「 𝐌𝐀𝐄! 」 — 20 years old, rafe cameron’s canonical wife, fan of all things obx and the bear alike, fanfiction writer, multifandom blog
IMPORTANT: tumblr has recently started automatically marking posts as containing sensitive material whether they do or not contain any sensitive material — i.e., sexual themes, mentions of drugs or alcohol, etc — and unfortunately they are not keen on removing these. therefore, certain fanfics may be unavailable to view or hidden. i am actively working to address the issue, however it is not up to me and is entirely on tumblr. thank you!
friends it has been far too long since i’ve been a whore 🥹 see my thoughts below the cut
minors dni — nsfw content ahead. i cannot control your media consumption but i can ask you respect my boundaries!
“oh mae what are you thinking about?”
nothing except spencer (specifically season one) who is so quietly smug about the bulge in your stomach so visible as he thrusts in and out of you, keeping his pace slow so he can watch.
this one specifically btw
spencer is soft, he’s like a delicate cat. one that you have to let know every move you’re making in bed (or the shower, or the sofa..) you don’t mind, of course. he’s a bit more inexperienced - all he had before you was naughty websites and a hand now balled into a fist by your head to support himself.
let’s go further and say it’s the first night you’re having sex with him that you’re not riding him because he swears he can handle being a top! he can, he promises!!!
like he makes his thrusts so slow despite your whines for him to go faster, hands on his hips to try to guide him. he isn’t concerned about hurting you or anything, far from it. he just has to watch. watch at the outline of his bulge in you. gosh, it’s so intoxicating, like a train wreck he just can’t look away from.
he also cums in under five minutes while he’s pathetically whimpering in your ear thank you very much.
also.. is this a safe space to discuss like submissive!spencer cause that man up until MAYBE season 6 was a bottom bitch, and i may share thoughts on that soon (lmk if yall would read that lmfao)
what do we think about sleepy sex with hotch…. 🤤 (cw: some somnophilia) not proofread <3
picture it: like genuinely this man is exhausted. the kind you can just feel in your bones, one that threatens to kill you right then and there, yet all he can focus on is you.
maybe he’d been gone for a while. a case that had a mental and physical toll on him; his mind had been, to put it blankly, fucked. the contents were horrific and he’d been distracting himself ever since. not only that but he’d also been lacking proper sleep and actually eating meals (and despite what he says, takeout for the insert number here time in a row is not a meal).
through it all, you were the thing keeping him sane. each text message checking in, every late night and secret phone call he’d take just to hear your voice and to remind himself of something real and not downright disturbing in the world of unsubs and murder.
he may or may not have also gotten himself off once with the photo he keeps of you in his wallet, but he keeps that to himself.
and when he enters the house you two share, all he wants is you. it’s quiet, the lights downstairs turned off. he finds you in the bedroom, curled up and out like a light. some novel you’d been reading disregarded on his side of the bed.
he moves it gently, making sure not to bend the spine too much or move your bookmark on the page you’d fallen asleep at. then he removes his clothes, leaving him in just his boxers. it feels good to actually sit on his own bed, hand trailing up your bare thigh.
it’s almost romantic, the way he just watches as your chest rises and falls with each breath. he lets out a deep shutter when he feels you bare underneath the nightgown you’d had on. and his mind reflects. you’d made a comment once about how if he came home and you were asleep, he could feel free to you. you didn't mind, you wanted it rather.
and gosh did he want it too. he took his time to kiss at your thighs, his hands pushing that little nightgown up higher. his lips trail up against your skin, placing a light kiss at your pelvic bone before he’s gently spreading your folds.
he can hear the little whimper that illicits. he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “just me, sweetness. you okay if i continue?” he whispers. once you murmur a “please, yes, please”, he decides he just has to oblige!
he can tell you’re still in the stage between fully awake and still holding onto whatever dream you were having, and that’s where he’d prefer to have you as his tongue licks a long, wet stride up your slit. he actually moans at the taste, his hands digging into the skin at your thighs.
he lets his tongue tease you for a moment, before he's eating you out like a man fucking starved. aaron is the kind of guy who could get off of eye contact alone while his tongue thrusts in and out of your hole. but he’ll settle for watching you fight the sleep off to be awake for him.
he relishes in the tiny whimpers and barely audible moans he manages to pull from you. even more so when your hand tangles in his hair as he pushes a finger inside while his tongue works on your clearly neglected clit, sucking and twirling his tongue around it. “that’s it, pretty girl. let me hear you, hear how good im making y’feel.” his voice is low, husky. it almost sounds not like his own, but he doesn’t care.
when he pushes you over the first climax, he’s grinning against your mound. you can feel it. “pretty girl.” he places a kiss against your clit before he’s climbing to be overtop of you, kissing you deeply. you can taste yourself against his mouth.
“you ready for me to be inside of you, honey?” he pushes to keep your thighs open as he places a knee between them. you nod, pathetically so but you could care less about how desperate you look, hands grabbing his arms. “please, aaron. need to feel you.”
who is he to say no?
by time he’s inside of you? you’re fully awake as he’s thrusting into you. you swear you can see a bulge of him in your stomach, but your eyes are too heavy to fight to keep open as pleasure overtakes your senses, replacing each cohesive thought with repeats of his name and more.
he gets to get actual moans and whimpers from you as he burrows deep inside of you, letting your walls pulsate around him as the length of him sits in you. he moves, gently so, and you swear you’re seeing stars.
“you’re doing so good for me, honey.” he praises, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “gotta cum for me again, ‘kay? need to feel it, baby.”
“please, aaron.” it doesn’t need to be said what you’re begging for. to help you get there, his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing the still sensitive bud of nerves. he always adores seeing the highs he gave you: eyes rolling back in your head, back arching as he has to pin your hips down to be able to keep fucking you through it.
your next climax doesn’t take long to come (pun intended) and he’s not far behind you. he spills out in you, because aaron totally has a breeding kink and im going to elaborate on that later. once you both settle, he pulls out and moves to let his head rests against your thighs to watch the aftermath as you catch your breath from the world shaking orgasm your boyfriend just gave you, your own climax mixing with his. his finger pushes it back inside, and he grins at the moan it illicits from you.
after you’re washed up by an ever affectionate aaron, he lays you down and kisses the crown of your head gently. it’s a stark contrast to the man he can become during sex, all dirty talk and little apologies for how greedy he is with your cunt.
he covers you up, large arms keeping you in place as they wrap around your waist. “gotta start coming home more often like this.” he says, and he grins when you do.
no thoughts just older!rafe cameron who lets you bounce on his dick while smoking a cigarette. like this man is significantly older than you and he just happened to catch a peek of you in that two piece during a hot ass summer (pervy neighbor rafe is canon idc) and he’s just talking so damn filthy. even calls you his little bunny.
