Something Soft But Just Sleeping On Billy’s Chest, Literally Melting Against His Body As He Looks At

Soft Gestures for Comfort

Bringing them a blanket when they’re curled up on the couch.

Whispering, "It’s okay, I’m here," when they wake up from a bad dream.

Stroking their hair gently when they’re lying on your lap.

Running a warm bath for them after a tough day.

Holding them close and saying, "I’ve got you," when they’re upset.

Preparing their favorite comfort food when they’re feeling low.

Turning off their alarm and letting them sleep in when they’re exhausted.

Reading their favorite book to them before bed.

Playing their favorite soothing music to help them relax.

Just sitting in silence with them, letting them know your presence is their safe space.

PEDRO PASCAL

Sundance Film Festival 2024 // "Freaky Tales" premiere in Oakland, California, 2025

i cannot hate myself into a version of me i will love.

PEDRO PASCAL at Sundance Film Festival 2024 for @swiftispunk ♥

I have just learned that Mountain Goats are NOT, in fact, actual Goats.

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live | March 2025

Take What You Need - S. Reid x Reader

After going full hermit mode during finals, you reach out to your relatively new boyfriend for a textbook he might be storing in his apartment. Or, Spencer putting you through his mattress for the first time as finals stress relief.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Smut! Fluff? (18+ pls pls) tags: Softdom!Spencer, sub reader (bet you thought you'd never see the day I did this), pet names in Russian, finger sucking, fingering (fem!receiving), established (new) relationship, your first time together, praise kink, pinv sex, creampie, teasing!!! overstimulation. wc: 6k a/n: I GOT SO CARRIED AWAY! Writing this during my finals felt like method acting. I imagine many of you are just now finishing or in the throes of finals- here's a treat!

Your head is hurting in places that you don’t even think have been identified in the anatomy of the brain while you continue to type away at your final essay. 

You had thought you’d given yourself ample time to begin and finish the essay without any stress-induced cramming. Yet, here you are, halfway through with the deadline a couple days away.

Phone on do not disturb and your social life coming to a screeching halt– you have forced yourself to go awol in order to get everything you need done.

Which worked. For a bit.

Now, you’re panicking over a Russian literature textbook you didn’t even know was on the syllabus that you’re supposed to reference in your final. 

Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

The first time you left your apartment in the last 48 hours was to check your university library for it– no dice. You drove to your local library after, out of luck there as well. Who on earth is using the 9th edition Russian and Comparative Literature text you need so horribly? They do not need it as much as you do.

Dejected and sighing from your pounding headache, you rest your forehead against your steering wheel, the sun is going down on another day without finishing your paper. Then it hits you. The biggest distraction in your life, is also the smartest person in your life. If the library doesn’t carry what you need, you might just have to put your pride aside and call Spencer.

You had promised yourself to use him as a form of reward once you completed everything, but you just have to ask him now. You can’t possibly get too distracted. 

One of your rings sounds off in your car before he’s picking up.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise. How’s the studying?”

Even through the tinny speaker of your phone his voice releases butterflies in your stomach.

“Spencer! Hey. Umm. It’s not going very well, actually...”

“Oh hon,” his voice drips with remorse from the other line, “I told you how breaks would make it all go more smoothly than whatever guerilla method you decided on.”

You smile to yourself briefly, before a surge of emotion comes over you. Of course, he was right. Your stomach is growling, head aching and going stir crazy in your apartment these last couple of days has not turned out to be the picture perfect portrayal of self-care.

In a small voice you reply, “I know. I’m sorry. I just- I was wondering if you had a textbook I need for my final. Russian and Comparative Lit? Or something adjacent?”

“Hm? Oh, please don’t say you’re sorry. I honestly might. Would you like to come over and look with me?”

Your fingers come up nervously to play with your bottom lip, “Yeah, please, if it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Zayka.”

Whatever it is, he says it smug enough that you roll your eyes, starting your car back up to finally get to the next step in finishing your paper.

Of sorts.

Like some heightened form of sensory deprivation, once you’re stepping up the staircase to get to Spencer’s unit, you can smell his scent from the bottom of the steps. The aged leather on his clothes and hand soap he uses that clings to him all day circling around your dizzy head as you give one, two knocks at his door.

His slight stubble and loosened tie catch your eye first. You want to run a hand where the sliver of his collar bone is revealed. 

You give him a shy smile instead, Spencer pulling you into a hug in his doorway with a kiss on top of your head where he speaks against it, “I missed you. Come in, come in.”

Sighing as he pulls away you beeline towards his bookshelf. Seeing it’s a stack of differing Russian texts on the floor he must’ve pulled out on your drive over.

“Oh, Spencer, thank you. Even if it’s not here, I seriously owe you one.”

He gestures his hand in an oh stop motion and walks over to where you’re reading the spine of each ridiculously long book.

“You don’t owe me anything. Happy to help. You’ve been pretty stressed out, huh?”

This pauses your flicking through titles like a cue in your system to spill out every detail you haven’t shared in the last couple days.

A deep sigh, then, “Yeah. It’s been really tough. I thought I’d be able to crank everything out, but. I just feel so burnt out. And the library by me is always so busy that I have to study at home, and my room is a mess and I haven’t bought any groceries, I just. I feel horrible. I have this headache,” you rub your face with your hands, “I’ve been getting no sleep and my body does not know how to handle this anxiety, it’s… it like, physically hurts.”

