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incognit0slut · 4 months ago

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Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut.

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid fanfiction #lou writes #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut

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viperify · 27 days ago

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oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆˖𐙚 Perfect Little Doll.

Short Summary: Tom Riddle is quite laid-back when it comes to you—but under the effect of a Lust Potion, he just takes what he wants—however he wants.

Warnings: 18+ only! consensual non consent. somno, sex under the effect of a lust potion, rough sex, choking, unprotected p in v, sex with little to no prep, creampie

A/N: I got the highest grade possible for my thesis, you get filthy smut! Win-win.

wordcount: 1,2k

“No, stay— stay like this.”

It’s the first thing you hear when you stir awake in the middle of the night. You try to move—but something, or rather someone, is making sure you have no choice but to stay trapped beneath them.

“Please, no—“ panic rises in your chest as you struggle under their weight—but it’s no use.

“Shh. It’s me. Be good and stay still.”

This time, you recognize the voice, and you exhale a shuddering breath, relaxing just slightly.

It’s Tom.

Lying on your front, you don’t get to meet his expression, hell, you don’t even get to fucking ask what he’s doing—

Because you already feel him pressing against your entrance, tip hot and flushed, leaking with need—and with a single, measured thrust, he pushes inside. Deep.

“Fuck—“ you shriek at the sudden, stinging stretch. “Tom, that hurts!”

As you reach behind you, trying to push him away, give you time to adjust, he instantly pins your wrists to your back.

“I know— fuck, I know.” He grumbles, yet shows no intent to stop. Instead, he pulls out, pushing back inside immediately—drawing another sharp gasp from you. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

You don’t know exactly what’s gotten into him. Yes, you both agreed upon this, that he could use you when you were asleep—and that you could tell him to stop whenever you actually wanted to—but never had he been this eager.

“Tom, please—“ you try again, whimpering at the burning, unrelenting stretch. His hand finds its way into your hair, lifting your head slightly just to push you into the pillow beneath you—muffling your whines.

His hips rock forward once more, testing, trying how much you can take.

“You will be quiet and take it, alright? Be a good girl for me?” He mumbles, voice coming out raspy, laced with need. He withdraws then, only halfway this time—

Just to snap his hips forward again, tip harshly ramming against your sensitive cervix—a feeling that has you biting your lips so hard, you taste blood.

“God, Tom!” You yelp, hips involuntarily bucking against his in an attempt to free yourself—but it only results in him slipping deeper, drawing a low groan from the brunette.

Slowly, he starts rolling his hips against yours, still buried deep, brows furrowed, breathing heavily through his slightly parted lips at just how tight you feel around him.

Finally, his hand leaves your hair, allowing you to inhale a deep breath—lungs burning from the lack of oxygen as you do. Just a mere second later, it’s wrapped around your neck instead, pushing you down once more.

He’s got you exactly how he likes you—one leg angled to your side, his body trapping yours between him and the bed, fingers pressing into your pulse point, enough to make you feel light-headed. Hips flush with yours, ass pressed against his pelvis—it makes his head spin. He needs to have you, take you—now.

“Slipped me this potion— told me it was for sobering up— fuck, sweetheart, you’re tight.” He groans, a deep, low sound somewhere from the back of his throat, feeling him twitch inside you.

It all comes crashing down onto you. Why he is like this.

They made him drink a Lust Potion.

Judging by the fact that he didn’t even second-guess before downing it—must mean he’s had a decent amount of drinks as well.

All of that, combined with the effects of the potion—turned him into this.

You don’t get to think about the situation for much longer and what you could do to ease the effects—the slow drag of his cock against your walls as he starts thrusting into you efficiently short-circuiting your brain.

He doesn’t ease you into it. After one or two thrusts, he picks up his pace, hips snapping against yours as though it’s the last time he gets to have you.

Tom usually isn’t the most vocal. Yes, he enjoys it—loves it, even—when he can pin you down and fuck you into the mattress until you are begging for him to let you come. But, just like outside of your sacred four walls, he likes to keep his composure—even during the most intimate acts.

In short: he hates losing control.

But now—he’s moaning, whimpering even at how sensitive he is—at how good and warm you feel, wrapped tightly around him.

It’s making your brain fuzzy. Everything about it. How you are slowly loosening up for him, allowing him to increase his pace, how your own arousal makes it even easier for him to thrust deep.

“Taking me so well, sweetheart.” Tom praises, breathless, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the otherwise quiet bedroom. “Like this pussy was fucking made for me, fitting me like a damn glove—“

And at this point you are praying you would survive this.

His thrusts grow rougher, punishing almost, brushing against your cervix with every single snap of his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, cutting off your airflow once more as he feels himself getting close.

“Fuck, darling— going to let me fill you up, hm? Make you nice and full of me?” He grits out, staying pressed flush against you for a second, making you feel all of him—every vein, every ridge—every. single. inch.

You nod as best as you can, clenching down tight around him.

“Please Tom, please fill me up— need it, fuck—“

He groans at that, cursing under his breath.

“Good girl. Such a perfect little doll, all nice and pliant for me—“

It’s not long until his pace falters, hips stuttering against your own—and he groans lowly as he starts spilling deep inside of you, coating your walls with his warm release.

He collapses on top of you—breathing heavily against your neck, chest heaving—and although your mind is still hazy with your own pleasure, your thoughts drift back to what happened before he returned to your home.

Knowing them, you guess it’s Rosier and Mulciber who did it. Probably thought it was hilarious, too.

You aren’t sure if you should feel bad for the fact that you don’t know what Tom would come up with as punishment.

Because hell—they are not the ones who have to put up with him like this.

Meanwhile, Tom is still buried deep, keeping his release right where it belongs—but then, when his breathing returns to normal, he gives you the slightest roll of his hips—

“Said it would take three hours to wear off—“

And you already feel him growing hard again.

Fuck, you are screwed.

“Tom, please—“

He shushes you with a kiss on top of your head.