“my perfect lil bunny, huh?” his voice is gruff and kind of muffled as the cigarette hangs between his lips, his hands guiding you up and down on his length. he hits your g-spot so perfectly you see stars and the whole damn galaxy. “doing so good f’me — fuck — should make you do this more often.”
when your walls involuntarily squeeze around his cock at that, he lets out a tiny groan then grins, wide. “seems like she’d love that too. wouldn’t she?”
no thoughts just spencer who explains to you the process of orgasms while he’s eating you out. (i dont know what is with my thoughts lately my bad guys)
spencer reid is the kind of guy that babbles during sex without realizing he’s doing it. it’s both endearing and sometimes infuriating when you’re so desperate for release, for the tiniest bit of friction against your clit or your mound, and he just won’t. stop. talking.
but other times, it’s like an educational experience. like right now as he’s licking stripes up your pretty little pussy, all wet and practically pulsating just for him. “did you know,” he slips a finger inside of you as he talks in a rather husky voice he didn’t even realize he had. “that an orgasm starts with blood flowing to the genitals?”
he continues as he pumps one finger in and out of your hole in a rather cruel pace, his other hand holding your hips down when they buck up into his touch. he grins at the way you gasp. “that’s what causes arousal. or, in layman’s terms, what causes my penis to become hard and what causes you to become wet.”
he adds another finger, continuing, “from there, the tension builds and builds like a sort of pressure. and then when it peaks - aka an orgasm - the muscles in your uterus and pelvis, and your vagina, contract roughly every second.”
he sucks on your clit for a few seconds, before he leans back to watch as his fingers move faster inside of you. they curl as he speaks again. his voice drowns out your sounds. “the brain, at the same time, is releasing so many endorphins and oxytocin— that’s the love hormone, produced in the hypothalamus.”
he watches as you practically grasp at the bed sheets beneath you as the peak of your orgasm begins. he watches your cunt to watch his experiment be proven correct, taking in your moans and light whimpers. “and that, that is the climax.”
once you’ve settled flat onto the bed post soul snatching orgasm, he crawls over top of you. one arm braces against your head as he kisses you deeply and sweetly.
literally just wanted to be a whore do not mind me (18+ clark kent thoughts ahead!) also this is totally size kink clark LMFAO
did you know, ovulation has a smell? clark does.
studies show that a woman’s body odor can become almost sweeter to others during the ovulation phase. and your lovesick puppy dog eyed alien boyfriend, with his super smell, is well aware of that.
usually, this is normal for people. except clark who has to fight every urge in his perfect body to not pounce on you the second he can smell when you’re ovulating
it’s not his fault, he swears! he just happens to have super smell and of course he can control it. until you’re dry humping him on the sofa or letting him thrust pathetically into you, he swears he’ll behave.
and you know he will. clark was always a gentleman — the kind to whisper in your ear as he’s deep inside of you if it’s still okay, the kind to give you the best aftercare in the world.
that is until your ovulation cycle perfectly lines up with his breeding phase. it was the krpytonian side of him; the side that forced him to go into these mindsets that force him to disregard all other basic functions and focus on the warmth of your velvet walls.
and that’s where he is now. your knees are practically pushed to your chest, heaven knows how many orgasms already coaxed out of you (two? maybe three?) as he pounds into you relentlessly. he’s muttering things to himself.
you aren’t sure if he’s talking just to himself or to your cunt, so exposed for him. “gotta get just a few more outta you, sweetheart”, “doing so good f’me my pretty girl”, “look at her, giving me everything she’s got”
he adores watching as he disappears between your folds. he’s almost too cocky (no pun intended) in the way he can find the bulge in your stomach, taking in the way he causes it. it makes him thrust deeper, his tip brushing your g-spot.
when you begin to cry from the sheer pleasure, that’s when he lets you cum. it’s dramatic, yes, the way you moan his name and practically writhe underneath him. but he holds you in place to fuck you through his own high.
after, he places a kiss to your sweaty forehead, grinning in a devilish way. “take a breather, hun. we’ll go back at it once you’re settled.” he says. “lets go for four this time, yeah?”
just sitting here thinking about rafe "please use my money" cameron when you buy yourself a pretty little outfit using his card (was going to make this a longer fanfic but im like living in a hospital with my mom right now and i wanted to get this thought out of my notes app LOL)
like this man needs to pay for everything. date night out? he's picking up the bill. you could text him that you're getting gas and as soon as you answer his question of "where at", he's meeting you there and putting his card in, giving you a kiss then driving away like he just committed a crime and needed to flee
so naturally when you make an absentminded comment of needing more clothes to keep at his house - specifically underwear since you had somehow ran out - there didn't need to be an explanation of why his card was sitting on the dresser that same day.
you only got a few things, a lingerie set and a simple pack from a local store. and when you send him a skimpy little mirror selfie in his bedroom at that full length mirror with a text of "your money has excellent taste"?
he's having to excuse himself to go jack off in the bathroom while in a meeting. furiously pumping his cock, spilling his climax all over the phone screen where the photo remains up.
and by the time he returns to the table after taking care of business and returns, he's texting you back. "i'll be home in five. keep that on."
SUMMARY: the last thing robby expected after an argument was his girlfriend would be attacked.
CONTENT WARNINGS: female!reader (she/hers used), reader being attacked by a patient / mentions of injury, mention of robby and reader having a fight, employee x boss dynamic, mentions of mental health struggles (not elaborated on), reader is a resident, not proofread and also not good medical advice/writing??, THIS IS ALSO MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR ROBBY BE KIND I BEG 🙏
RATING: angst / some fluff - my entire blog is 18+ regardless!
WORD COUNT: 1.3k
AUTHOR’S NOTES: hi! so i recently watched the pitt and i loved the idea of writing for robby. i am someone who believes we need to bring more awareness to healthcare workers being attacked so consider this my way of doing that. i also have not written for robby or any pitt characters before so if you don’t like this, please be kind anyway.
“How is she?”
“Heart rate and O2 levels are steady but I can’t get a good BP read. Stupid fuckin’ machine.”
Everything around you feels like it’s moving at two times speed. There’s people calling out, talking over each other and their voices blend.
You can barely make out a few things — head injury, possible wrist fracture, superficial bruises — where you lay on the stretcher. Putting together how you got here is the difficult part.
From what you remember, you’d been sent into a patient room. The chart made a note he’d yelled at the other doctors but that wasn’t anything you hadn’t experienced in your two years of residency in the pitt.
Yelling, name calling. It was a terrible thing to experience but it was part of the job. You knew it to be a fact that healthcare workers are five times more likely to experience workplace injury/violence.
“What the hell happened?” A new voice enters the scene. You identify that as Dana. Mama Bear of the ER.
“Whiskey attacked her.” You remembered that they had (lovingly) nicknamed the patient whiskey for how much he’d been asking for a glass since he arrived in the ER. You hear Dana whisper “damn it”.
“Langdon, how is she?” The same voice that asked originally repeats. You rather quickly identify it as Robby. He isn’t one of the few faces you can see through squinted eyes hovering over you.
“She’s okay. Vitals are steady, pupils are reacting well to light.” Langdon answers. You can tell he’s frustrated with being asked that twice now, but he knows it’s best to answer.
“Get a CT just to be on the safe side.” Another voice demands. Whitaker. “Did you page orthopedics for that wrist?”
You had gone in with little expectations of a conversation with the man, who you knew was named Joe. He had been silent for the most part, knocked out from the propofol he had been given for a minor surgery. You began the routine steps — checking vitals with the assistance of the monitors he was hooked up to, checking his wounds.
His chart said he’d been brought here after a car accident. As you checked his side, that’s when he moved. Wrapping an arm around your neck tightly, putting you in a headlock. You didn’t remember who had entered the room first. Everything went black after that.
When you come back, the bright lights of one of the trauma rooms are what greets you. It takes your eyes a moment to fully adjust.
Dana’s voice is the first one you hear. It’s soft, gentle. “Honey,” she’s beside your ear so you can hear her over the chaos. “You’re okay. You’re in a trauma bay. You’re safe, alright?”
You nod. It hurts to do so, leaving you giving a tiny movement of your head. You close your eyes, not before catching a glimpse of Robby standing in the doorway.
Just a glimpse of you had your heart feeling like it was breaking. Last night, you and him had an argument. Full on screaming match over work, responsibilities, loyalty. You knew he’d been making a few risky choices lately.
“I love you,” you could remember telling him. “I don’t want to see you hurt yourself, Robby. Talk to me. Please.”
