⛶ You went down to the projection room. The lights go out. This is Clara's tape — stories recorded at 24 frames per second, love in grain, memory on celluloid.
SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: OPEN PROJECTION.
The tapes are rolling! Requests, ideas, wishes, and suggestions can be sent while the movie is still playing. Rewind as much as you like.
┃ ⛃ / masterlist 〃 ⤸
UNTIL YOU’RE JUST… OUT OF FOCUS, OUT OF FRAME, SOMEONE ELSE IN THE CREDITS .
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!aaron, sub!reader, daddy kink, fingering (r receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (a receiving), p in v, creampie, they don't use condoms. Minors dni.
The late-night hush of the BAU offices wrapped around you like a blanket, the only sounds the distant hum of the air conditioning and the faint click of your heels on the linoleum floor. The case had been brutal — a string of abductions that hit too close to home, leaving the team drained and scattered. Most had gone home hours ago, but Aaron Hotchner — your unit chief, your secret — remained at his desk, buried in paperwork, his broad shoulders tense under his suit jacket. You'd lingered too, not ready to face the empty apartment waiting for you. Or maybe it was him — the way his presence anchored you, his quiet strength a balm to your frayed nerves.
You knocked softly on his open door, stepping inside when he looked up, his dark eyes softening at the sight of you. "It's late," he said, voice low and gravelly, the kind that sent shivers down your spine. "You should go home."
"I don't want to be alone tonight," you admitted, closing the door behind you, the lock clicking into place. The blinds were already drawn — habit from too many confidential briefings. Hotch's gaze sharpened, reading you like a profile, but there was heat there too, the unspoken dynamic that had blossomed between you in stolen moments over the past months. He pushed back from his desk, standing to his full height — towering, commanding, the lines of his face etched with exhaustion but also desire.
"Come here," he ordered gently, and you did, crossing the room to stand before him. His large hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he searched your eyes. "What do you need, sweetheart?"
The word sent a thrill through you, but you craved more — the role he slipped into when the world was too much, when you needed him to take control. "I need you, Daddy," you whispered, the title slipping out like a plea, your voice trembling with vulnerability and want.
Hotch's breath hitched, his grip tightening slightly, eyes darkening with that possessive hunger. "Say it again," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave, the authority in it making your knees weak.
"Please, Daddy," you repeated, pressing closer, your hands fisting in his shirt. "Make me forget everything else."
A low growl rumbled in his chest as he captured your lips in a kiss — fierce, demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim you. His hands roamed down your body, unbuttoning your blouse with efficient precision, exposing your lace bra. "That's my good girl," he murmured against your mouth, the praise sending heat pooling between your thighs. He backed you toward his desk, sweeping papers aside with one arm — work be damned — as he lifted you onto the edge, the wood cool against your skin.
His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks into the flesh, each one a claim. "You've been so strong today," he said, his voice rough with emotion, fingers unhooking your bra to free your breasts. "But now, let Daddy take care of you." He cupped them, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened, pinching just enough to make you gasp. "These are mine," he growled, leaning down to take one into his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
"Yes, Daddy — oh god," you moaned, arching into him, your hands tangling in his short hair. The title fueled him, his control slipping into something primal yet calculated — he knew exactly how to unravel you. His free hand slid up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, fingers finding the damp lace of your panties. "So wet for me already," he praised, rubbing you through the fabric, the friction teasing but not enough. "Tell Daddy what you want."
"I want your fingers — please, Daddy, touch me," you begged, hips bucking against his hand. He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you as he pushed your panties aside, two thick fingers sliding into your heat with ease. The stretch was perfect, his fingers curling to hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "Like this?" he asked, thrusting slowly, his thumb pressing your clit in tight circles. You nodded frantically, moans spilling from your lips as pleasure built, coiling tight in your core.