“No. Stay— need you— need you again.” He rasps, back to thrusting into you, fucking his cum even deeper as he’s back chasing his next climax. And you? You are right there with him, on the precipice of your own orgasm.

Merlin fucking help you.

If he won’t kill them for this, you might just do it yourself.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

#ᯓᡣ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ #hmm… someone take my phone away.#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle x reader smut #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle fic #slytherin boys #slytherin #harry potter #slytherin boys smut #slytherin boys x reader #divider by strangergraphics #divider by enchanthings a

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dixons-sunshine · 20 days ago

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Heated | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: After messing up on a mission, Joel was pissed at you. When the two of you got back to Jackson, you got into a heated argument, and it ended in the best way—with you sprawled beneath him, naked, and showing you both punishment and pleasure.

Genre: Smut.

Era: Jackson!Joel.

Warnings: Swearing, smut, porn without plot, dom!Joel (I think), edging, orgasm denial, praise, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up), creampie (but this is fanfiction so it doesn’t result in pregnancy), probably more warnings I’m missing.

Word count: 2k.

A/N: I don’t know what this is. I got an idea last night while very tired and had to write it out. I hope this is somewhat okay, and that y’all like this! (Smut isn’t my strongest writing suit so I apologize if it’s poorly written.)

You knew you fucked up. It was a risky venture, one you knew you needed to take seriously and follow Joel’s instructions, and you did. You followed them to a T… until you saw a shotgun perched high on top of a shelf, and you decided to try and get it—against Joel’s orders. You figured it would be easy—just grab the gun and you’d be good—but you didn’t account for the fact that the shelf would topple at the slightest movement, trapping you underneath it and alerting a swarm of infected to your location.

There were no casualties, thankfully. Everyone returned to Jackson relatively unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises to show that there had been any trouble at all. Still, Joel was pissed, and he made no effort to hide it when he stormed into your shared home, with you hot on his tail with an apology on your lips. An apology led to a heated argument, an argument led to a hot, steamy kiss, and that led to your current predicament:

Sprawled naked under Joel’s strong, solid body, his fingers knuckle deep in your warm heat, with absolute filth spewing from the man’s mouth as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of pure, unadulterated bliss—pleasure that he’s brought you closer to but denied three times already.

“Look at you,” Joel cooed almost condescendingly, his brown, coffee-like eyes barely visible behind his blown pupils, “all wet ‘n squirmin’ f’me.” He pushed his fingers in, curling them to hit that one delicious spot inside of you that had you gasping his name. “Feel that, Darlin’? Does it feel good?” You nodded weakly, but that wasn’t enough for him. “Use your words, Baby.”

Joel curled his fingers again, making you moan loudly and buck your hips up against his hand. “S—it’s so good, Joel. Oh, fuck!”

“I know it is.” He knew you were close. He could feel it in the way your walls fluttered against his fingers, drawing them in even deeper. He brought his thumb to your clit, smirking in satisfaction when you jerked at his touch, wanton like moans filling the otherwise quiet air.

“Joel—” you gasped, your nails digging into the bare flesh on his back.

“This what you wanted, huh? Pickin’ an argument with me, knowin’ it would end like this? Knowin’ I can’t deny my girl her pleasure?” When you only whined in response, he chuckled. “I know, I know. I’m bein’ an ass, not lettin’ you come. Still, I gotta teach ya a lesson somehow. Gotta learn that I wouldn’t tell you to do somethin’ if it wasn’t for your safety.”

The words that fell from his mouth were pure, utter filth, and it stoked the fire deep in your belly. It all felt so good. So, so good. You were right on the edge, ready to dive headfirst into the pool of euphoria down below, when suddenly—

He stopped. He fucking stopped. Again.

You were close to tears at this point. “Joel,” you whined, shivering when he slid his fingers out of you with practiced ease. “Joel, please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, just please, please Joel. I—”

“Sh, sh,” he shushed you, his smirk ever present. His fingers came up to work at his jeans, unbuckling his belt and throwing it to the side, before working at his buttons. “I know you won’t, Baby. I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson, huh?”

You nodded eagerly, pushing yourself up on your elbows and reaching to help him with his jeans. “I have. I swear, just please—”

“I know what you need, Darlin’,” he spoke gruffly, pushing his jeans and boxers down in one swoop, kicking them off and to the side. He lowered himself to hover over your body, coaxing you to make yourself comfortable against the pillows on the bed. “I’m gonna give it to ya, I promise, but the only way I’m allowin’ you to finish is if it’s with me stuffed deep inside so that I can feel you when ya do. S’that alright?”

Like he even needed to ask. “Yes. God, fuck yes.” Your hands trailed down his muscular chest, over his toned abdomen, all the way to the base of his rock hard length. Gently grasping it, you smiled seductively when a deep groan emitted from his chest, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. “I need you to fuck me, Joel.”

Joel’s eyes snapped open, and he peered down at you, his gaze hard and full of lust. Inhaling sharply, he slowly pried your hand away from his dick, replacing it with his own. He stroked himself once, twice, before lining himself up with your entrance, his eyes locking with yours.

“Ready?” he inquired lowly, his voice strained like it took every ounce of willpower to hold himself back.

Nodding, you wrapped your arms around his neck, coaxing him closer. “Fuck yeah.”

Joel smirked in satisfaction. “That’s my girl.” Without any warning, he plunged his cock deep into your warm, welcoming cunt, groaning as he bottomed out inside of you.

A gasp-moan ripped from your chest. “Joel!” you practically screamed, the pleasure shooting through you like a shooting star. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your eyes screwing shut.

Joel looked down at you and clicked his tongue. He grasped your chin in one of his hands, the other one holding yours, your fingers laced together next to your bed, holding his body up so that he didn’t crush you. “Uh-uh,” he chided softly, “look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes.”

You obeyed, and opened your eyes. The sight on top of you was as close to heaven as you’d get. His face was flushed red, his chest sweaty and heaving, his brows furrowed in concentration. He looked downright good enough to devour.