“There’s nothing to talk about! Everyone’s acting like I’m some sort of lose cannon. I’m fine.” He shot back. “And I love you too but not when you’re breathing down my fucking neck acting like I’m on some psychosis trip.”
He didn’t move to help. Didn’t interject. Just stood in the doorway.
“I’m not treating you like that! I just- I care about you. If you’re going through something, talk to me. Don’t push me aside or try to ignore it!”
“The only thing I want to ignore is you right now.” You had blamed it on the heat of the moment, but it didn’t make it hurt less. Didn’t make a tiny part of you wonder if he meant it after he had stormed out of your apartment that night.
You focus on the voices around you instead. Concussion, mild at best. Your wrist was sprained. Langdon was moving around to get proper vitals.
—
The next time you see Robby is when you’ve been settled into a patient room instead of the trauma bay. This room seems quieter, the lights dimmed to deal with the raging headache you had.
The police had shown up shortly after you were steady enough to answer the basic questions — who is the President (you very unfortunately knew that one), your birthday, where you were. You had answered them all with ease.
Robby stood in the doorway of the room. His arms crossed against his chest, his shoulder against the frame itself. “How you feeling?”
You let out a heavy sigh. “Like I got hit by a semi truck.” You answer honestly. Your wrist was elevated on the pillow beside you, a cast on it. You had a grade 3 fracture. It wasn’t flattering, and you knew you’d been resigned to desk duty until you were cleared. “But I’m okay.”
“Well,” he steps fully into the room and slides the door shut behind himself when a loud group of voices picks up. He draws the curtain over the door as well. “Not quite a semi truck. Did they explain what happened?”
“I was attacked. By a patient.” You were horrified when you found out the full story — gotten the visual from Dana. How someone had spotted you in the room with Joe when he had his arm wrapped tightly around your neck. You assumed it was you who called out, which is why you add, “I must’ve called out or something. I don’t even remember.”
The police had gotten varying statements for the case. “You didn’t.. call out or anything.” Robby corrects as he pulls the chair up to your bedside, sitting down with a heavy huff of his own. “A nurse noticed it from across the hall at the nurse’s station. Activated a code hula hoop.”
You can tell he’d been thinking a lot. “I uhm,” he shakes his head with a sniffle. “I shouldn’t have said everything I said last night.”
“Robby.” You go to cut him off but he holds a hand up like he’s had this conversation planned for a while. Knowing him, he has. “No, no. I just.. let me speak, okay? I said some really fucked up things.”
“You weren’t being annoying or pushy. You were being a concerned partner and I.. shit, I needed that honey. I don’t know what’s been going on with me but I don’t want you to feel like it’s your mess to handle or your fault or anything.” He says.
He takes your non-injured hand in his, and places his lips against it. He closes his eyes for a moment before he opens them and pulls away. He clears his throat. “I feel terrible for not coming to talk to you sooner. When I heard what happened I just.. I froze. I should’ve been there.”
“No,” you insist as you look at him. “I would much rather one of us be attacked and we be down a resident than the Chief Attending Physician be out.”
“I’d rather neither of you be here.” Dana’s voice comes from the doorway. She steps inside and draws the curtain once more as Robby stands up to come up with some excuse. You two had gotten good at that since your relationship was still a secret around the workplace, and Robby was technically your boss.
“Oh relax, Robinavitch.” She says as she walks over to the computer, turning the screen away from you so the lights didn’t blind you further. She pulls her glasses over her face. “I already know. You two aren’t as sneaky as you think.”
Robby sighs when he hears his name being called. He wants to give you a kiss on the forehead but sees that tiny glance from Dana and decides for a shoulder pat instead. “I’ll come see you later, okay?” You nod, and he leaves.
You sigh, looking at the nurse who had a small smirk behind the computer. “Are you going to snitch on us?” You ask. She laughs.
“Snitch on the girl who’s made Robby seem somewhat more human?” She shakes her head. “Not in a million years.”
the tie that binds (your hands) — aaron hotchner fanfic
SUMMARY: aaron’s had just about enough of his newest agent making his life hell and decides to treat her like the brat she is.
CONTENT WARNINGS: afab/female!reader, non!descript reader, reader being such a twerp (lovingly), implied older hotch - age gap not specified, boss/subordinate dynamic, dominant!aaron, bondage (hands being tied), some spanking but not much, unwrapped p in v (wrap it before ya tap it), fingering, consent color system used, dominant!hotch (he's also kind of an ass.. but lovingly!), not proofread so ignore any mistakes for my sake </3
RATING: smut / fluff - this entire blog is 18+, minors dni! <3
WORD COUNT: 3.3k
AUTHOR'S NOTES: can we tell i love dominant hotch and have had this idea for a while? anyway i just wanted to share that i'm so grateful for y'alls love on my latest fics! it truly does mean the most. any interaction with any post is greatly appreciated. thank you and happy reading! <3 also two hotch fics back to back look at me??? AUGH
This had to be one of your worst ideas yet. Well, second worst.
The first one was how you'd been acting lately. Pushing the lines to see how long it would take to get Aaron Hotchner to lose his cool with one of his agents.
Penelope told you it was a rare occurence for him to actually lose it with someone. "He's like, scarily calm sometimes. Even when he shouldn't be." She'd told you. "It honestly should be part of the academy training."
That part made you think about how little you'd seen him overreact unless it was necessary — namely when a suspect or unsub needed gentle nudging towards a confession.
You figured you would take the Reid route and perform an experiment. It wasn't like Hotch didn't deserve it: in your mind, he did. Ever since you joined the team, he had been treating you different, as if you didn't have the same amount of experience as Morgan did. Maybe it was just because it was with a different team, but it felt off to you.
You'd started off small: you'd stood closely to him during your first day in Detroit for the case you were on, making sure he felt your presence. Anytime he looked at you, you gave him a smile even if it didn't feel like you should have.
Morgan was the first to catch on, and you winked in response to that small grin he gave you over the rim of his coffee cup.
Maybe it wasn't your brighest idea to mess with the man you'd worked under for less than a year. But it didn't stop you from continuing throughout that day — pretending you had forgot one of the case files he'd ask you to bring, moving seats when he'd sat next to you in the conference room.
By the time you'd gotten to the hotel that night, you were sure he'd catch on or you would run out of things to do that didn't cross an invisible line between professional and personal. But then, it seemed like the universe granted you a gift.
JJ had approached you in the lobby of the hotel. "So, turns out, the hotel only has seven rooms. Prentiss and I are going to share, Rossi already took one for himself because of course he did. Reid and Morgan are also going to share which leaves.."
"Me and Hotch. Right." You finish that sentence for her. You accept your keycard and ride the rather cranky elevator up to the floor. Stepping inside, you notice Aaron's bag already on one side of the bed.
The. one. bed.
You pause in the doorway. Aaron, stepping out of the bathroom, takes notice of that. "I know this isn't the most ideal situation but. Welcome to life with the FBI; communication issues with hotels are not unheard of." He says.
You scoff. You can't stop it before it comes out, but you also don't want to. "Why do you keep saying things like that? 'Welcome to life with the FBI'. I've been an agent for years." You say as you step into the room and shut the door behind yourself. "You're treating me like I just got done being some rookie in the academy."
He turns to look at you, taking his suit jacket off and tossing it onto the nearby armchair. "I'm not treating you like anything." He corrects. "I'm giving you the same treatment as everyone else."
"Really? When was the last time you told Reid how to fill out paperwork? Because you did that to me last week." You point out. "Or maybe you've told Morgan before how to show your badge to someone in the field, because that happened last month. Or-"
Aaron cuts you off with a sharp exhale as his hands work to undo his shirt's cuff buttons. "I don't treat them like that because I trust them. They have been on this team for a while. And forgive me but you're new."