But Hotch wasn't rushing — he savored your reactions, his own arousal evident in the bulge straining his pants. "You're doing so well for Daddy," he murmured, increasing the pace, fingers pumping deeper, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet office. Tears pricked your eyes from the intensity, your body trembling on the edge. "Come for me, love. Show Daddy how good he makes you feel."
The command pushed you over — orgasm crashing through you, walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out, "Daddy — yes!" Waves of pleasure rolled, your release soaking his hand. Hotch watched, eyes hooded with lust, his free hand stroking your thigh soothingly. "That's my girl," he praised, withdrawing slowly, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste you, a groan escaping him.
But he wasn't done — far from it. He undid his belt, freeing his cock — thick, veined, hard and leaking pre-cum. "On your knees," he ordered, helping you down from the desk. You knelt eagerly, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Suck Daddy's cock," he said, voice rough, guiding the head to your lips. You opened, taking him in — the salty taste filling your mouth as you swirled your tongue around the tip, hollowing your cheeks to suck deeper.
Hotch's hand tangled in your hair, not forcing but guiding, his hips thrusting shallowly. "Just like that — good girl," he groaned, the praise making you wetter. You took him as deep as you could, gagging slightly when he hit the back of your throat, tears streaming now from the effort. "Look at you, crying for Daddy's cock. So beautiful." He pulled out, wiping a tear from your cheek, before lifting you back onto the desk.
"Spread your legs for me," he commanded, positioning himself between them. You obeyed, skirt hiked up, panties discarded. Hotch rubbed his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slickness. "Tell Daddy you want it."
"Please, Daddy — fuck me," you begged, and he thrust in slowly, the stretch burning deliciously as he filled you inch by inch. "So tight for me," he groaned, bottoming out, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He started moving — slow at first, letting you feel every ridge, then faster, each thrust deep and claiming. "This pussy is mine," he growled, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing in time with his strokes.
The pleasure was overwhelming — his cock hitting deep, his fingers relentless, the daddy kink amplifying every sensation. Tears flowed freely, a mix of ecstasy and emotion, as you clung to him. "Daddy — I'm gonna come," you sobbed, and he thrust harder. "Come on Daddy's cock — let go." You shattered again, clenching around him, your cries muffled against his shoulder.
Hotch followed, thrusting deep with a guttural moan, spilling inside you — hot, filling you completely. He held you as you both came down, kissing your tears away. "You were perfect, sweetheart," he whispered, the daddy role softening to tender care. In his arms, the world faded — only pleasure remained, a bond forged in trust and desire.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!nat, sub!reader, knife play, fingering (n receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (n receiving), dirty talk. Minors dni.
The sweat-slicked mats of the Avengers training room echoed with the sounds of labored breaths and the occasional thud of bodies hitting the ground. The session had been grueling — Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow herself, pushing you to your limits with her unrelenting precision. As her protégé, you'd come far under her tutelage, but today, something was off. Your strikes were a fraction too slow, your defenses cracking under pressure. Natasha noticed, of course — she always did. Her green eyes narrowed as she disarmed you for the fifth time, her knife flashing in the fluorescent lights before she sheathed it with a flick of her wrist.
"Again," she commanded, her voice low and edged with disappointment. You nodded, wiping sweat from your brow, but as you lunged, she sidestepped effortlessly, her body pressing against yours in a hold that left you breathless — not just from exertion. Her breath was hot against your ear. "You're holding back. Why?" You didn't answer, couldn't, with her thigh slotted between yours, the proximity igniting a different kind of heat. She released you abruptly, her gaze lingering. "Training's over. But we're not done."
The compound's halls were empty as she led you to her quarters, the door locking behind you with a soft click. The room was sparse, functional — a bed, a desk, weapons neatly arrayed. But Natasha's presence filled it, her red hair damp from sweat, clinging to her neck. She shed her tactical vest, revealing the tight black tank top beneath, her muscles rippling with each movement. "Strip," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument. You complied, heart pounding, shedding your training gear until you stood bare before her, skin prickling in the cool air.