And then, he started moving.

The pace started slow at first, merely a careful pull out and a gentle thrust back in, just to get you adjusted and used to the feeling. But when your fingers disappeared into his salt and pepper-coloured locks of hair, he took that as a sign to up his game. Pulling back almost all the way, he drove back in with a hard thrust, completely knocking the air from your chest.

“FUCK!” you exclaimed, a mix of a whine and a moan escaping you. “Fuck, Joel!”

“I know,” he said with a smirk, driving his dick deep inside of you. His pace was brutal, unforgiving, but oh so good. You were sure you would be walking funny the next day, but you couldn’t care less.

“Oh my—shit!” you panted, your voice several octaves higher than normal. “God—Jesus Christ.”

Joel chuckled, but chose not to comment on how what you two were doing was anything but holy. “Fuck,” he groaned when he felt you clench around his cock, dropping his head to slant his mouth across yours for a hot, searing kiss, all teeth and tongue. “You’re squeezin’ me so good right now,” he muttered against your lips, before lifting his head again to look at you, your lips connected with a single string of saliva. “She’s so greedy, pullin’ me in deeper. Can’t get enough, huh?” A pull out, and a thrust back in.

You tried to reply, but your brain was absolute mush. You were already so close again. You begged to whatever entity was listening that he’d actually let you finish this time. You would not be able to handle being denied your orgasm for a fifth time.

As if knowing your body better than you did, Joel knew you were teetering on the brink of euphoria again. He knew that it all depended on whether or not he would let you finish. However, deciding that he’d punished you enough, he let go of your chin and snaked his hand between your bodies, gliding down until he slipped a finger between your folds, nudging right against the small bundle of nerves that so desperately craved his attention, before pressing down against it with his calloused thumb.

You jerked against his touch, your back arching and pulling his cock even deeper, if that was possible. His length dragged against your walls just right, continuously hitting that spot inside of you that only Joel knew, and his thumb rubbed slow, tight circles against your puffy clit. The coil in your stomach was pulled taut, one moment away from snapping completely.

Joel felt your walls clench around his cock, and he knew you were right there. All you needed was a little assistance.

“You gonna come for me, Baby?” he asked huskily, gritting his teeth and trying to stave off his own release that he felt approaching at a rapid pace. “You gonna gush all over my cock? Lemme feel it? Lemme know how good you feel?”

Like his words were the key to the floodgates, the rubber band in your belly snapped, and tidal waves of bliss washed over your body. You came undone with a shout of Joel’s name, your legs shaking and your hands falling from his back to the bedsheets, gripping the covers in your white knuckled fists.

This orgasm was intense. You don’t think you’d ever experienced one quite like this before. It was an amazing, blazing hot, earthshaking experience, one that had you seeing stars. You swore you died and went to heaven. You had to. There was no way you were alive right now.

Slowly coming down from that euphoric high, you muttered a soft, quiet, “Joel,” which was all it took to sent the man reeling over the edge as well.

With one, two, three final thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt, spilling thick ropes of come deep inside your warm heat, profanities spewing from his lips. His eyes screwed shut as his body shook with pleasure, his arms shaking and giving in beneath him, his body weight dropping on top of you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. However, you barely noticed, instinctively wrapping your arms around him and stroking his back with your nails.

You didn’t know how much time passed before either of you fully came to. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours, hell, it could have been days. The two of you stayed like that for a while, your breathing uneven and your bodies flushed hot, just basking in the afterglow of an amazing experience. It was perfect.

“Damn,” Joel began in a low mutter, raising his head to look at you, “I wouldn’t be opposed if all of our fights ended like that.”

That drew a laugh from you, before you turned more serious. “I really am sorry, Joel,” you began sincerely. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid.”

Joel shook his head, before pulling his softening cock out of you with a low hiss and dropping down next to you, pulling you into his arms. “Hey, it’s alright,” he reassured you, placing a soft, gentle kiss to the top of your head. “You fucked up, but we’re all fine, yeah? We’ve all made mistakes like that. No need to go beatin’ yourself up over it.”

Slowly nodding, you nuzzled your face into his chest, sighing in content when his strong, muscular arms pulled you tighter against him. The silence between the two of you stretched for a good thirty seconds, before you chuckled, gaining Joel’s attention again.

“What?”

You smiled knowingly. “Now I know what to do when you’re pissed at me.”

Joel rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile on his features, his stubble rubbing against your hair. “I know what I said, but don’t push it, woman.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose your edge?”

“...shut up.”

With a laugh, you shook your head and closed your eyes, relaxing your body against Joel’s. “I love you too, Miller.”

1K notes · View notes

satrs · 2 months ago

Text

Say please.

SYNOPSIS. He falls under your control, lost in a messy mix of power, desire, and reckless passion. How far will he let you take him?

TAGS. MDNI! 18+ CONTENT!. unprotected intercourse. subby guys !!! Bréeding. size k!nk(?). a lil' soft in xav's. B job. handjob. guided màsturbation. praising. P job. Bòndage in caleb's. degradation in caleb's. chokíng in caleb's. dirty talk. edging. overstim. nìpple play. riding. Use of "good boy". TEASING. needy/shameless caleb. bratty sylus & rafayel. blindfolding in zayne's. mention of marrige in zayne's ^^.

FEAT. Xavier. Zayne. Rafayel. Sylus. Caleb. xfem!reader

✎ A/N; I'm ovulating so here ya go. D!CK THEM DOWN! D!CK THEM DOWN!. I’ll never beat the gooner allegations Sighhh. Have a nice read and day/night! <3

XAVIER ・❥・Lazybones!?

"You know",

You lean down, brushing your fingers through his golden strands, feeling their silkiness between your fingertips before cupping his face gently, tilting it up so he had no choice but to meet your gaze. His lashes flutter, pupils blown wide, his lips parted as a soft, needy whimper escapes him.