"Not new to the FBI."
"New to this team."
"Yeah, and you won't let me live that down!" You shoot back. "I've been an agent for as long as Morgan has, almost longer than Reid. You want me to prove myself, to make it clear to you that I'm a good agent yet you're treating me like a damn child."
"You're acting like one!" He argues. "Acting like a brat, actually."
"What the hell does that mean?" You want him to elaborate on that. He says brat like he's thought that way of you for a while and finally found the appropriate word for it. "I'm a brat?"
"Yes. A brat who frankly needs to be put in her place every once in a while." He answers as he turns, taking his tie off and placing it on the bed.
"Oh and how do you intend to do that, Hotchner?" You say his last name like it's a curse against your tongue. He looks back at you like he has an answer, before he lets out a gruff sigh instead. "Forget it. Just.. can we get some sleep, please? We have a long day tomorrow. I'll take the sofa, you take the bed."
"Oh, don't do me any favors." You say, as you grab your pillow off the bed. You walk, grabbing a blanket out of the closet nearby. "I'll take the couch. Maybe some beauty sleep will make you less of a pain in my ass."
"Oh, now I'm a pain in your ass?"
"If I'm a brat then yes you're an ass."
───
It didn't need to be said that you didn't sleep great last night.
It wasn't just the fact that the sofa was rather uncomfortable or that it smelled like some old lady's perfume, and not in a nostalgic way. It was the fact everytime you shut your eyes, his words kept repeating in your head.
A brat who needs to be put in her place. You so badly wanted to know what the hell he was trying to say with that. Why he said it like that. If that was an offer to find out what "put in her place" even meant. You were just grateful none of the team seemed to have the room closest to yours, since Morgan probably would've offered to help you figure it out.
You try to get it out as you bury yourself in the case. Proposing theories, going to the victim's houses with Reid. You even volunteer yourself to do case notes for the day, which is how you end up staying late at the precint. So late that by the time you leave, it's incredibly dark outside.
You enter the hotel room to find Aaron still awake as well. You close the door quietly behind yourself and toe your shoes off by the door, placing them by your bag. "Hi." You say first. "Surprised you're still awake."
He had his own case file in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. There was a half filled glass of scotch on the end table by the sofa. You take note of the fact he drinks scotch, then remind yourself that seems to fit the profile you'd created for him in your mind.
"Yeah well, I couldn't sleep." He says. "I owe you an apology."
"For which part? The part where you've handled me with kid gloves or calling me a brat?" You ask, eyebrows raised. You don't let it slide past, either as you take your coat off and toss it onto the bed. "I don't even care if it was meant to be an insult, I just want to know what it meant."
"What do you mean?"
"You said I'm a brat who 'needs to be put in her place'," you remind. Was that you saying you want to fire me? Was it you wanting to threaten me with something? What?"
He takes a moment. Silence. Then he chuckles. He actually laughs. It should feel insulting, part of it does. The rest of it just feels shocking that this man was laughing at you. It's quiet, it's to himself. But he chuckles at the very least.
"That, uh, wasn't supposed to come out." He admits after he stops laughing. He sighs as he stands up, looking at you as his arms fold against his chest. "I just meant.. I don't know. I just meant if you're going to act like a brat maybe someone should treat you like one."
"Oh like what? Tie my hands behind my back, teach me a lesson?"
"Yes."
"What?"
He takes a step forward, as if testing the waters. "That's what I meant by it. I don't see a point in lying, you've already figured it out even if you don't realize it." The way his eyes narrow tell you he's profiling you. "You had to know it would be a possibility. You've been intentionally driving me crazy since we got in Detroit."
He continues, another step forward. "Don't tell me you haven't thought of that being my response. You wanted to be treated like a brat, clearly. That's probably why you did it. You've figured it out, you know my response." He takes one more step forward, before he's standing directly in front of you. "What do you want as a result?"
You look at him. Truly look at him. There's no hesitation behind his eyes. You imagine there isn't any behind yours either because he's looking at you as if to silently propose a threat: challenge me. I dare you.
You didn't want to. You hadn't been sure if you had been insane for feeling something for Hotchner ─ it wasn't love. You refused to label it as that. But, God it was something.
Maybe it had just been the proximity of working closely with him; you saw it happen with JJ and Will, Morgan and Penelope (even if they were platonical, though that label didn't feel right for the amount of flirting they did). It had to be the heat of a shared conference room and mutual case.
But, like the brat you had apparently been labelled as, you speak. "I want you to live up to your threat. Treat me like the brat you think I am." You say. You look back at him with your own silent response: back out. I dare you.
You're about to shoot some sort of quip at him, before he's kissing you. Your boss, the man you'd never even see smile before tonight, is kissing you. Lips against yours, hands moving to cup your face. His touch is surprisingly gentle, as if he's testing the waters. That or enjoying the feeling of kissing you.
Your hands move to begin taking off his dress shirt. You let out a curse against his lips as you fight with the buttons, pulling away slightly to see what you were doing.
"Jesus, what a naughty mouth." He murmurs, as his own hands work to remove your clothes. It's a toss of clothes from there: his shirt, your shirt. His pants, your pants. Before long he's guiding you back to the bed and helping you lay back on it.
He flips you over on your stomach, making you let out a short gasp. You turn your head to watch what he's doing as he moves to grab his tie off the chair, and that's when it hits you. He was actually going to teach you a lesson.
He grabs your arm and puts them behind your back. It felt ironic to you that an FBI agent was currently acting like he was arresting you. The fabric is rough against your skin, borderline painful. You let out a yelp when he tightens it.
"Too tight?"
"No."
"Good. Color?"
"Green." You answer. Neon fucking green felt like a better answer, but you play it safe.
"Good." He praises as he bends down to kiss down your back. He kisses over the clasp of your bra but leaves it there, kissing down your spine. His hands move over the plush of your ass, squeezing there. One delivers a hard blow against your skin and you gasp.
"Aw, what? Brat doesn't like her punishment that she asked for?" He says. You can tell just by the way he speaks that he's grinning, you can also feel it against your skin as he kisses at the back of your neck, sucking and kissing at the back of your shoulder. "Hotchner, do not give me a hickey." You warn.
"I make no promises. And I don't think brats are supposed to talk back." He says as he slaps your ass again. He sighs dramatically as his hand soothes the red skin there. "For someone with her hands tied behind her back you sure think you hold the power here."
"Now, you going to actually behave for me?" He asks. You want to say no just to see what would happen, but the light tug of the tie around your hands as a reminder has you answering with a quiet "yes".
"That's my girl." He praises that with a kiss against your skin again. You hate the way your cunt wraps around nothing at the way he says 'my girl'.
His hands move to remove the rest of your clothing, tossing them on the carpeted floor with the others. His hand moves between your thighs, gently teasing your folds.
You have to fight back a response of a moan or a gasp, any noise really. You wouldn't give him that satisfaction, not yet. But that's alright, because Aaron takes it as a challenge. He inserts one of his fingers without warning, and that has you letting out that delightful sound.
"Already so wet f'me, huh?" He murmurs, probably talking to your cunt instead of you. He takes his time pumping that finger in and out of you, as your face buries into the mattress beneath you. You were well aware of the fact that your team was on the same floor as you, and Aaron smirks at the sight.
He takes the time to let his thumb press against your clit. That has you almost whining into the mattress, but you bite it back. Instead you whisper a quiet "fuck", and he chuckles. "Christ, you're so responsive. I should've assumed that about you though."