Natasha circled you like a predator, her favorite dagger in hand — a sleek, black-bladed knife with a hilt wrapped in leather. "You need to learn control under pressure," she said, her voice a velvet purr. "Real pressure." She stepped closer, the flat of the blade pressing coldly against your collarbone. The metal was chill, a stark contrast to your heated skin, and you shivered, nipples hardening instantly. "Don't move," she warned, tracing the blade down your sternum, light enough not to cut, but the edge's promise of danger sent adrenaline surging through you.
The knife play was her domain — a kink born from years of wielding death as a tool, now twisted into intimacy. The blade dipped lower, circling one nipple, the cool tip making you gasp. "Feel that?" Natasha murmured, her free hand sliding up your thigh, fingers teasing the edge of your arousal. "The fear heightens everything." She pressed the flat against your breast, the pressure firm but safe, as her fingers parted your folds, finding you slick and ready. "You're wet already. Good girl."
You trembled, the mix of cold steel and her warm touch intoxicating. The blade trailed down your abdomen, leaving goosebumps in its wake, stopping just above your mound. Natasha's eyes darkened, her breath quickening — she derived as much pleasure from this as you did, the power, the trust. "Spread your legs," she commanded, and you did, the knife now hovering dangerously close to your inner thigh. She traced it upward, the edge kissing your skin without breaking it, each inch building tension until tears pricked your eyes — not from pain, but overwhelming sensation.
"Nat — please," you whimpered, hips bucking instinctively. She smirked, sheathing the knife momentarily to push you back onto the bed. "Patience." Straddling your waist, she retrieved the dagger, pressing the hilt against your lips. "Suck." You obeyed, tongue swirling around the leather, tasting her grip on it, your arousal throbbing. Natasha watched, her free hand dipping between her own legs, rubbing through her pants. "You look so vulnerable like this. It turns me on."
She shed her clothes then — tank top peeled off to reveal pert breasts, nipples hard; pants discarded, her core glistening with need. Naked, she was a vision — lithe muscle, scars telling stories of survival, her dominance unyielding. The knife returned, the flat sliding between your breasts as she positioned herself over your face. "Make me come first. Use that mouth." You dove in, tongue lapping at her folds, savoring her musky sweetness. Natasha moaned, grinding down, the knife's tip tracing idle patterns on your chest — cold, teasing, the danger amplifying every lick.
As you sucked her clit, fingers joining to thrust inside her, she pressed the blade harder — not cutting, but the pressure made you arch, tears spilling now from the intensity. "That's it — cry for me," Natasha gasped, her hips rocking faster, her own pleasure building. She came with a shuddering cry, release flooding your mouth, but she didn't stop — sliding down your body, the knife now at your throat, a gentle reminder as she kissed you, tasting herself.
"Your turn," she whispered, flipping the dagger to use the hilt — smooth, rounded leather — pressing it against your entrance. "Trust me." You nodded, tears streaming, as she pushed it in slowly, the intrusion foreign and thrilling. The hilt filled you, cool at first, warming with your heat, as Natasha's fingers circled your clit. "Feel the edge?" she asked, the blade's flat now against your thigh, tracing upward. The dual sensation — fullness inside, cold steel outside — had you teetering.
She thrust the hilt deeper, angling to hit your g-spot, her mouth on your breast, sucking hard. Pleasure coiled, tight and unbearable, tears flowing freely as the knife's tip hovered near your core — not touching, but the threat pushed you over. "Come," Natasha commanded, and you shattered — orgasm ripping through, clenching around the hilt, sobs mixing with moans.