“You’re such a lazy boy, Xav’,” you murmur, your voice both teasing and firm. “I think we need to change that, don’t we?”

His breath hitched, his expression betraying just how much he needed this—needed you.

“Y-yes,” he whispers, voice trembling, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was waiting for permission to reach for you. “Please.”

A small, satisfied smile tuggs at your lips.

You lean down, capturing his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It's deep but unhurried, your mouth moving against his with a gentleness that belied the control you held over him.

Control you knew he loved.

You let it linger just long enough to leave him breathless before pulling back, a slick line of saliva connecting you both as you relish in the way he let out a soft whine, his body instinctively following, as if seeking more.

His chest rose and fell beneath your touch, his skin warm beneath your fingertips as you trace slow patterns down his torso, mapping the lean lines of his body. You're not in a hurry because, why would you? This is something to be savored.

“I want you to touch yourself for me, Xav'.” you murmur, voice calm but commanding.

His breath hitches again, and he let out the tiniest whimper in protest, his thighs pressing together for a moment before he hesitantly moves his hands. “Baby, please” he mumbles, babbling, even, barely audible, but obeyed nonetheless.

You watch him, every movement, every flicker of expression, your own fingers continuing to trace his skin, teasing, but never quite giving him the relief he sought.

You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “Good boy, doing so well for me. Keep going.”

A shiver runs through him at your praise, his breath coming in soft, needy gasps as he follows your instructions. His movements become more eager, more desperate, but you not going to give in just yet. You reach down, your hand ghosting over his, guiding him, controlling the pace, making sure he didn’t rush.

“No need to hurry,” you sooth, voice a soft murmur against his skin. “Want you to feel everything.”

He whimpers at that, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the elegant curve of his throat as another desperate sound escapes him. The sight's intoxicating.

His Hair splashed onto the pillow in a halo, rosey cheeks evident on his porcelain skin. Shallow breath against the shell of your ear as your fingers just barely trace at the base of his pained cock, pre spurting in need.

Your fingers slide down, intertwining with his, movements slow and calculated. He lets out another needy whine, breath stuttering, his body trembling beneath your touch. You take your time, drawing out every moment, the reapearing schlick schlick, schlick sound of his hurried wrist turning his brain into a mindless goo.

“Look at me, Xav'.”

His heavy-lidded gaze snaps to meet yours, pupils blown, lips trembling as he lets out another quiet plea. “Urghhh, P-please, I need—need you.”

Finally, you position yourself above him, thighs caging his shacking ones inbetween them, guiding his hand away and replacing it with your own.

He lets out a broken sigh, his fingers gripping the sheets as he surrenders completely to your touch. His body's yours to command, every breath, every movement dictated by the unspoken rhythm you set.

Your thumb catches onto his sensitive tip, draaaaging along his leaking slit so tortorously slow, wicked even. “Such a sweet boy,” you murmur, tracing the curve of his jaw before pressing soft kisses down the column of his throat. “So good for me.”

His fingers tremble as they clutch at the sheets, his legs shifting restlessly, breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. Every time your fingers catch onto a prominent vein along his shaft, he let out the most delicate whimpers, his body pliant beneath you.

It's a symphony of desperate need, each note echoing his obedience to you and you only.

You move with patience, savoring every tremor, every breathless gasp that leaves his lips. His body arched instinctively toward you, his moans growing more desperate, more pleading. “Please, pleasepleaseplease—”

You hush him with another kiss, deep and slow, sighing into his mouth as your fingers never cease their careful exploration. “Shhhhh,” you usher against his lips, “just let me take care of you.”

His head lolls back against the pillow, exposing his flushed skin, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. The soft, whiny sounds that leave him sent a thrill through you, a heady mixture of power and devotion surging in your veins.

Time seemed to slow, stretching each second into something tangible, something euphoric. His every movement, every sound, is an offering to you, a wordless expression of trust and desire. The way he looks at you, eyes glossy with need, lips parted as if searching for the words to beg properly.

It makes your heart race.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” brushing your fingers over his wet, parted lips. He instinctively kisses your fingertips, sloppy, another soft wail slipping from his throat.

He nods, barely able to form words, his body shivering as you continue to toy with him, drawing out his pleasure, making him feel every ounce of what you're giving him. “Only for you,” his, voice breathless, rushed and desperate.

You reward him with another lingering kiss, swallowing his whimpers, fist twisting around his girth with tender control. His hands cling to you weakly, his body pliant beneath your touch.

Every movement, every sound, tells you exactly what he needs, and you give it to him in slow, deliberate jerks, focusing in on his keen crown, drawing out the moment until he's trembling from the sheer intensity of it all.

And when you finally allow him release, a deep surrender that leaves him panting beneath you, utterly spent yet completely at peace.

Fingers coated in his white, sticky semen, twitching cock still firmly in your hand as you milk him to the last drop, the lewd whines follwing suit. His fingers weakly reach for you, and you pull him close, letting him sink into your warmth, his soft, satisfied sigh filling the space between you.

“Good job,” pressing a kiss to his temple, you brush damp strands of hair from his face. He nuzzles into your touch, a sleepy, contented hum escaping him as he melts against you.

ZAYNE・❥・ So sensitive!

“My gosh, Zayne,”

you muse, fingers dancing over his glistening skin. Zayne shudders beneath you, his breath shaky as he grips the sheets. The warm glow of the bedside lamp casts soft shadows over his flushed form, every inch of him betraying his need.

You’re perched right above him, hips rolling just enough to tease, to keep him on edge. God, he's about to loose his mind.

He’s always so composed, so in control in every other part of his life, but here, with you, he’s wrecked, bare to your mischevous antics.

“Now, now, what’s got you so worked up, hm?” Your voice drips with amusement as you drag your fingers along his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering beneath his skin.

"You know damn well—"

His lips part, but all that comes out is a heavy groan. You smile, leaning down to brush your lips against his jaw before whispering, “You can use your words, can’t you?”