"What does that mean?" You scoff when it hits you. It hits you shortly after. "Are you profiling me right now?"
He shrugs. "Am I?" He asks in response. He looks down at your cunt again, watching as his digits slide out - covered in your juices - then slide back in. "God, look at her. So wet and desperate for me." It doesn't take a genius to figure out he's not exactly talking to you in that moment.
You want to respond, to tell him he was a douche if you ever met one, but you feel so close to the edge, your breath catching with each thrust of his fingers before you regain the air in your lungs. He can probably feel it by the way your walls flutter around his digits, and that's when he removes them. You let yourself audibly whine at that, and he grins at the sound. "You still good?" He asks.
You nod, catching your breath. You can barely let out a sarcastic reply asking how good you can be when he didn’t even let you finish when he suddenly flips you over.
“Jesus-!” You yelp. You adjust to the sudden change and being on your back. You look up at Aaron. “Can you seriously give me some warning before you do that?”
He shrugs. “That’s the fun of it. The unexpected, or something equally philosophical.” He says with a kiss against your collarbone. "I'll ask Reid his thoughts on it later. Color?"
"Green." You answer, watching with keen interest as he removes his boxers, tossing them aside. "You aren't asking Reid about anything that involves us. Especially not you having me on a bed naked underneath you." You say.
He presses a kiss against your jawline as he climbs overtop of you. His hand pushes your still bound wrists above your head, holding them there. Was he always that strong? He lets his hips grind against yours lightly, and that has your head spiraling.
He doesn't leave you much time to reflect on that before he's lining himself up at your entrance. He gently pushes past your folds, and that's where your mind goes blank. Every other sense is heightened, but your brain can't think of anything but a repeat of more, more. Your mouth lets out his name like a prayer against your tongue.
He lets out a groan in response. "Shit." He murmurs, as he takes time to adjust being inside of you. If the thought of kissing you felt intense earlier, this could likely kill him. “Fuck.”
“We should work on your dirty mouth, Agent Hotchner.” He treats that sarcastic quip with a sharp thrust, one that draws a moan out of you faster than you can stop it. You can feel him deep inside of you, can even see the bulge of him against your stomach.
You let your head fall back against the mattress as he continues that pace. Each thrust leaves you moaning his name, whining as your hands strain underneath the tie. You were sure you'd have to wear long sleeves tomorrow to cover up the marks the fabric was leaving.
As you feel him brush your g-spot, you urge to touch him. To at least feel something other than the same material on your hands. "Hotch, please," you whine breathlessly.
He gives a fake pout, almost mockingly. "Please what? Gotta use your words. Can you do that? Use your words f'me." He says. He may be teasing you like a well composed jackass but it was masking the way he wanted to moan every time his hips slapped against yours. His hands hold your hips in place so hard he's sure there'll be bruises, but he can kiss those better as an apology later.
Your walls tighten around his length before releasing, a sign he'd hitten your g-spot again, and the feeling is intoxicating. So much so he does it again as you strain out a response. "Wanna touch you." You say. "Please."
He obliges. How could he not? You had been on your best behavior. He lets go of your hips for a moment - but his continue slapping against yours with a pornographic sound - as he removes the restraint on your hands. You take a moment to flex your wrists before they're wrapping around his shoulder.
He feels his own climax slowly building up inside his stomach, as his hand snakes between your bodies to tease your sensitive bud. The pad of his thumb presses firmly against it before he's rubbing it. "Shit, shit, shit." You moan, your nails digging into his skin. He groans at the feeling.
"Come for me, honey." He all but demands, forehead pressed against yours. His hand that isn't giving your clit the attention it so desperately craved holds your hips in place to hit that sweet spot again. You cry - actually cry with tears running down your pretty cheeks - at the feeling.
You reach your peak, back arching slightly. He holds you down, thrusting through it. "That's it," he says through gritted teeth as he coaxes you through your high. "Doing so good for me baby." He praises you by thrusting deeply through his own high, before he's removing himself.
He strokes himself a bit before his hot white seed is spilling against your bare stomach, letting out a moan as it does. He lets his body collapse on top of yours before he's placing softer kisses against your skin.
After a few minutes, he gets up and takes you with him. He showers with you - making sure to gently wash your sensitive cunt and helping you change into some comfier clothes. He lays in bed with you, arms wrapped around your waist as your back presses against his chest.
"Think you learned your lesson?" He asks softly, a soft smirk against his lips.
You hum. "If you do all that again, I'll learn whatever lesson you want me to." You reply.
SUMMARY: aaron comes home to a concerned jack, who thinks you and aaron are getting a divorce.
RATING: fluff - this entire blog is 18+ regardless!
CONTENT WARNINGS: reader does use she/her pronouns, non descript reader, jack calls reader mama, mentions of haley and depictions of grief, mentions of divorce / conversations with a child of that, not proofread (ignore any mistakes i beg)
WORD COUNT: 1.5k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: bit of a different fic style today! i kept watching edits of jack and aaron and i just cannot stop watching this man as a dad i dont know what it is about it but UGH </3 also i just love a good family fic idk i just want some warmth. as always interactions with this post are greatly appreciated! love you mwa mwa
Aaron's car pulls into the driveway, and for a moment he takes a second to just breathe. The past week or so had been a lot for him — their case was challenging, both mentally and in terms of solving it, a stack of paperwork greeted him in the office when he landed in Quantico earlier that morning.
And worst of all, he hadn't seen you or the kids in almost a whole week. That was probably the worst part.
Sure, you'd sent photos of Jack, now seven years old as unimaginable as that seemed, and Olivia, your ten month old baby girl who had Aaron's looks and his stubborn personality. But it didn't ease the guilt he felt of not being there in person.
After a minute (or five, he's not even sure how much time passes where he just sits in the driver's seat) of silence, he gets out of the car. Keys jingle in the doorknob before he steps inside, and almost trips over a toy car in the doorway.
After letting out a hiss mixed with a "shit" as he catches his balance, he tosses his keys into a bowl nearby. He doesn't need to call out for you since he can hear you talking in the kitchen and makes his way there, standing in the doorway. Jack's working at the dining room table on what looks like homework. You're standing by the stove as Olivia sits in her high chair, pulled up to be near you.
Olivia may look like Aaron but she is a momma's girl through and through. Probably why she's staring at you like you've hung the moon for her even though you sound a bit exasperated.
"Olivia, sweetheart. You gotta eat your veggies." You walk to bend over gently in front of her, holding a spoon of what looks to be blended peas and carrots. Your voice is soft and kind as it always is, but he can't blame you for the way you sigh when she gives you that stubborn gaze. "They're yummy, I promise."
"Maybe she doesn't like carrots, mama." Jack offers from the dining room table. For a seven year old, he'd always been so mature and quizzical. Aaron knew he'd gotten that from Haley — Aaron hates the fact she can't be here to say that or to point out to Aaron that was another thing he'd inherited from her. "Or peas. I don't like peas either. They're yucky."
"They are kind of yucky," you agree. "But it's still important to eat them." You give Olivia a pointed look when you say that, and all she does is giggle. You sigh affectionally. "Gosh, you're too cute for your own good."
But, he decides he'll grieve that later as he walks fully into the kitchen. "Hi there, my favorite girls." He says. He kisses you first, one on your cheek then a soft peck on your lips (which he can hear Jack fake gag over) before he's walking to look at Olivia himself.
"She still not liking the veggies, huh?" Aaron asks as if he wasn't just watching the exchange from the shadows. He offers the spoon to Olivia silently, and has to bite back a laugh when she gives him that same defiant look. It was always so funny to him, how much personality such a tiny girl could have.