You’re on your knees by his coffee table and before you’re finishing your onslaught of complaints Spencer is sinking to his knees beside you.

“Oh, honey. That sounds miserable. You’ve drained yourself.” His hand comes to your lower back to rub at soothingly. “You need to regulate your nervous system. Let me feed you or-”

“This is it!”

You cannot believe your eyes. A perfect condition of the exact textbook you need to finish your paper. You owe Spencer all the stars in the sky, that big beautiful brain of his. Leaning over, you peck his lips swiftly. Which was your first mistake. You always need another.

“Mm,” he hums, “I’m glad. However, I do think you should embark on whatever journey reading through this will take you tomorrow.”

“What? But I’m so close,” another kiss is being pressed to his soft lips, “I just. I just need to-”

The way he’s looking at you. The pressure of his kiss lingering on your overactive mouth. The warm light of the lamp coming from his bedroom. You know if you keep pressing, you actually are going to have to leave, Spencer not being the type to force you in any capacity. 

You have to shut your mouth.

Spencer pulls your hand into his, lifts up to press a kiss to your knuckles, “Well. If you got everything you need…”

A panic-inducing sentence. 

“I d-didn’t.”

“Oh? Is there something else-”

“I, um. What did you say earlier? On the phone, in Russian. I… was wondering, actually.”

His lips pull into a genuine smile, one that makes you ache. You missed it so much. 

“Ever so curious. It just means bunny, it’s a common nickname. Could also translate to baby.”

Embarrassment heats up your neck. 

“I’m not even! I’d argue I’m more of a cat than anything else.”

“Hm. Kotik. I’d disagree though. I could practically hear the scrunch in your nose when you called me.”

“Ugh! Whatever. What does that make you then?”

“Whatever you want.”

Is he doing this on purpose? Is he being extra impossibly irresistible because he’s trying to make you stay or because of your distance from him? Either way, you hold your breath. 

“I-if I’m a bunny you have to be one too, that only makes sense.”

“Of course. Cross-species breeding can get weird.”

He has to be doing this on purpose. You haven’t done it yet. But Spencer is no stranger to working you up. The pet names, the fucking insinuations. Spencer is nothing but careful with his words around you. He’s being a tease out of his own volition. 

Knees starting to get achy where they’re pressed into his hardwood, you shift a bit. Nothing more than a shift, but given the context, lets Spencer know exactly what’s keeping you chained to his apartment. 

“Um. I think I’ll stay.” you blurt nearing a socially awkward delivery as you break his eye contact.

“Oh thank God,” he laughs out through a sigh of relief, “I don’t think I could’ve morally let you go home.”

“I just think I deserve a little break.”

“Mhmm,” Spencer rubs your jaw lightly with his thumb, “you’ve been working so hard, you deserve more than a little break.”

“Yeah? What should my big break be? Travel somewhere warm… should we go to Mexico?”

“I’ll take you to Mexico. You look so exhausted I’d just about take you anywhere.”

You giggle and nuzzle your face into his shoulder. “How about your bedroom?”

Not even having to look up to see it, you can feel the way his eyes widen. Having made out with Spencer a fair share on his couch, more than playful sleepovers at your apartment, and even an instance where Spencer had fingered you under your skirt in the parking lot of an AMC (before turning around to drive back home, skipping the movie) you’ve built up enough confidence to tell him you’re ready to feel him this way now. 

“Wh- yeah. Yeah, course.”

With Spencer’s whole neuroses around germs and “outside clothes on the bed” you actually have not gotten the privilege of laying down in there. Sure, you’ve picked through his closet and rummaged through some bedside books, but nothing wrapped up in his silky white sheets.

Your knees feel wobbly as you stand up before Spencer, gazing softly down where he’s criss-cross on his floor. He smiles up at you softly, reaching his hand up to rub your hip with his thumb over your jeans.

“What should I do to help all that stress?” He trails off, if spoken by another person, this could seem like a bit of a sarcastic remark, but Spencer continues to live and breathe sincerity.

Laughing slightly you shrug, “Come up here first, please.”

Sluggishly, Spencer gets up on his feet, his hand remaining on your hip now that he’s face to face with you. 

After kissing you gently he rubs his nose softly against yours, “I could give you a massage- you know stimulating the parasympathetic nervous system will help your cortisol levels a lot. You also just seem tense, sitting a lot in front of your laptop?”

“I mean,” you laugh and kiss him while pausing your sentence, “I’d like that. But. I want you in a different way. More than that... ahem, in your room.”

“I kind of just wanted to hear you say it.”

Once Spencer was able to pry his hands from your waist and lips from your mouth (with difficulty, he really missed you) he takes your hand into his to walk to his bedroom.

Of course you’ve been in here before, but right now every detail in his room; every book on a desk, every folded line in his bedding seem to have a shining glow around them. Through rose-tinted glasses Spencer's belongings cast an easy feeling over you. 

Being led to the bed you’ve never been in doesn’t incite any fear because you’re so familiar with the surroundings. Already in-tune with him and how he’s so particular about the things he owns, proves just how encapsulated by all-things-Spencer you are right now, completely safe and in your element. 

Warm hands bring your arms around his broad shoulders, kissing you against his bedframe. The cool carved wood pressing indents into the back of your thighs as you allow your full body weight against it. 