Zayne swallows, hard, hands twitching like he wants to touch you but knows better than to move without permission. “Y-you—” His voice is barely a whisper, so wrecked already.

You tilt your head, “I-I -I what?” you mock him, stern, comanding voice almost startling him if it doesn't only make him grow harder against your tummy.

“You’re teasing me,” he breathes, heavy, piercing gaze of his making you giggle.

"Mhm," you hum in agreement, tracing his jawline before suddenly slipping a silk blindfold over his eyes, his vision going dark.

He inhales sharply, body tensing before melting beneath you. He loves this—loves the way you take away one of his senses, making him focus only on your touch, your words, the warmth of your body against his.

“So sensitive tonight,” you murmur, your fingers dancing lower, tracing his hipbones before ghosting over his eager, angry cock, not quite touching, just enough to make him whine.

He shifts beneath you, trying to get more friction, but you lift yourself just out of reach. “Patience, love.”

"Please." Zayne’s head tilts back against the pillow, a soft sound of frustration escaping him followed by a silent plea, making a smirk dance across your features, running your nails lightly down his chest. “Please what?”

He lets out a small, needy sigh. “Please, my darling wife. T-touch me.”

“Gladly.” you muse, pressing a soft kiss to his throat before finally wrapping your tender fingers around him. His breath stutters, a deep, broken moan slipping past his lips as you stroke him slowly.

His body twitches with each movement, and you can tell he’s already close—so responsive, so beautifully sensitive to every little touch.

“My husband 's doin' such an amazing job,” you whisper against his ear, your voice sending a shiver through him. “Had such a rough day, didn't you?”

“Y-yes,” he gasps, his hips twitching up into your hand.

You reward him with a slow, deep stroke, relishing the way he trembles beneath you. But then you stop, pulling your hand away entirely, leaving him aching.

Zayne lets out a soft whimper, his hands gripping the sheets tighter. “D-darlin'—”

You interrupt him with a light chuckle, dragging your nails down his stomach. “Relaaax. M' gonna take good care of you, yes?"

Before he can even think to answer, a whine slips from his lips as you shift, finally lowering yourself onto his lap, his tip catching your clit, robbing a shriek from you. He shudders violently at the sensation, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you glide along his length, slow, savoring, teasing.

“Feels so good,” you murmur, your hands sliding up his chest as you lose your patience, hand grasping the base of his throbbing cock before you align it to your flexing hole, sloooowly sink down onto him.

Zayne lets out a deep, broken moan, his head falling back against the pillow as you begin to rock your hips at a steady pace, thirsty hips claiming him, leaving him breathless. His hands twitch at his sides, wanting to hold you, to ground himself, but he knows better than to mess this up.

“That’s it,” you praise, rolling your hips just enough to drive him wild. “Taking it so well. C'mon, don't be shy now. Touch me. M' your wife, no?”

His hands finally reach for you, fingers digging into your thighs, his desperation evident in the way he clings to you. You let him have this, let him hold on, because he’s been so good, so obedient.

Breath hitching, his entire body trembling beneath you as his fingers twitch, desperate, in search for your hips now, delicately wrapping them around your waist, careful and wary.

He can feel the blindfold slipping slightly from his face, his intense breath turning him light-headded— he can't do noting but releash in the pleasure of your compressed hole choking him as if you've forgotten he's your husband— as if you wanted to kill him.

“I— I don’t— Can't-"

“You can,” you whisper softly, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips, a broken whimper from you following suit “You’re doing sooo good, doctor.”

The teasing nickname only adding fuel to his spurting fire, fingers ironclad on your hips, just resting there, trying to give his mind some sense of control despite the barbarous whine of your hips and him barely able to keep up, hell— even to hold on.

The pleasure builds between you, slow and intoxicating, and Zayne is unraveling beneath you, his body shaking, his voice breaking as he gasps your name.

“I have such a sensitive husband, hm?,” you murmur teasing evident in your voice even with his eyes blindfolded, hips rocking against him in a tantalizing, almost selfish way, trailing kisses along his jaw as you guide him toward his release. “C'mon, fill me up.”

And he does.

He lets go with a shuddering cry, his entire body tensing before his cock spurts inside you with greed.

You're pressing soothing kisses to his skin as he comes down from the high, slown rocking of your hips draaaging it out further, thick spurts of cum never ending, his breath still uneven, you coo at him.

You finally remove the blindfold, letting him blink up at you with dazed, glassy eyes.

He looks so beautiful like this—flushed, spent, utterly at your mercy.

“Did so well,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead.

He exhales shakily, his hands still holding onto you. “You’re going to be the death of me, dear” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You laugh softly, pressing one last kiss to his lips.

“Only in the best way.”

RAFAYEL・❥・Watch but don't touch!

"Nuh uhhh. Hands to yourself."

Your bottom lip cages between your teeth at his frustrated whine, eyes closed shut as your delicate hand swats his away.

Kitten licks against his angry cock head make his eyes roll to the very back of his skull, thigh clenching at any slight movement of yours. Teasingly, you blow against his stiff length, giggling at his hip stuttering up into the air.

"N-No fair", he says with such an adorable pout on his handsome face, you almost feel sorry.

Almost.

"M' just having a little fun, don't be a kill joy now", you muse, tongue lolling out with a wicked grin to your face that just screams you're up to no good.

His head falls back against the backrest of the couch with a loud groan once his senses get engulfed by your mouth throating his cock whole, sloppy gagging sounds reapeating over and over again- going on for hours now.

His head hurts.

Your warm mouth and his cockhead prodding at your tight throat with each headbop of yours. But once your hand sneaks under his thigh, goosebumps arising on his skin as you begin to fondle his hefty, cum-filled balls—

He's losing it.

"Urghhh, js' like that, m' gonna—"

A hitched breath gets caught in his throat, hips stuttering up into your mouth. Your hand firmly presses down onto his hip, plastering him still onto the couch so he wouldn't move.