Natasha withdrew gently, setting the knife aside, her dominance softening to care. She wiped your tears, kissing each one. "You were perfect," she murmured, pulling you into her arms. In the afterglow, the blade's danger faded, leaving only pleasure — a lesson in control you'd both crave again. The training mat in the Avengers compound was still warm from the intensity of the session, the air thick with the scent of sweat and exertion. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, circled you like a shadow, her green eyes sharp and assessing. You'd been her trainee for months now — honing your skills under her unyielding guidance — but today, something was off. Your movements were precise, but under pressure, they faltered. A split-second hesitation, a grip too loose on your weapon. Natasha disarmed you effortlessly, her favorite dagger — a sleek, black-bladed beauty with a hilt wrapped in worn leather — flashing in her hand before she pressed it lightly against your throat in mock victory.
"Sloppy," she said, her voice low and accented, a hint of disappointment lacing the word. She sheathed the knife with a flick, her red hair sticking to her neck from the workout. But her eyes lingered on you, darkening with something more than critique. "You need to master control under real pressure. Not just physical — mental. Emotional." She stepped closer, her body heat radiating through her tight black tank and leggings, the curve of her muscles a testament to her lethal grace. "Meet me in my quarters. Now."
The compound's halls were quiet as you followed her, heart pounding not from the training, but from the promise in her gaze. Natasha's room was minimalist — a bed, a few weapons on display, the faint scent of gun oil and her perfume. She locked the door, turning to you with that predatory smile. "Strip," she commanded, shedding her own top to reveal the sports bra beneath, her abs flexing. You obeyed, clothes pooling at your feet, standing bare under her scrutiny. Natasha retrieved her dagger, twirling it expertly. "This is about limits. Trust. And pleasure in the danger."
She backed you against the wall, the cool surface a shock to your heated skin. The dagger's flat side pressed against your collarbone — cold, unyielding metal that made you shiver. "Don't move," she whispered, tracing it down your sternum, light enough to tease without cutting. The edge's whisper against your flesh was electric, adrenaline surging as fear and arousal blurred. Natasha's free hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked, her touch warm in contrast to the blade. "Feel that? The knife heightens everything. Your body knows the risk."
The dagger dipped lower, circling your navel, then trailing to your hip. You trembled, tears pricking your eyes — not from pain, but the overwhelming intensity. Natasha noticed, her lips curving. "Tears already? Good. Let them come." She knelt, the blade now against your inner thigh, tracing upward slowly, the cool tip inching toward your core. Your arousal throbbed, slick gathering as the danger amplified every sensation. "You're wet," she observed, her breath hot against your skin. "The fear turns you on. Just like it does me."
She stood, setting the knife aside momentarily to shed her leggings and bra, her body a masterpiece of strength and curves — full breasts, toned abs, the scars of battles won. Naked, she was intoxicating, her own arousal evident in the flush of her skin. Picking up the dagger, she guided you to the bed. "On your back." You lay down, and she straddled your waist, the blade's hilt now pressing against your lips. "Suck it. Taste the control." You obeyed, tongue swirling around the leather, the metallic tang faint as you wet it, your eyes locked on hers.
Natasha moaned softly, her free hand dipping between her thighs, fingers circling her clit as she watched. "You're perfect like this — vulnerable." She trailed the blade down your body again, the flat pressing against your mound, the pressure making you arch. Tears slipped down your cheeks now, the mix of fear and need overwhelming. "Cry for me, detka," she purred, leaning down to lick a tear from your skin, her tongue hot and teasing. The blade's edge hovered near your nipple, tracing without harm, the sensation sending jolts straight to your core.
Her fingers replaced the knife, sliding through your slick folds, two dipping inside you with ease. "So ready," she groaned, thrusting slowly, curling to hit your g-spot. The dagger now at your throat — a gentle reminder of power — as she fucked you with her hand. Pleasure built fast, your hips bucking, but Natasha controlled the pace, slowing when you neared the edge. "Not yet. Feel the blade — let it push you higher." Tears flowed freely, sobs mixing with moans as denial heightened the ecstasy.