In your school-induced mania, you’d nearly forgotten how obsessed you are with kissing Spencer. His pillowy lips against yours, tasting him. He’d nearly get irritated at you for kissing him too hard in public. Now, after locking yourself away you're savoring how his tongue skims your bottom lip as he’s asking for access into your mouth. 

You whine and pinch your eyebrows together when he slightly pulls away to talk, “Darling, you’re so lovely, so beautiful,”

Pouting, you pull him back in by his collar. Before, you had been so adamant about focusing on your work and now you’re falling fast into the mess of hormones he typically makes of you. A total 180 in the past hour.

Allowing yourself to give into what has been simmering the last few days has you jittery and clumsy. Tightening and loosening your grip on Spencer’s shirt you’re tugging him closer and pushing him away when the whining from your throat becomes too embarrassing. Desperate and determined.

Your open-mouthed whining is coming from an understandable place though. Mouths melding together and a taught thigh wedged between your legs, you’re losing yourself in the way he tastes. 

Spearmint toothpaste that you both use on his breath. The shared taste you two have after you bought Spencer’s (out of a moment of weakness) when you happened to run out of your own while he was away on a case. A girlish, silly pining that now has your eyes rolling back as you taste yourself on him and consequentially, Spencer on you as well. 

Spencer curls your tongues together, grabs your hips flush against his and you whimper out a small final plea of a moan against his lips before he’s pulling away again.

“You’re being a little siren,” Spencer grins and places a kiss underneath your jaw where he knows you’re the most sensitive. 

“Sorry- was I? I missed you so much,” you trail off and kiss the warm skin of Spencer’s neck before he pulls you off him slightly.

Unabashedly staring directly at your bitten lips while replying, Spencer falls into an easy grin, “Don’t say sorry. How many times have I said I love your sounds?”

Shame creeps up in a gentle heat across the back of your neck, “Um. Too many!”

You get a simple tsk from Spencer in return. Not having the energy to argue with you over the shyness around moaning, he settles on a simple noise of disapproval.

Gently taking both of your wrists, he pulls you up from where you were propped against his bed frame and maneuvers you till the back of your knees are being tickled by his lush bedding. Maybe it's a tickle or just your skin's hyper awareness of what's to come.

Having tasted him earlier, there has been a discovered pining demand for Spencer you cannot keep at bay anymore. His sweet lips, a sugary glaze to the sour week you’ve had. Like the time you licked a dribble of honey off his finger when he was making you a cup of tea and you had to perch yourself on his lap for an hour kissing him senseless. You have no control over that dam inside you once broken. 

Cradling the back of your head while he guides you to his bed, you instinctively wrap your legs around his narrow hips, hoping to do anything in your power to keep his body weight on you for as long as humanly possible. 

“Babe- baby,” Spencer whines out, having to wiggle away from your grasp if any clothes were to be shed tonight, “let me undress you, please.”

Fine, you think, separating for that, should be livable.

Teasingly, Spencer rubs his hands up and down your waist, pulling your shirt up slowly as he massages into your skin. A wiggle in your hips has him smiling in acknowledgment but continues to toy with your top.

“You’re giving me goosebumps,” you pout.

“Good goosebumps?”

“Mmf. Yeah.” You turn to hide your face defiantly into his bedding.

“Always good goosebumps with you.” He smiles and pulls your shirt off, wiggling and arching your back, you help him even through your faux sulking.

Spencer’s sheets meet your bare skin (no bra, you couldn’t manage something so menial during your studying) and glide over your torso like a flat pebble skipping over a lake.

The seam of your jeans between your legs are pushing into your center as Spencer’s thigh remains pushing in small intervals while kissing over your chest. Approaching an overwhelming stimulation, your hips writhe as you grab silently at Spencer's tie. 

“T-take my pants off too, Spence, wanna feel you.”

“Aww,” he pulls up from your chest, “they look so good on you though.” He relents still, sitting on his knees as he fiddles with the band of your jeans.

A playful flicker in his eyes and he’s gently pulling up and down at it. You scrunch up your face, subconsciously aware of his bunny comment, and grab at his wrist. Only a small fuck falls from your lips.

“Mm, too much, huh? I’ll get them off of you, my love.”

Your hands reach up to tug off his barely knotted tie to fling it off while he slides the rough fabric down your legs, placing a kiss to a bruised knee on the way. Once your jeans are making a home on his floor he continues moving down further so he can take off your socks, kissing over the fabric of your panties.

You giggle a little, they’re not your sexiest, moreso cute; cotton with a little bow. 

“These are my lucky panties.” You explain through your laugh. 

“Yeah? Did you put them on in hopes they’d help you find your textbook?” His hands are holding the sides of your thighs now and he bends down to take the small bow between his teeth tugging up before letting it go in a snap against your belly.

“Mm-mm. I just decided that now.”

“From now on they’re your lucky underwear?” He looks up at you between your legs with a lopsided grin.

“Yup,” you pop out the “p” sound, “but you can still take them off even though they’re lucky.”

Spencer hums into a kiss against your inner thigh, “This is great news. May I?”

“Yes, you may.”

You can feel how wet you are by the slight resistance there is while peeling your panties off. Spencer hasn’t made you cum in quite some time, busy schedules and all. Now with finals, you can’t even remember the last time you got yourself off. The dripping into your panties reminding you of how long it must have been.

All that time not thinking about it is catching up to you as you feel more deprived than you have in your entire life.