"Do it, I dare you." you spit before resuming to your sloppy assault between his legs.

His head falls back, hand brushing over his face in frustration because he knows it's a threat.

"Please, baby. Pleaseee, pleaseplease, lemme'—"

"I told you. Do it."

His neck falls down, huffy breath hot as he meets your gaze, whining. And he knows what's about to dawn uppon him at the fierce look you shot him.

He knows he's fucked.

"No. Nononono, please don't be such a meanie, cutie. C'monnnn—!"

Your wicked smirk deepens as his chest heaves, every muscle in his body coiled tight like a bowstring about to snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to grab you, to tangle into your hair and ram into your mouth, but he knows better. He knows the rules you've laid out so cruelly, and the punishment that awaits if he dares to break them.

Hell— if he acts up, he might not be cumming at all tonight.

His cock throbs against your tongue, the weight of it heavy and hot in your mouth as you pull back just enough to flick your tongue over his slit, swirling the tip with slow, deliberate swipes, milking his poor swelling, mushroomy tip to it's limits, leaking pre indicating the brewing storm to soon come.

"Ohhh, baby, babybabybaby—"

Your hand tightens around the base of his cock, squeezing just enough to make him whimper, his hips desperately seeking the friction you're denying him. You pull off with a lewd pop, a thin trail of saliva connecting your lips to his flushed tip.

"What was that?" You ask innocently, tilting your head, fingers lazily stroking along his length, lewd moisty sounds ringing in his ear making him go dizzy. "Did you say something?"

His jaw clenches, the veins in his neck standing taut as he tries to reign himself in. But he’s losing the battle, his restraint unraveling with every teasing touch, every breathy giggle that escapes your lips.

"Y-You know damn well," he pants, frustrated, his fingers curling into fists on the sheets. "Need it. Need it soooo damn bad, cutie— nghhh!"

"Need what?" You interrupt with a tight head lock of your hand around his cock, sufforcating him, feigning confusion, as you pump him slow, torturous. His head slams back against the couch, almost snaping his neck with the force, a broken groan spilling from his throat.

"Use your words."

His breath shudders. "I need to cum."

"Mmm." You hum, considering. "You know, I don’t think you've earned it yet."

His eyes snap open, dark with desperation. "W-what? H-hahhh— c'mon now! S-stop it, js' fuckin'— godddd—"

Your free hand trails up his abdomen, fingers dancing over the sculpted ridges of his stomach before pressing down against his chest, pinning him in place. His heart hammers beneath your palm, each erratic thump evidence of just how close he is to unraveling.

"You wanna cum so bad?" You coo, leaning in, breath hot against his ear as you pump him faster, the slick sounds of your hand working him over making him whimper. "Then hold it. Don't you dare let go until I say so."

A strangled noise escapes his throat, his body shaking with effort. The need to release is overwhelming, every nerve in his body screaming for that final push over the edge. But he knows you're testing him, dangling his pleasure just out of reach, and he wants, no, needs, to be good for you.

"Ohhh, you're struggling, aren't you? Cute." You purr, dragging your tongue along the length of his swelling cock, reveling in the way his cock jumps in your grasp. "Poor thing, trying so hard."

"F-Fuck, I— I c-can’t—" he stammers, his voice wrecked with restraint, muscles locked in place as his climax hovers agonizingly close. So damn close he can taste it at the tip of his tongue.

Your smirk deepens. "Not yet."

His entire body seizes, his thighs trembling violently as you suddenly stop, your grip loosening entirely. His hips jerk up on instinct, desperately seeking the friction you’ve just denied him.

A choked whine spills from his lips, frustration darkening his gaze as he watches you lean back, tortured cock throbbing with need, reddish tip pulsating angrily, hefty balls squeezing in desperate need of release, you're licking your lips, savoring the taste of him.

"Awww, did you think I was going to let you finish?" You taunt, fingers dancing along his twitching thigh. "How silly of you."

His breath is ragged, cock twitching against his stomach, still leaking, still aching for the release you've stolen from him.

"You look so pretty like this," you muse, tracing idle circles against his hip. "I could do this all night. Over and over."

A shiver runs through him, his pupils blown wide because he knows you're not bluffing.

Your fingers brush over his cock one last time, teasing, just enough to make him shudder before you pull away entirely, standing up with a satisfied smirk.

"Who knows," You stretch, letting him see the full curve of your body as you climb onto his lap, casting him one last teasing glance, before you align his oozing tip to your entrance, pussy clenching around the hefty tip in excitement.

"Maybe you'll get to cum in me. How 's that sound?"

A broken groan escapes him, his hands gripping the couch in frustration. "Yer' evil."

With one last grin you sloooowly sink down on his length, lips caged between your teeth at the tantalizing strech, his hands brushing over his face at the immense pleasure and the sheer frustration of it all.

"And you love it."

Failing in trying to bite back his loud whine, his hips stutter up into yours, fully burying himself into you with one thrust, satisfied sigh rushing from his tense chest.

"I do."

SYLUS・❥・You were saying?

Sylus was a handful— a gorgeous, infuriating handful.

Cocky smirk, sharp tongue, and a tendency to push every single one of your buttons just to see how far he could get. But that was fine because tonight, he was going to learn exactly what happens when he teases too much.

"That's all you got? C'mon sweetie, you can do better than—"

You cut him off with a sharp grind of your hips, dragging yourself along his restrained form. The friction was intoxicating, your clit catching onto his silver happy trail, pulling a sharp moan from your lips.

"You were saying, Sy?" you mock, voice dripping with amusement.

Sylus squirms beneath you, his arms bound to the headboard, wrists tied tight with burgundy silk.

His cock twitches against his stomach, already leaking precum, but you aren't ready to give him what he wants just yet. You savor the sight of him, muscles tense, face twisted in frustration and pleasure.

"C'monnn," he muses, the brat in him still pushing. "I know you can do it."