"Nope." You answer as you stir the food on the stove. "Her and Jack seem to share a dislike of carrots and peas."
Aaron hums thoughtfully, as he picks Olivia up out of the high chair to give her a proper kiss on the cheek. She squirms slightly before relaxing in his arms, as he holds her against his side. "I'm sure she'll come around." He says.
You smile as you take Olivia from him once her tiny arms are reaching out for you. "Maybe." You echo. The lack of a baby in his arms gives Aaron the chance to go say hi to Jack, who looks very concentrated on his English homework.
"Hi my favorite guy." He says, placing a kiss against the crown of his son's head. Jack gives a small smile, but it's nothing like Aaron is used to recieving. He takes note of that. He pulls up the dining room chair nearby, setting it beside Jack's own and taking a seat. "How are you?"
"I'm okay."
The dismissive way Jack answers is the first thing Aaron notices. Jack was always full of life and talkative. But, he tried to excuse it. He could just be tired.
"Anything happen at school today?"
"No."
Aaron nods. Anytime he asked Jack anything, it turned into a five minute long conversation — about his day, the cartoon he watched, anything. "What are you working on?" He asks. He takes a glance at the paper as Jack responds. "My english homework."
Aaron takes note of the way his son is avoiding eye contact. And so, he decides to ask straight out. "You feeling okay? You seem kind of.. off." He says. It's not mean or accusatory, rather it's gentle with a mix of concern.
Jack sighs. He leans back in his chair, twirling his pencil in his hand as he answers. "I don't want you and mama to get a divorce."
That has you also paying attention. With Olivia on your hip, you trut over to the table. "Jack, buddy, what are you talking about?" You ask, a furrow of your brow.
"Well,” Jack looks at you, then at Aaron. His gaze retreats back to his lap as he answers. “Carlos’ mom and dad told him they’re getting a divorce. His dad has a new apartment. I don’t want you to move out. Or Olivia, I like her. She smells and cries a lot but she's a good sister.”
You had heard whispers at drop-off that morning about Carlos' mom and dad seperating, but you didn't expect Jack to hear about it and inevitably get concerned.
Aaron swears he can hear his own heart break, and probably yours too. You move to gently place Olivia down on the floor — where she proceeds to crawl around with oblivion to the conversation — before you walk and kneel beside Jack’s chair.
“Jack,” you say gently, prompting him to look at you. You meet his concerned gaze with a soft one. “Your dad and I aren’t getting a divorce. And Olivia isn't going anywhere either, as smelly and as loud as she may be. I want to be here with you and your dad forever, if that's okay with you."
Aaron chimes in with a nod. "Yeah, Jack. I love mama so much, I think I would cry if she wasn't here. Like, full blown crying. It'd be kinda sad to watch honestly." He says gently, and it melts his heart when Jack gives a tiny smile that he tries to fight away at that.
Jack sighs. "But what about Carlos' mom and dad? They were really happy too." He says as he looks at the both of you. "His dad moved out, he has a new apartment that's far from Carlos. He only gets to see his dad on weekends now."
You frown. "Carlos' parents still love each other, Jack. But, sometimes people who really love each other just aren't meant to be together. But they're still going to be a good mom and dad to Carlos. And your dad and I aren't going to get divorced just because they do." You explain.
Jack nods. "I don't want you to move out," he directs that to you like it's been something on his mind for a while. Maybe it has. "Or Olivia. I mean.. she's smelly and she cries a lot but she's my sister and I love her."
"And she loves you," Aaron chimes in. "So much. And mama loves you too."
"I do." You agree. "Like, a lot times infinity. And I love your dad too. Which is why he and I are not getting a divorce or moving away from each other."
"Are you sure?" Jack asks as he looks up with Aaron.
Aaron. cups Jack's face in his hands. "I'm positive." He replies. "Why don't you go wash up before dinner? We can talk more at bedtime if you want."
Jack nods and scurries into the bathroom, mindful of the baby still on the floor. You watch him go, before you look at Aaron. "You think he's gonna be okay?"
Aaron sighs, walking and wrapping his arms around you. He takes a moment to breathe in your scent and the feeling of you being in his arms, before he nods. "Yeah." He places a kiss against your forehead. "I think he'll be okay."
You let your arms wrap around his torso. You glance up at him. "Would you actually be sobbing if I left you?" You ask. "Like, full blown ugly crying?"
He chuckles. "Oh yeah. It'd be so pathetic, you'd just have to come back to me to make it better." He says.
SUMMARY: clark sees out the help of his dearest colleague (who he totally is not in love with, shut your mouth) for assistance through his heat.
RATING: 18+ readers only - nsfw content ahead!
CONTENT WARNINGS: afab/female!reader (mentions reader wearing panties but theres no physical description), horny!superman (think like compound v but superman version), virgin!clark x implied experienced!reader because i LOVE this trope, oral (f recieving), WRAPPED p in v because even superman uses protection!
WORD COUNT: 1.8k
Clark was sure that this had to be his worst idea yet.
Well okay, maybe telling you he was Superman in the first place was first. But this was definitely high on the list.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t be on your doorstep right now. Still in his Superman suit, the glasses you were used to seeing him in long disregarded.
He also wouldn’t have some sort of compound in his system heightening every one of his senses. It wasn’t Kryptonian, that he could be sure of. It just felt different. Like every part of him was working overtime.
And he meant every. part.
You were the only person that truly knew who he was outside of the Daily Planet, when suits were replaced by the red and blue latex. He had told you one night when you were over at his apartment helping him edit a column piece.
You had laughed. Brushed it off at first until he showed you it, told you about Krypton. He talked about how his planet was destroyed, how little he remembered of his life there.
It felt like some sort of weight lifted off his shoulders, that someone outside of his parents knew.
Now it was just some unspoken thing between you both. You’d do your part of knowing, make excuses anytime he had to rush out of the office.
“He’s getting me a coffee”, “his dog isn’t feeling well”, “he has a headache” were just a few. Jimmy was already taking bets that you two were dating; who could blame him? You were the primary reason for most of the excuses Clark used too when he had to go deal with some bank robbery or situation downtown.
But right now, excuses didn’t matter. Who knew and who didn’t wasn’t of concern to Clark. He was more concerned about getting into your apartment, which is why he was knocking as insistently as he was.
Once you open the door he practically bursts inside. “Good gosh. Uh, I’m sorry.” He apologizes first, because of course he does. He feels bad about being here so late and yet selfishly, a small part of him simply doesn’t care. “I should’ve called- or texted. Or something.”
You close the front door first before you respond. “It’s okay. What’s up?” You question. “You look.. rough.” That was the nicest way to describe him, but it wasn’t exactly a lie — sweat on his face that caused his hair to stick to his forehead, his hands clenching and relaxing at his side in a repeated motion. He just seemed tense.
“I’m.. Christ, I’m sorry.” He says, trying to get his head on straight. “I wouldn’t have come over in any other circumstance but this guy, freakin’ lunatic, he hit me with something. I don’t know what but I know it’s been giving me all these side effects that I can’t get under control.”
You don’t have time to ask further questions before he’s walking to stand in front of you. The concern on his face was evident just by the way he furrowed his brows. “I need your help.” He says. “And it’s not going to be the kind of help I want but.. gosh, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. I don’t want to need it but—”
“Okay, okay. Slow down. You’re rambling.” You say.“Just.. take a breath. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to have sex with me.” He blurts out. You’re sure you stopped breathing for a moment before you choke out a very strained “what?”
He sighs, hand running through his hair. “I hate it. I hate that I have to ask, but dang it. It’s the only thing I’m convinced will help somewhat and- I’m going crazy over here.”