“God- Spence. I want it… really bad.” These are the begging eyes you give him when you have to pull out your biggest trick in the books. When you’re making him drive you to the mall or begging to leave a hickey on his neck when he has to leave for work in thirty minutes.

Safe to say, they work pretty well.

“Baby, you can’t look at me like that,” he laughs, “I’m not in any mood to tease you.” His voice fills with a teasing tone anyway, the dirty liar. “You’ve been through enough already, huh?”

“Mhmm…” Your affirmation melts into a hum of pleasure as Spencer very gently runs his thumb over your entrance. With the coat of your slick on the pad of his thumb, Spencer brings it up to his mouth for a moment before sucking it off. You can’t help but shoot him a jealous look as your thighs close to rub together.

“Needy,” Spencer mumbles while pulling his thumb out, shifting up towards you so he can bring it to your lips. Sucking in happily, you bite down gently on his thumb, smiling around it as you hear a little groan coming his way. 

Thumb now covered in both of your saliva, he uses it as extra lubricant to rub circles over your already wet clit. Another reminder of how long its been hits you with how you already feel close. With just a few circles on your clit, you’re already clenching around nothing, hoping to be filled.

A squeak topples from your throat as Spencer switches his thumb to two fingers against you.

“Y-yeah, like that-”

Spencer is your boyfriend- he’s sweet and attentive and genuine. But he is also evil and horrible. He takes his hand away.

Your shocked gasp makes him laugh and move to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck.

“I’m mean. I’m sorry I’m sorry,” his laughter tickles your neck, “you’re so much fun to tease.”

You can barely hear him, not laughing along. Solely focused on wiggling under his weight, trying to gain any more friction on your clit.

No fight left in you, you want to politely take what Spencer gives you, but a slight panic fills your mind at the thought of having to wait much longer.

“Please- I’ll be good…”

“I know angel, you always are for me.”

Before the praise can affect you to its fullest potential, his fingers are returning against you. Three of his long perfect fingers dance across your clit as it thumps pathetically against them.

“Mmm! Shit, thank you, thank you-“ you babble softly. 

“Want them inside?”

“Uh-huh!”

“Really?”

“Really!” 

You’re not above this. Giving into every prompt easily as if you’re made for it. With all the planning and studying and working this week you have no issue with surrendering control over to someone else for a change.

Spencer flips his wrist so the inside is towards you and he’s positioning his ring and middle finger against you. You’ve never felt so spoiled, your clit is still throbbing painfully the second he removes his fingers to put them inside you, you never can get enough. 

The stretch of two fingers has you preening, accommodating his digits in a way that makes you so excited for the stretch of his cock soon.

“God, I missed this,” Spencer pants, “you’re so stunning, so warm.”

You allow the new wave of wetness to pool around his fingers with little to no guilt. If he says he likes it so much, what’s a little more?

He curls his fingers up and your jaw drops. He can find your sweet spot faster than you or any toy you have can and it makes you hate him and love him more and more each time. Moving languidly, you perch yourself on your elbows, wanting to gaze down between your thighs. 

Your eyes trail to the soft skin of his inner wrist, pretty blue veins, the network of his life, on display as they lead down to where you’re the most sensitive. The snap of his slender wrist as he speeds up, goes deeper and deeper until your hand instinctively comes down to pet your clit in tandem with his thrusts. 

Pushing your hand away, Spencer replaces it with his hand that’s not working at your g-spot, silent with his full attention on making you cum. You appreciate this, but if he’s trying to tip you over, he’s going to have to keep talking to you in the dirty sweet way he’s mastered.

“B-baby,” your voice is shot, “talk to me, talk to me.”

“Mm. My pretty baby-”

“Can you call me that again… t-the Russian?”

Bending down and dragging his lips across your neck he hums out, “Moy Zayka,” coming up he traces his tongue against your bitten lips, “Say it…”

Two bats of your wet eyelashes and you’re muttering “Zayka,” in the softest voice you can muster, shyness drying your speech.

“Mhm. Good. Sounds so pretty coming from you.”

“God, don’t talk like that or I’ll cum right now, fuck.”

“You said-” he begins, but you cut him off with a moan. “Sorry, sorry, you’re right.”

Five more seconds of Spencer's warmth radiating off him along with the sensation of his taking you apart between your legs and you realize you have to warn him you’re about to cum. Like seriously, about to.

“Spence! Close!” You muster, legs shaking slightly as proof.

“Yeah? Good girl.” He continues his movements until black spots dance behind your eyelids and you’re coming hard against his fingers. 

Working you through it until your chest is rising and falling, he takes his fingers out, but two fingers remain on your clit.

Shit. All that fucking begging got you here.

Moans increasing, your thighs clamp together around his wrist. Trying to stop him, but just making the sensation more intense. You gasp and try to open your legs back a bit. It’s torture, but it’s the least you’ve been able to think in the past week, which is exactly what you needed.

Sitting back on his knees, dick making a tent in his trousers, Spencer smiles at you squirming. “You okay?”

Are you? Yesyesyesyesnononono. You find yourself nodding anyway.

“M… ‘ore.”

“What’s that?”

Toes squeezing, your clit starts up that heartbeat again, reviving itself at his words. Ready to cum again.

“More!” You whisper, hoping he won’t ask again.

Spencer kisses your knee sweetly, rubs his cheek against it. “You’re doing so well. Really, making me so happy.”

