catching against the stifling air. “Feels s’good.”

He doesn’t know what to do, how to breathe, so he just runs his thumb over your clit, watching your prominent reaction, watching as you gasp, moan— oh, and then you’re clenching around him, tightening the pleasure, and yesyesyes.

You’re too gone, moving still, and he can only cant his hips forwards, buck and squirm until he’s sobbing under the weight of your ministrations, releasing so hard that he can barely remember his name, no cognitive function, in the haze of his orgasm.

“There’s my boy— so pretty for me.” he can vaguely hear you saying, and if you’re talking him through it, he can only hear snippets of praise now anyway.

“Mhm— mhm. Yours, yeah.” he mumbles, body sinking against the sheets, a few little whimpers escaping his lips as you milk the rest of his pleasure from him.

Tangled limbs and sweat-stained skin. “You okay?” you ask in the aftermath.

“So okay,” he agrees, shifting closer, back pressed against your torso— sue him for being little spoon.

──────────────────

The next morning, you wake to an absence of Spencer. It’s unsettling, to say the least. So, you're quick to fumble over the buttons of one of his shirts, fabric creased, matching the tousled nature of your hair, disheveled, remnants of the ruination of last night.

For a moment, you consider that he might’ve left — but there he is, in the kitchen, attempting to make breakfast.

“Hey,” you mutter, leaning against the counter to watch.

Scratches adorn his back, indent marks from your nails, crescent reminders, stain his waist, and he’s content to wear them. If anything, he can’t wait to add to the budding collection.

Pancakes. The good side of the bed. Coffee. All of his promises from last night are being thoroughly met, even if he’s burning the food, and shit, he didn’t realize the coffee would be finished so soon. For all his calculations, he’s fairly off-center today.

And then, you come padding across his kitchen, embellished in only his shirt, unbuttoned near the top to expose your collarbone, and he’s fairly certain the last remainders of his IQ disappear.

“Hi! Hi,” he says, wide-eyed, “Um, making.. breakfast. You look, wow yeah.”

Breakfast lays forgotten.

Overstimulating Thoma to See How Long He Lasts

Pairing: Thoma x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, edging, overstimulation, kissing, begging, cock riding, teasing, lots of cum, cute!Thoma

A/N: More Thoma cause he is so underrated.

Overstimulated!Thoma is a very compliant man. He will do anything for his eventual release, fuck you however you tell him, gradually but surely lose the bigness in his eyes to the dark lust, his eyes deep green while he fucks his cock into you, trying to keep it from shooting his cum into your pussy.

Overstimulated!Thoma doesn't want to beg you to let him come but it's hard to keep the whiney pleas all to himself. He sees how you ride his cock and how good you're feeling from it, he wants to feel good too. Telling him to come would make him feel really, really good.

Overstimulated!Thoma can't keep his voice down and he doesn't try to. You like hearing it so his hope is that if he can make you come enough time then you will also let him come, a kind of a win-win for you both. Unfortunately you know what he's playing at.

Overstimulated!Thoma lets his eyes roll back every time your pussy comes undone around his cock. He's using all his strength to fuck you while not finishing before its time. It's a losing battle in the long run but he at least wants to make sure he lasts longer then the last time.

Overstimulated!Thoma has to close his eyes at times in order to ground himself. Simply holding onto your thighs or ass isn't enough when the sight itself if breathtaking, your tits bouncing up and down in front of his face, his mouth open wide to let all his whimpers out.

Overstimulated!Thoma smiles when you kiss him, thinking he sees the light at the end of the tunnel, nearly there, just a few more thrusts... when you pull up and leave his cock without anything. His hips are still jerking up wards into the air, his eyes stinging with frustrated tears.

Overstimulated!Thoma finally begs you to get back onto his cock. He's so damn close, the tip of his cock is already dripping, the head red and the veins throbbing along the entire length. His voice is nothing short of broken when you cup his cock and guide it back inside your pussy.

Overstimulated!Thoma leaves hand and scratch marks on your thighs as you begin riding him again. His chest is heaving with every breath he takes like he ran a marathon. He can't take much more of this and you don't think he should have to.

Overstimulated!Thoma nearly bucks you off him when you tell him to come, his pace so fast and deep and desperate that you can hardly recognize your gentle, cheerful boyfriend. It seems there's no end to his orgasm. Each time he twitches more white, warm cum splashes at your womb.

straight up let’s hear it for dry humping!!! wooohoo dry humping!!!!

Work Distractions…

GIF Time again! Another Caitvi one HEHEHE …

sorry if it’s a little janky, procreate was making this an evil experience :<

If you use anywhere, please credit ^^