Clark felt awful for asking. After all, he was from a planet where something so intimate meant marriage. He wouldn’t tell you that, of course. He was trying to get help in his current predicament, not be turned away and brushed off as some creep.
Part of you wants to say no. To tell him he’s crazy, that no way in hell would you sex with him because of an apparent heat due to some unknown compound in his system.
But then the other part of you takes in the way his eyes look at you — with that pleading, pathetic look. And you let out a deep sigh.
“Fine,” you agree with a heavy sigh. “But only because I can’t stand you looking at me like that anymore. And this is just a one time thing.”
He nods. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Like, really super sure?”
“Clark, I’m sure.”
And as soon as you agree, his lips crash against yours. He tastes sweet like vanilla almost, smells like aftershave mixed with sweat. Hands move to cup your face, his touch gentle despite the circumstances. Despite how desperately he seems to have wanted this, he doesn't get rough. He takes his time kissing you, almost as if the sane part of him wants to savor it.
You let him take his time regardless. You weren’t complaining, after all.
He gently guides you back to the bedroom, as you lightly tug on his suit. Before your eyes it suddenly comes off, leaving him in his boxers in front of you, but you can barely react to that or offer a light tease before he's guiding you back onto the bed.
His hips lightly grind against yours as he remains on top. You meet his with your own movements. You felt like a teenager again - having some boy dry humping you. Of course it wasn’t exactly like that because that boy wasn’t wearing a Superman outfit, but still.
He pulls away only slightly to let out a heavy pant against your mouth. "Shoot, I uhm," he lets out a chuckle, one that has no real humor in it. "I should probably tell you that I've never done.. this before."
You want to ask what he means before he hits you: Clark Kent, the man who was currently kissing you like a horny teenager, was a virgin. “Clark.. we don’t have to do this. I’m sure there’s some other way to deal with this if you don’t wanna does.”
"No." He says, and he hates the way he says it too quickly. "I want to. Believe me I, dang it, I really want to. And not even because I feel like if I don't I may combust but.. I just didn't want you to be disappointed."
You shake your head. "Clark," you say in a quieter tone. "I could never be disappointed. It's alright if you want to go slow. We can do this at your pace." And he hates the way he can feel his cock twitch in his boxers at that. At the way you speak, at the softness, at you.
He kisses you again as his hands work to tug your pants off, then your shirt. Both fall to the floor with little care of where they landed. You don't care either as your hands tangle into his hair, which sticks to his forehead with sweat.
He moves, lightly sucking your pulse point and leaving goosebumps in his wake of messy, open-mouthed kisses down your body. He moves to kneel in front of you where you lay on the edge of the bed, and pretty soon you're well aware of his plan.
"Clark, you really don't have to do all that." You say. It wasn't anything he was doing that had you saying that. But you didn't want him to feel like he had to go down on you.
Clark can't help the lopsided grin he gives in response, looking up at you while he kneels in front of you. "Oh," he places a kiss against your clothed clit that has you gasping. "But I want to. If you’re okay with me doing this, that is.”
Once you give him a nod, he gives a small “thanks” and continues. He pulls your panties down, letting them pool around your ankles. His tongue then begins to lap, desperately so, at your folds. He spreads them with a finger, holding them apart as his tongue dives in.
He eats you like a man starved, as if this was his last meal. Every thought in your mind is replaced with him. His finger lightly rubs at the sensitive bud, his tongue flicking in and out of your already desperate hole at a torterous pace.
He takes his time since he wants to remember every sound you make, the way your back arches when he rubs your clit with two fingers, the way your fingers tighten their grip in his hair.
Pretty soon, he's coaxing you through your first orgasm. You let out a moan of his name - "Clark, Clark, Clark, shit!" to be more specific - with your hands tugging at his hair. He lets out a moan at the feeling as his tongue continues to lap up the result of your first climax.
The first of many, he thinks to himself as he sits up. He kisses you so deep that you can taste yourself on his tongue, your hands desperately holding onto his shoulders.
He pulls away only slightly. “Are you okay if I continue?" He asks. Leave it to Clark to be a gentleman.
You nod, feeling pathetic at how desperate you feel, in response. "Yes. Please, yes." You whisper against his perfect lips.
He nods. "Okay. Just, uhh. Give me a moment." He requests. He stands, walking across the room. He returns a moment later with a condom, still in the wrapper.
You let out a mix of a laugh and a huff. "You keep condoms on you?" You ask. It's not malicious, it's barely even mean. But it was an honest question. "I thought you hadn't done this before."
He shrugs. "I figured I could at least be prepared." He replies as he walks, kneeling on the bed above you. He takes the condom out of the wrapper, gently placing it over his length. You watch, taking in how huge he was.
He gives himself a few light strokes, before he's lining himself up at your entrance. He pushes into you with a strained groan, his head lowering. You meet his with your own moan, your hands desperately grasping at his broad shoulders.
He gives you both a moment to adjust, letting your poor cunt adjust to the size of him. For every ability Superman had, he also was large. It takes you a moment to fully adjust to his size before you nod, a silent ask for him to move.
He obliges. He pushes deeply into you, letting out a groan. His arms move to rest on either side of your head, almost caging you underneath him as he moves in you. The sounds are borderline pornographic - skin slapping skin, you two exchaning moans and breathless pleas - as he seeks to go deeper with each thrust.
Every sensation of his was heightened tenfold than before. But at least he could distract from that by focusing on how good you felt.
You can almost watch the bulge on your stomach as he fucks into you, the shape of him there. He hits your g-spot without trying, because of course he does. Your hands claw at his skin as your back arches. "Fuck, Clark- right there."
He lets out a small laugh, kissing at your face. He kisses down your cheek, then kisses the corner of your mouth. "Dirty mouth." He whispers. He thrusts deeper and deeper, before he's letting out a tiny moan against your skin.
It’s almost euphoric — how he can fall apart just from being inside of you for less than ten minutes. But you couldn’t blame him.
It doesn't take you long before your walls are wrapping tightly around him, your climax having you almost shaking. His own high comes out soon after, as he keeps thrusting into you through it.
You both fall back onto the bed, and Clark takes the time to cover you up with a blanket. He buries his face into your neck, placing a few kisses there.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, he speaks. "Maybe I should have a mysterious compound injected into me more often." He comments. "Just to do all that again."
You laugh. "I think we can do all that again without the mysterious compound." You reply. “But if it gets you in that state of mind, I’m fine with it.”
And that has Clark grinning into your side like a lovesick puppy.
SUMMARY: when your beloved spencer returns home from prison and you two have trouble reconnecting, he takes matters into his own hands, with a little assistance from the friend in your drawer.
RATING: this entire blog is 18+ — nsfw content ahead!
CONTENT WARNINGS: female/afab!reader, reader is described as wearing panties (i dunno if this is a cw but), prison!reid, use of a sex toy (vibrator), unwrapped p in v, some degradation / light teasing, some cursing used, color consent system (green for go, yellow for slow and red for stop BECAUSE CONSENT IS SEXY AND NECESSARY!), not proof read
WORD COUNT: 1.8k
Things in the apartment that you and Spencer shared had, for the last month, been tense. It was expected: he had just returned from prison and was trying to find some footing in the life he once knew again.
The past year and a half of your life had been a, seemingly, never ending nightmare. Having to suddenly learn that your boyfriend of barely two years was suddenly in prison for a crime you knew he didn't commit, and your only way of seeing him was every so often behind a glass wall, hearing him called by his inmate number instead of his name. It took you a while to get used to hear that.
Every time they said his inmate number, 22427041, you wanted to punch the nearest wall. You did, once.