Your entrance flutters at his words and the overstimulation has gotten to a point of just brain melting pleasure, and your legs fall open easily, allowing him more mobility once again.

The second time you orgasm on his fingers today you’re jolting upright. Hand pressed into the mattress while the other one clamps over your mouth as you tremble watching him rub your clit and pull away at the first whine he hears from you.

“Holy shit,” You sigh out, head falling down to his pillow.

Spencer’s face to face with you again, kissing your heated skin gently. 

“How are you feeling? Can you give me another one? We can stop here, sweetie.”

“Noooo,” your lips spread into a grin at the thought of coming around his dick for the first time. How good he must feel, how it will literally melt your brain into a puddle. “I want you-”

He kisses your lips like he would when picking you up to take you to dinner. Sweet and innocent like you weren’t just painting his fingers with your release. 

You trail a trembling hand up to begin undressing him. A shameful fumble with one button that takes two times as long to unbutton than it normally takes you. Spencer’s hands cup yours to steady them and finishes off the rest of his buttons with ease.

Maybe that’s another reason to call him Dr.- the steady hands he usually has. Unless you’re giving him head, but he definitely wouldn’t be experiencing that during a procedure. He’s also not even that kind of doctor. Maybe you’ll ask him to roleplay-

You look down and Spencer is in his underwear. You could thank God. His dick is the hardest you’ve ever seen it and it’s still under its confines. The tip has leaked enough to turn the fabric slightly see through and you can make out the details of him. Your mouth is watering. 

Without a second thought you trail a nail over his bulge. As Spencer sucks in a breath you snap the band of his underwear against his lower stomach, causing him to suck in his lips and his dick to twitch.

Almost as affected as you are, Spencer breathes shallowly and looks at you expectantly till you’re lowering the band and revealing all of him. Thick and long and covered in his precum you immediately grow hazy, giving him a few pumps to gauge how he might feel inside you. He’s going to split you open.

Spitting in your hand (not that you even needed to, he's already wet with precum) you continue to jack him off, his stomach curling in when you shift into a reverse grip on him and stroke his head a few times. His hands finally grow shaky as they reach down to stop you from making him finish too fast.

Momentarily Spencer stands by the bed to remove his underwear fully, you watch his dick as it bobs in the air, wanting to give it a steady place to move into until it’s-

“Spence, please.”

“Yeah, pretty.” He nods in understanding, his tough resolve breaking down more now as he also realizes how you’re going to feel around him for the first time.

Laying down, he positions himself between your legs. He wraps his arms around your head pulling you into a kiss before moving them to cage you in while staring into your eyes. You’re trying to keep eye contact but you can feel his cock brush your stomach and you could die.

“You still want this? You’re not feeling dizzy or anything?”

“Y-yes. Not dizzy. I just really want you inside.”

He laughs and kisses your neck, “Yeah. I really do too.”

Warm palms are positioning your hips against his bed and move to break you apart. He swipes his dick, wetting it with you, before he makes any moves to penetrate you. It feels really good- you’ve heard your friends mention it, but this feels… super good. 

Going down to collect more wetness, he draws his head back up to circle your clit again. It’s probably a form of torture for him- but with the way you’re nearly giggling with pleasure, he figures it won’t hurt to do it a few more times.

“Baby,” he shudders out a breath against your forehead, “This feels really good, but I’ll cum like this, and I’d rather it be inside you.”

You laugh and wrap your hands around his neck (Spencer is polite enough to ignore the way you squeeze it slightly), giddy with happiness.

“Kay. Can you fuck me like that until we both cum next time, though?”

The way you say it, so conversational and wholesome makes Spencer clear his throat. You’re going to be the death of him. 

“Anything you want, angel.”

Then he’s moving his head against you with intent. Eyes flickering between where he’s entering you and to check your face for pain (which remains in a blissed out expression throughout the entire thing). 

Pushing the tip fully in, both of you gasp with a newfound lucidity that hasn’t overcome you since you were in the living room. There could be a LED light sign on both of your foreheads that flashes oh fuck in pink shining blinks with hearts surrounding it.

“Oh baby-” He whispers over your repeated ah, ah, ah’s.

“F-feels so good,” You squeak out, knowing he’s gonna be a worried mess to make sure you’re not feeling any pain.

With that confirmation he allows himself to rest his head down, chin against your forehead as he moans into your hair while bottoming out. The stubble is sort of scratchy against you but in a way that’s beckoning your legs open wider.

Your legs automatically wrap around his hips to keep him at the deepest point, wanting to feel the way he’s first opening you up forever. Lips gasping and closing to place a kiss at your forehead he whimpers out, “Baby, gotta let me move.”

So you let him move. You would probably do anything he suggests right now. A comical dizzy swarm of birds circling your head with a dumb smile on your face. He wants to move, your legs spread open on the bed. He wants to cum inside you? You’re gonna let him.

His first thrust punches the air out of your lungs. You make a note to yourself never to spend longer than a day away from him again. Then, another note to do this every day with him the rest of your life.

Spencer repositions himself so that his arms are straightened, alleviating some of his weight off you (sigh), but allows him to move into you at a better angle. 

Moaning, you turn your face to the side, looking at the inside of his wrist again. The intense thrusts combined with his delicate skin and fragile veins right there, you get dizzy. Shifting a little, you place a kiss to the inside of his wrist. Then another, a wet mess of a kiss that delivers the message of complete infatuation. 