Your hips never relent, never flatten, keeping a teasing pace that has him groaning, his body desperate for more. The tight clench of your velvet, silky walls around him, caging his crown so tightly in the depth of your pussy. And then—

A whine.

The Sylus just... whined?

You pause just enough to hear the hitch in his breath, the frustrated little sound he makes, like he's about to throw a tantrum. It makes something wicked curl in your stomach.

"Just—h-hahh, just—urghhh— slow down."

A cruel smile tugs at your lips. "Slow down? But didn’t ya' wanna tell me somethin'?" You tilt your head, faux innocence dripping from your voice.

Sylus tugs at the restraints, hips bucking uselessly. "You're driving me insane, sweetheart," he mutters, and you can hear the slightest edge of desperation creeping in.

"Good," you purr. "That means I'm doing a good job."

Oh, he's loving this.

You lean down, your breath ghosting over his throat before you press a lingering kiss there, your tongue flicking against his pulse point. He shivers beneath you, but when he tries to roll his hips up, seeking more friction, you immediately lift yourself off him, denying him entirely.

"C-come back." he gasps, eyes flying open, staring at you in sheer disbelief.

"Did ya' forget who's in charge here?" you coo, running a single finger down his abdomen, stopping just above where he wants you most. "Yer' not the leader of Onychinus when you're such a desperate mess under me, my darling Sy'."

His jaw clenches. "You can’t just—"

"I can do whatever I want."

Your voice is laced with authority, leaving no room for argument and he might bust right there, you're strict words sending more and more blood pumping to his already stiffened cock. "And right now, I think you need to learn some patience."

Sylus huffs, but the way his body trembles betrays his excitement. You trail a teasing hand lower, barely brushing over his cock before pulling away entirely. His frustrated groan sends heat straight to your buttony clit.

"You wanna be a brat, Sy? Then you get to wait."

His head falls back against the pillows, exhaling sharply. "You’re an evil woman."

You hum thoughtfully. "Maybe. But m' your evil woman. Besides," You lean down, eye to eye with those rubies of his, voice barely above a whisper and mere inches away from his moist lips, "you fucking love it."

And judging by the way his body quivers, the way his cock twitches in protest, you know you're absolutely right.

Shifting, you settle between his legs, your hands bracing against his thighs as you slowly press your slick folds against his length—not letting him inside, just rubbing yourself along him, teasing. His breath shudders, head tilting back, arms flexing against the restraints as his hips jerk.

"F-fuckkk," he breathes, voice strained.

"Language, Sylus."

His groan is almost pained, and you can’t help the way your smirk deepens. You drag yourself along his length again, letting your clit catch the head of his cock before rolling back down, watching him squirm beneath you.

"Please," he finally murmurs, voice breathy and wrecked.

"Hmmm?"

His jaw clenches, but the fight is draining from him. "Please, let me feel you."

You press a slow, deliberate kiss to his rosy cheek. "Do you really think you deserve it?"

His frustration bubbles over, his muscles tensing as he tugs at the restraints again. "I—fuck—I'll be good. Just— please."

That’s all you needed to hear.

Finally, you sink down onto him, inch by inch, letting yourself stretch around his length as he groans beneath you.

His head presses back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as a long, desperate moan spills from his lips. His body trembles beneath you, entirely at your mercy.

You waste no time setting a pace that has him unraveling, your hips rolling with practiced precision, walls tightening around him just enough to keep him teetering on the edge. He’s panting, groaning, cursing under his breath, everything, really.

"H-hahh, honey, please—" he chokes out, muscles flexing with restraint.

You grin, knowing he’s barely holding on. "Not yet," you murmur, dragging your nails down his chest. "I’ll tell you when."

His entire body trembles, and you can feel his cock twitch inside you, warning you that he’s so damn close. You clench around him, but keep your pace steady, greedy walls contracting around him, hitching his breath each time, teasing him, holding him on that delicious edge.

You grind your clit against his pelvis, your own pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, and your moans start to mix with his. The build-up is intoxicating, and you can feel yourself tipping closer to release.

Fingers finding his nipples, you roll them between your fingertips, drawing a sharp growl from him, soon latching your mouth onto one sensitive bud with a wicked smile, his body arching into yours.

"J-just a little longer," you whisper, voice aswell as your movement stuttering as he rams at your cervix, leaning over him, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Don't give up on — fuck!— on me y-yet."

Those words only worsen his condition as his cock jumps inside you, his moans turn into desperate whimpers, his body tensing beneath you. "I—I can't hold it anymore," he gasps, voice aswell as his confident, dominant facade cracking with need.

"You will." you command, biting down on his earlobe.

Tears threaten to well at the corners of his eyes, his body shaking, every muscle locked in anticipation. You almost feel bad.

Maybe you should cut him some slack.

"Now, Sylus," you finally whisper, voice thick with pleasure, "cum for me."

The command shatters him. His hips jerk as he spills into you with a deep, guttural moan, his entire body wracked with trembling aftershocks. The sensation of him pulsing inside you pushes you over the edge, pleasure crashing through you in waves as you cry out, body clenching around his.

For a moment, all you can hear is heavy breathing, the aftermath of pleasure settling into your limbs. You brush a hand down his chest, soothing him as he slowly comes down, his eyes hazy, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

"Told ya you could do better," he murmurs, breathless and wrecked.

You chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss against his jaw. "And I told you I'd put you in your place."

His laugh is soft, spent. "Guess I should nudge you off more often."

You grin, fingers tightening around the restraints still holding him in place. "Careful what you wish for, Sy'. You might not be able to handle it."

"Try me."

CALEB・❥・Lovin' it.

Caleb is a man of discipline, restraint, and quiet devotion, a gentleman in the streets and, well, something else entirely when you have him beneath you like this—fully at your mercy. Wrecked and ruined.

And loving every second of it.

You straddle his waist, watching the way his chest rises and falls, his breaths shallow and desperate. His wrists are tied to the headboard, rope digging deliciously into his milky skin, and his flushed face is a sight to behold.