You weren't an FBI agent by any means, but you had spent the same amount of time as the team trying to get him out of there. And when your efforts had proved successful and you were able to make the hours long drive to the prison to greet him outside, the embrace was something you'd never forget.
That first night that he came home was spent with the team. Drinks, takeout food, conversations about all that he had missed. You hadn't asked any questions that night when you and him laid silently in the same bed.
It had taken a while for you two to get used to seeing the other person on a daily again. It didn't help any that your own work schedule had been out of control lately - early morning and late nights spent working. You were sure to text Spencer throughout the day, asking if he made sure to eat or take his medicine.
His responses were short. As if he was putting up some sort of wall between you both. But, you understood. You gave him that space.
You’d lasted maybe a week before the tension became too much to bear. You two managed small talk over meals and while sitting in the apartment together, but his texts when he was at work (or when you were) weren’t the same - no cute nicknames, or facts he’d randomly come up with throughout the day to send you.
By the time you were coming home from your fifth late shift of the week, you were tired. It was the kind of tired you could feel in your bones.
You kicked your shoes off by the front door, making a mental note to pick them up later. “Spencer?” You call out. You go to speak again as you enter the bedroom, letting out a “Jesus Christ” when he scares you just by sitting on the bed.
He lets out a chuckle. It didn't seem to be a sincere laugh but it felt nice to hear something that resembled a real one. “Did I scare you?” He asks. Though you know he doesn't want an answer to that, you oblige and give him one anyway.
You nod. “Yes, you did actually.” You say as you move to turn the lights on. You sigh. “Sorry, just.. I’m still trying to get used to someone else being here and it not being a robber, that’s all.”
He nods. "Right." He says. "Come here real quick."
You oblige that too. Settling into his lap, your back pressed firmly against his chest. His arms wrap around your waist, inhale your scent. "I've missed you, you know," he says. "All day in that stupid place. Kept thinking about you. Hoping you missed me."
He doesn't pause to let you say that you did — and God, you did. Every night spent without him felt torterous, like this was your personalized version of hell.
“I kept thinking of how you must’ve been spending your time without me,” he continues. His hand mindlessly trails up and down your thigh. “How lonely it must’ve been. Kept making bets with myself on if you’d find some guy to fulfill you.”
You want to defend yourself, to tell him you’d never cheat on you. He doesn’t give you a chance. “Turns out, wasn’t some guy.” And that’s when he pulls it out. Truth be told, you’d forgotten about the bullet vibrator you’d bought three months in to Spencer being in prison.
Your sex life with Spencer was normal. You realized quickly though that you missed a lot about him. Including having him buried deep inside of you every night. Hence why you’d bought the little pink toy he was currently dangling in his hand like some cruel taunt.
You hadn’t used it in almost two months, mostly because you’ve been too busy. It had been stashed in your nightstand, where you suspect a certain profiler had been snooping.
“I can explain,” you don’t think you can. Hell, you aren’t even sure how to explain this without sounding utterly pathetic. “It’s not that bad. I barely used it.”
He lets out a hum, one that sounds like he isn’t satisfied with that answer. “Okay. How many times then?” He inquires as he helps you stand to your feet and takes his time undressing you — removing your top, then your pants.
He throws them aside as you muster out a reply. “Probably like.. four times? I swear it was not a lot.” You aren’t sure why you’re trying so hard to convince him, but you’ll do it if it brings that small smirk to his face like he doesn’t believe you.
He leaves your panties on. “Mm, that’s better.” He praises his work, helping you settle back into his lap. He puts your thighs over his own as he sits manspreading, reaching for the familiar pink toy.
Its cold silicone material is pressed against your thigh, and it draws a tiny yelp from you. “You know, I had to put up with a lot behind bars.” His breath is hot against your ear, voice low. “And the entire time, my solace and the one thing preserving some of my sanity — that’s you, honey — was replacing me with a fuckin’ toy.”
The toy buzzes to life when his finger presses the power button. It vibrates against your thigh and it has you gasping again. “I wasn’t!” You say, the implication having you frowning. “Every time I had to use it I thought of you, I promise.”
“Mmhm.” He takes his time dragging the toy up your thigh towards the place you want it so desperately. “I was fighting for my life and my girl is replacing me with a toy.”
“So, a toy you want, a toy you shall get.” And that’s when he’s placing it against your clothed clit. He turns the setting up as he does. The moan it elicits from you has you cursing yourself internally.
You’re half expecting him to have some sort of shit eating grin on his face, but a quick glance shows his face being blank.
“All day in there. The same routine with the added threat,” he continues talking as he pushes your panties aside with the tip of the vibrator, placing it directly against your clit. Your hands grasp at anything - the wrist of the hand that holds the toy, his other arm. “And here you are, using this thing.”
He places a few light kisses against your skin as he keeps the toy against your sensitive bud. You moan. “Spence, please.” You beg. You weren’t even sure what you were begging for; he wasn’t sure either. But, he humors you.
“Please what?” He questions as his teeth lightly scrape against your neck. The sensation has your cheeks (and other places) feeling warm.
“I want you.” You say. The moan you let out as the toy presses further against your clit seems to betray that claim, your head falling back against his shoulder. “Only you. Not this toy.”
Unfortunately for you, Spencer had plans for tonight. Plans that, you quickly learned, involved a competition.
He kept the toy firmly planted against your clit to elicit your first orgasm. Then a second, before he’s pulling the toy away, placing light kisses against your skin. You’re practically shaking in his arms, your cunt wet and begging for more.
He adjusts to lay you down against the bed. “You did so good f’me, sweetheart. My perfect girl. Now, I just need you to help me finish this little experiment.” He says as he stands at the edge of the bed, removing the belt of his pants. He tosses them and his boxers aside.
You weren’t sure what he meant by experiment. But he’s climbing overtop of you before you can question it. “Color?” He asks.
“Green.” You reply instantly.
“Good.” He praises you for that answer by kissing you deeply. It was the first time since you’d picked him up at the prison the day he was released that he kissed you like this. His hands squeeze at skin, yours rest against his chest.
It’s pathetic, really. The way teeth clash with teeth, your tongues hitting each other. It felt almost pornographic, but you were too busy begging for more with each tug of his arm to care.
He pulls away only slightly to help guide himself into you. He takes a moment to adjust to finally being inside of you again, the feeling alone pulling moans from you both.
He moves at a slow pace, almost as if testing the waters. His arm moves to be beside your head to hold himself up, the other holding your hip. “Bet this feels better than that toy, huh?”
“So much better,” you desperately repeat. Your brain already felt fuzzy from your past two orgasms, the only thoughts you had being his name and ‘more, more, more’. Your hands desperately claw at his back.
Two minutes in and he already has you reaching your third orgasm of the night. He makes a note of how much more you seem to give for him rather than that toy, and grins, pushing deeper into you.
He takes in every detail of your face when he does that, the way your body responds. There was almost something scientific about it.
His hand snakes between where your bodies are currently joined, rubbing at your poor, overly sensitive and aching clit. You let out a guttural moan at that.
Your fourth orgasm has your back arching. Spencer doesn’t take long to follow as he spills inside of you with a deep groan. He takes a moment to let you catch your breath, kissing each part of your face delicately.
“I think we’ve determined,” he pulls himself out of you slowly. You whine at the loss of contact and he chuckles. “That I am in fact better at getting you to come than a toy.”
He places a kiss against your clit for an apology of pulling out of you. Before he can leave to go get you a warm wash cloth and a post-orgasm treat, he kisses you in a slow, sweet way that feels more like the Spencer that you know.
“Thank you.” He murmurs against your lips. You don’t feel the need to ask what he means: you just nod and smile.