Spencer groans and realizes how far away from your lips he is right now and moves to his forearms again. He pets the top of your head and whispers into the air, “You feel so perfect- just like I thought. You’re so perfect everywhere.”

In his vulnerable state, you’re right in front of his perfect, untainted neck, and you want to lick and suck at it to work through the mind numbing pleasure, like it would ground you to reality. Usually, he needs more coercing, with the team and all, it’s very hard to hide hickeys. Yet,

“Spence, baby,” you whine, putting that lilt in your voice that tears him apart, “can I kiss your neck, please?”

Immediately, “Yeah, honey, take what you need.”

And your tongue immediately licks a stripe up his skin, salty and sweet with sweat. Sucking the skin between your teeth you leave a fresh deep mark for him to parade around the next few days. You say sorry in your head looking at it, but it doesn’t make it to your lips.

He laughs and shakes his head, knowing exactly what his skin is going to look like tomorrow and in retaliation he moves your thighs overtop his shoulders, hitting a spot inside you that has your mind fuzzing. 

Your hips thrash a bit, not used to being unable move and wiggle around the pleasure like you typically do. Especially with this new stretch inside you, you’re keening.

“That feel good, baby?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, “God. Yes.” 

“Tell me I feel good.”

“Spencer,” you whine, dragging out the syllables, “you feel so good. Fucking me so good.”

He moans high, then, “Now, tell me you love me.”

With an even smaller pause than before, “Fuck, I love you.”

“Mhm. Again.”

“Baby- I love you-” You whimper out, realizing instantly he’s about to make you cum once more.

“I love you.” He replies gently, juxtaposing his thrusts again, which are now growing sloppy with his nearing orgasm.

Pulling him into a harsh kiss, you pull his bottom lip between your teeth, trembling with his skin between your jaws. Having the power to draw blood but keeping yourself at bay. Ever a good girl for him.

Without having to ask, he brings a hand to rub your clit again. You let go of his lip with a groan, head falling back against his pillow with your back arching into him.

“C-can I cum?”

“Of course you can. Baby, ‘need to feel you coming around me, I know you feel so good.”

Who are you to deny that? Biting the inside of your cheek, you're coming for him again. It’s better than you could’ve imagined, the unstoppable stretch inside you while your walls flutter for reprieve around him. Better yet, Spencer is spilling into you. 

You whine high in your throat feeling him cum inside you, somehow making more room for this alongside his cock inside you. Overwhelmed, you grab for his hand, he interlocks his fingers with yours instantly, a whimpering mess alongside you.

When his hips are still against yours, you cannot think a single thing, you only feel. The slow slow slowness of him pulling out of you with a pop. The drip of his cum out of you like a sedative. The kisses against your face and lips.

Nails scratching lightly at the base of his neck convince him enough of your coherency, nothing to panic over. Spencer is giving you space to be fucked out of your mind.

“My sweet, pretty bunny, I wanna clean you up. Can I? I’ll be gone for just a moment.”

You groan, that does not sound like something that should happen. 

“Coming with…” You mumble, barely legible.

Spencer laughs, “Yeah. Right. You’re not walking on those two legs again today. See? I’ll run.”

You smile back and close your eyes, shooing him away with a wave of your hand. He’s right too, you barely even notice the time pass before he’s back with a warm rag.

He’s cleaned you up, positioned you to lay on top of him and is pulling teasingly at your earlobe, muttering something about a takeout order he placed for you both.

You eat cuddled up on his sofa, watching some new space documentary perched on his lap. You’re sitting right by the textbook you pulled out earlier and you haven’t even noticed, your essay so far from your mind that the only thing you could possibly learn right now is the pattern of Spencer’s breath against the back of your neck.

Boys will be boys

“that’s my sister! that’s my younger sister! isn’t she gorgeous?”

some more ex!frank pleaseee :)

literally anything: reader drunk calls him, reader is on a date and frank sees them (the date is awful) with some smut

I know you were probably looking for something different and this went a lot angstier but these things happen!

Believe Me | Ex-Frank Castle

You had already spent the afternoon crying in your apartment so you decided to cry in the corner coffee shop for a change of scenery. You'd managed to score your favorite table by the window -- a small win on an otherwise completely shitty day-- and you settled in with your book and the cheapest drink on the menu because it was the last of your cash. But after ten minutes of reading and re-reading the same paragraph, you accepted defeat and simply stared out the window and let your eyes lose focus.

You didn't even like the dumb fucker but the rejection hurt just the same. You hadn't truly liked any man since Frank, if you were being honest with yourself, but you certainly kept trying. And maybe you sought out a parade of losers to fulfill the the private prophecy that you could never be happy without Frank anyway.

Maybe most definitely. Frank would hate the self-destruction on you.

And Bryce (what kind of name is Bryce anyway for god's sake) was no different from the rest -- boring, no manners, pathetic in a way you couldn't pinpoint. Decidedly not Frank. But Bryce did have one quality that set him apart-- he was a thief.

What seemed like a run of the mill ghosting turned out to be a not-so-run-of-the-mill stealing of your credit cards, all your cash on hand, your fucking BLENDER and your dad's watch. That last one stung the most. And beyond the rage of being robbed by someone named Bryce, you couldn't help but feel the acute rejection of being ghosted while in the shower moments after sex and apparently, pathetic enough to steal from.