Disheveled brown hair clings to his sweat-slick forehead, his lips parted as he pants beneath you, his body trembling with overstimulation from the aftermath of his previous orgasm, his sticky semen clinging to your walls.

"P-please, baby. Yer' killin' me here."

Your nails drag down his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake, your hips still grinding mercilessly against his overstimulated cock, dragging out every last ounce of pleasure he has left to give.

"Oh, come on," you purr, tilting your head as you roll your hips with slow, deliberate intent, hand forcefully pushing him down onto the bed.

"You're being a fuckin' liar. You love it. Just look at yourself."

His head tilts back against the pillow, exposing the elegant column of his throat as a broken groan spills from his lips. His body twitches, trembling, and his bound hands flex, fingers curling as though searching for something to hold onto.

Oh yeah, you’ve got him.

"You like being used like this, don’t you, Caleb?" you continue, dragging your fingers up his throat, thumb pressing into the side of his jaw just enough to make his breath hitch. "Like my own personal toy."

His entire body jerks beneath you, another wrecked sound slipping from his lips. The way he responds so beautifully to every single thing you do is intoxicating, so lovestruck and utterly in love with you, falling victim to each of your antics, making the heat in your belly burn hotter, the wetness between your thighs even slicker—if that's even possible.

"Fuckin' perv," you murmur, your grip on his throat tightening just enough to make his pulse quicken. "All spread out for me, taking everything I give you, hm?"

A strangled whimper escapes him, his hips bucking helplessly. His cock twitches inside you, still sensitive, still aching, but he’s at your mercy. There’s nothing he can do but take it.

"S’too much," he slurs, voice thick with pleasure, his body trembling with each roll of your hips. "I—fuck, I can't—"

"Can't what?" you taunt, your free hand moving to tug lightly at his nipple, relishing the way his breath stutters. "Can't handle how good I make you feel?" You tighten your grip around his throat, just enough to make him whimper. "I think you can. I think you fucking love it."

His moans are nothing short of sinful, his body arching into you as if begging for more despite his protests. His flushed chest rises and falls, his bound wrists struggling against the silk restraints, but there's no real fight left in him.

He’s too far gone, drunk on the sensation of you using him like this, taking what you need over and over again, he can barely count how many times he's spurted weak shots of his cum into you. But he can't have enough. He wants more.

"Look at you," you coo, easing the grip on his throat only to drag your fingers down his jaw, thumb tracing his bottom lip. "So desperate. So needy. And you call yourself a gentleman?"

His eyes flutter open, glassy and desperate. "M'—nghhh!, m' a gentleman—"

You let out a cruel little laugh. "Not right now. Right now, you’re just a needy, pathetic mess."

He groans, the sound dissolving into something dangerously close to a sob when you shift your hips, grinding your clit against him, drawing another pulse of pleasure from his already overstimulated cock.

"I—baby—" he gasps, eyes squeezing shut as he trembles. "I'm gonna—"

"Gonna cum?" Your voice is firm, commanding, and his entire body stiffens, obeying instinctively. "You're gonna pump me full like a good boy, hm?"

His breath shudders, his fingers clenching into tight fists. "Y-yeah. Yes. Fuck! Yesyesyes. M' yer' g-good boy. All yers'."

"Mhmmm. All mine. My sweet boy."

The praise alone makes his cock twitch, balls swelling, and you smirk, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his throat before biting down just enough to make him whimper.

"Js' a little longer, mkay?"

He moans again, his entire body thrumming with desperation.

"I bet you’d let me keep you like this all night, wouldn’t you?"

He lets out a broken, gasping sound, barely able to speak. "Yes—fuck! — yes, please. Pleasepleaseplease use me. All of me. I—"

You keep riding him, gyrating your hips against his in harsh rams, watching as he grows more desperate, thighs trembling beneath you, his moans turning into pleading little whimpers.

"Please, pips," he finally gasps, his voice barely above a breath. "Please let me cum. I'll be good. Gonna- fuh-fuckkkk! Gonna take it. M' yer' good boy, right?"

Your fingers tighten around his throat again, your other hand reaching down to trail across his chest, biting back a moan as his cock smooches your womb with his twitch alone. "You wanna cum, Caleb?"

"Yesyesyes- Wanna- need ta'," he whines, his entire body tense, voice cracking under the weight of his desperation, hands scrambling against the tight rope around his wrist. "Please—please, I need it, I need you."

"You need me?" You smirk, dragging your nails down his chest again. "Yeah, I know you do. Look at you, fuckin' ruined. It's almost p-pathetic, really."

You're right there with him, your own climax coiling hot and tight in your stomach, and you lean down, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "Cum for me, Caleb. Fill me up real good, yeah?"

The command is all it takes to break him.

His entire body tenses, back arching off the bed as he spills thin spurts of weak cum inside you with a deep, shuddering moan, his bound hands flexing uselessly above his head, almost ripping the headboard with his sheer strength.

The feeling of him cumming, the heat, the pulse of him inside you sends you over the edge, your own release crashing into you like a tidal wave. Your walls clench around him, milking him for everything he has left, and your own moans mix with his, filling the air with the sound of bliss and ruin.

When you finally regain your senses, you glance down at him, watching the way his chest still rises and falls in heavy pants, his golden hair sticking messily to his forehead. His wrists are red from pulling against the restraints, lips swollen from where he's bitten into them.

You smirk, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his jaw. "See? You can handle it."

His breathy little laugh is hoarse, his voice completely shot, tugging at the rope binding his hands. "D-don't know if I can survive another round, pips."

You grin, trailing your fingers over his chest, feeling the aftershocks still running through his body.

"Guess we’ll have to find out."

#◛⑅·˚ ᵂᴼᴿᴷ #♡˳ᴸ&ᴰˢ #love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #l&ds smut #caleb smut #loveanddeepspace #lads #sylus smut #zayne smut #xavier smut #rafayel smut #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads caleb #divider by @anitalenia

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