And yes, Bryce is the straw that broke the camel's back but you were headed to a crying session in a coffee shop one way or another. In the months since Frank had forced you apart, your life had been a series of hardships and moderate depression ever since-- some of it circumstance but a good deal of it self destruction. You almost welcomed the onslaught of sobs -- like finally opening the release valve to full blast.

And so that's what you did-- sat in the seat by the window, letting your eyes soften on some distant dark blob outside and letting the tears rip. At first you attempted to contain the sob like any normal well-mannered, unhinged sobbing woman in public but you soon lost control of that too, letting the sobs turn to embarrassing heaving hiccups, pathetically rubbing your runny nose on the sleeve of your sweater.

Who knows how long you let it go on-- 5 minutes? 10 minutes? 20 minutes? You could ask the guy beside you who, to his credit, pretended the whole thing wasn't happening-- headphones on and eyes glued to his laptop-- but there seemed to be a subdued scuffle happening at the moment. Through your blurry vision you turn to see him being manhandled out of his table by the black blob from outside, a gruff voice saying "Don't offer the woman a goddamn tissue? Christ. Move the hell outta the way."

"Frank?' you croak, your heart hammering in your chest at his appearance as you swipe away the tears on your face. God only knows what your mascara looked like. In the time since you'd broken up (well, since Frank left you) you hadn't seen Frank once but you'd... sensed him sometimes. You knew it sounded insane to say that so you kept it to yourself and had mostly convinced yourself that you were losing your mind.

"Sweetheart you ok? You hurt somewhere? Tell me what's goin' on," he asks, his brows crinkled together as he pushes himself past the man next you and crouches in front of your chair.

"How did you...." you ask, ignoring his questions.

"Saw you in the window from the street doll. Come on, let's get you cleaned up a bit," he replies, standing from his crouch and taking both your hands to guide you up from the chair. On instinct you follow his lead, your mind still catching up to the circumstances. Your brain always felt a bit floaty and detached after a good cry.

"my book," you mumble as Frank is walking you away from the table and toward the bathroom. He doubles back and swipes the book, stuffing it in his coat pocket as he guides you by the low back to the single-use bathroom.

Frank walks you in and shuts and locks the door behind him. You don't get a chance to look in the mirror at the state of yourself before he murmurs a quiet "up" as he takes you by the hips and puts you on the bathroom sink. The position leaves you feeling vulnerable, your skirt riding up an inch.

"Frank I'm not hurt or anything," you tell him as you watch his face inspect yours. His jaw twitches in that way it does as his eyes scan the rest of you.

"I find you cryin' in a coffee shop and you're gonna tell me you ain't hurt?" he replies, hands on his hips as he demands some answers. Answers that you didn't owe him, by his own design.

"Well not physically," you respond, your eyes casting down to where you pick at a loose thread on your sweater. Frank's heavy hand lands on yours to stop the nervous tic.

"S'not the only way to be hurt," he counters, adding, "Tell me what's goin' on sweetheart," he rumbles, his tone quieter.

"It's not your job anymore to--" you start but you're cut off with his scoff.

"I'll decide what's my job, understand?" he asks, bending slightly at the knees and hunching his neck to catch your eyes. You eye him in hesitation but there's an impatient bang on the door. "Hey buddy hurry up in there!" shouts a male voice from the other side.

"Occupied asshole!" Frank shouts back, turning for a moment to yell at the door before focusing his attention like a laser back to you. "Start talkin' baby," he says, his voice softer.

"It's a guy," you start with a sigh and you catch the way he casts his eyes away for a beat. "It's not like that," you assure him. This wasn't a story of a love lost. Frank would not have to tend to your broken, longing heart. At least not for Bryce. "I'm not sad that he's gone I'm just sad how he did it," you clarify, casting your own eyes away this time because the shame still felt too embarrassing to face.

Even without looking at him you can sense the way Frank tenses-- his shoulders shifting up an inch, his brows lowering, his finger twitching. `

"Tell me how he did it," he says, a mirage of calmness on the surface but you knew Frank well enough to know the suppressed rage underneath. You knew if you told Frank he'd find Bryce by tonight, beat him to a pulp if he was lucky and return your stolen stuff plus whatever Bryce had on him as interest.

You almost stop the story there because you knew this wasn't Frank's problem. You weren't Frank's problem anymore. He made sure of that. Frank couldn't keep fixing things forever. Hadn't you needed enough from him?

"Hey," Frank says, his face a little softer as he reaches for the paper towel and runs it under the sink. "I, uh, need you to tell me what's goin' on alright?," he adds, dabbing at the run mascara on your face. His expression is drawn, the rage from before simmering into something like sorrow and unease.

"You don't owe me anything anymore Frank," you reply, reminding him of the distance he so carefully crafted between the two of you.

"Hey fuck that talk doll. You can spare me that because you know I still love you," he replies, agitation making his jaw tense. He balls up the paper towel and tosses it in the trash.

But you didn't know. You had felt utterly isolated and alone, when every moment since then felt uncertain and unstable-- just a somersault downhill of bad decisions and destructive behavior.

"Don't say that. Don't say you love me," you reply, your voice shaky with exhaustion.

At that Frank looks taken aback-- surprised in a way you hadn't seen him before. He's agitated, yes, but he's ... scared. Afraid of what you had believed for the last three months since the breakup.

"Sweetheart," Frank starts as he cups your jaw and tilts your head so that your eyes find his, "tell me you know that I love you." You'd seen this determination before but never this fear-- the way his fingertips sunk into the back of your neck and the way his chest rose and fell as he awaited your response, his usual composure giving way to something more desperate.

"I-" you start. Could you say you knew that? Was the last three months of pain because he no longer loved you or because he loved you but made you live without it? It was easier to hate him for it. To wallow in abandonment and find validation in losers like Bryce. It was easier to believe maybe you were just unlovable.

"But then why did you--" you start but are cut off by your own sob. Why did you leave. Why did you leave. Why did you leave.

Frank's face crumples as he holds your face upturned toward his. Regret tugs at his features as he pulls you to his chest, your legs dangling from the bathroom sink, and smashes you into him.

He cups the back of your head, murmuring "I fucked up sweetheart. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry doll." He rocks the two of you back and forth and you hear the way his chest hammers against your ear. "Thought you knew, thought you understood sweetheart."

You shake your head against him -- you didn't know. And you didn't want to let yourself be cared for if he was just going to leave again. You make a feeble attempt to push him away. The force does little against his grip and he only becomes more emphatic, "Need you to hear me doll," he rasps, "never stopped loving you."

He kisses the top of your head as your lean against him, "You believe me sweetheart?"

You shake your head no again. It was easier not to believe him. To think the months of misery weren't for nothing. To let him feel a fraction of the torment you did.

He releases his grip and cups your face again, the strength of him smashing your cheeks as his thumbs swipe at your tears.

"Look at me," he demands, tears in his own eyes, "c'mon doll, look at me," he repeats, his tone softening. You still don't meet his eyes, choosing to fixate on the button on his jacket.

He kisses your forehead, "Please," he begs, "please look at me sweetheart." Still you refuse and he kisses your lips -- soft like a whisper and wet from your tears.

"Look at me sweetheart," he repeats, "need you to believe me," he adds, his tone desperate and sad and hurt and terrified.

You finally let your eyes find his, his face a blurry mess through your tears. His brows are set low and his chin is curled as he bites back tears.

"Believe me baby," he says quietly, kissing your lips again and lingering a moment longer.

"Believe me that I still love you," he says again, kissing below your eye.

"Believe me," he repeats, kissing below the other eye.

"Believe me," he begs, kissing you once again on the lips, extending another moment and tugging you closer by his grip on your face. The last one forces a breathy whine from your throat and the action is like a tinder-spark. He pulls you closer with sudden force, his lips locked to yours and his tongue teasing its way inside.

He anchors his hands to your hips and yanks your body to the edge of counter, your legs straddling his hips and tugging your skirt up.

"Tell me to stop sweetheart," he huffs in a moment between devouring you, his fingers sinking so deep into your hips you'll be bruised by morning.

You don't. You should but you don't. You cling to this moment because you need it. Because maybe it'll heal you. Maybe it'll let you believe that you were lovable to someone like Frank.

When you don't say a word, he uses your permission to continue, yanking you even closer to him so that you feel his hardness against your thin panties. The sensation makes your desperate, rolling your hips and starting to claw at his belt and whining his name.

"I got it sweetheart," he pants, removing his hands from you for a moment to unbuckle himself, reaching into his dark denim pants to tug out his heavy, thick cock. He deftly moves to your sweater, tugging it over your head in one motion and unlatching your bra with one hand.

Your nipples instantly pebble in the cold bathroom and he pops one in his mouth and sucks, the stinging pain making you arch againt him.

"Frank, please," you beg for him and he grunts in impatience, reaching between the two of you to pump his hard cock twice before tugging your panties to the side and pressing his tip to your soaked slit.

"Fuck," he huffs at your slickness, slowly pressing the rest of the way in, "Fuck I missed this," he murmurs to himself, his eyes locked on where he enters you, stilling. He stays this way a moment, like he's memorizing the feeling of you.

"ohmygod," you whine, feeling nearly pinned in place on the counter by the size of him. At your whimper, he returns to service. He grips you by the back of the thighs to pull you from the counter and flush against him, lifting you in the air to spin and press you against the wall of the bathroom.

With you pressed in place, he pumps, slow but deep. You squeeze your eyes shut, and feel yourself squeeze his cock at the angle.

"Open f'me doll," he grunts between a pump and you feel a light tap to your cheek. You squeeze your eyes tighter-- transporting yourself somewhere where this never ends.

He taps again, his touch light but insistent. "Look at me sweetheart," he says, his tone begging.

You open your eyes to find his and they're already boring into you, a breathy "attagirl" from his lips.

"I'm sorry baby," he grunts, pumping once.

"So fuckin' sorry."

Pump.

"Ain't gonna hurt you again."

Pump.

"Gonna fix it baby"

Pump.

"Gonna make you feel better"

Pump.

"Gonna keep you safe"

Pump.

"Gonna make you feel good sweetheart"

Pump.

Promises tumbling from his lips and Frank didn't make promises he didn't keep. He was going penance for the harm he caused, praying at your alter and making sacred commitments-- to fix this, to love you, to keep you. You start crying again, nodding your head with every promise and your heart pounding in your chest.

"That's it, let it out pretty girl," Frank coos, relief in his tone at your release. He plants his thumb on your swollen clit and with only a few flicks, you cum through the tears, feeling Frank grip you tighter in his arms as you jerk and spasm. At the constriction around him, Frank follows quickly after, cumming hard and filling you in a way that felt proprietary.

And you let yourself believe him.