Natasha's own need was evident — her breaths ragged, nipples hard as she ground against your thigh. "You make me so wet," she admitted, withdrawing her fingers to taste you, then positioning herself over your face. "Eat me. Make me come while I play." You dove in, tongue lapping at her folds, sucking her clit as the dagger traced idle patterns on your chest — cold, dangerous. Natasha moaned, rocking against your mouth, her free hand pinching your nipple hard. The knife's tip pressed lightly against your skin, the thrill pushing you both.
She came with a cry, release flooding your mouth, but she didn't stop — sliding down, the dagger now sheathed as she aligned her core with yours, scissoring slowly. The friction was intense — her clit rubbing yours, slick and hot. But she unsheathed the knife again, tracing it down your arm, the edge's whisper making you sob. "Come with me," she commanded, grinding harder, her own tears of pleasure mixing with yours. The orgasm hit simultaneously — waves crashing, bodies convulsing, cries echoing as pleasure peaked in shared release.
Natasha collapsed beside you, knife set aside, her dominance fading to tenderness. She wiped your tears, kissing each one. "You were incredible," she whispered, holding you close. In the afterglow, the blade's danger was a memory, leaving only bliss — a game they'd play again, limits pushed, pleasure found in the edge.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, soft!dom!spencer, sub!reader, sex in the shower, fingering (r receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (r receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, p in v, creampie. Minors dni.
The steam-filled bathroom of your shared apartment was a haze of warmth and humidity, the hot water cascading from the showerhead like a relentless downpour. The tiles were slick underfoot, the air thick with the scent of lavender body wash and something more primal — the mingling aromas of anticipation and desire. Spencer Reid, the brilliant, awkward genius of the BAU, stood under the spray with you, his usually rambling mind focused with laser-like precision on the experiment at hand. "Hydrodynamic hypothesis," he'd called it earlier, in that rapid-fire way of his, explaining how water flow could enhance sensory experiences, reduce friction, and heighten pleasure through temperature contrasts. But now, with his glasses fogged and abandoned on the sink, his lanky frame pressed against yours, it was clear this was no mere theory.
You'd started innocently enough — a shared shower after a long case, his hands soaping your back with clinical efficiency at first. But Spencer's touches had lingered, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine, mapping your body like he did crime scenes — methodical, observant. "Did you know," he'd murmured against your ear, water streaming down his face, "that the average shower uses about 2.1 gallons per minute? But the real variable here is us." His voice, usually a torrent of facts, was low and husky now, his erection pressing insistently against your thigh as he turned you to face the cool tile wall.
The contrast hit you immediately — the icy porcelain against your heated skin, Spencer's warm body caging you from behind. His hands, long-fingered and surprisingly strong from years of fieldwork, slid up your sides, cupping your breasts as the water pounded down. "Feel that?" he whispered, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebbled, hard and aching. You gasped, arching back into him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass. Spencer's lips found your neck, sucking gently, his teeth grazing the skin in a way that sent sparks straight to your core. "The cold tile increases blood flow to the surface, heightening sensitivity. It's... empirical."
You laughed breathlessly, but it turned into a moan as one hand dipped lower, fingers parting your folds under the stream. The water made everything slicker, his touch gliding effortlessly as he circled your clit with scientific accuracy — slow, precise strokes that built pressure without mercy. "Spence — please," you whimpered, your hands bracing against the wall, the tile fogging from your breath. He hummed in approval, his free arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady, his erection grinding against you teasingly. "Patience is key in experiments," he replied, but his voice was strained, betraying his own need.
He turned you then, pressing your back to the tile, the cold shocking your system anew as hot water cascaded over both of you. Spencer's eyes — hazel and intense without his glasses — roamed your body, cataloging every curve, every shiver. "You're beautiful like this," he said, almost reverently, before dropping to his knees. The water streamed down his back as he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you to him. His profiler's hands gripped your thighs, steady and sure, as his mouth descended — tongue flicking out to taste you, the warmth of his breath contrasting the cool air.
You cried out, fingers tangling in his wet curls, as he licked a slow stripe up your center, savoring. "The water dilutes natural lubrication slightly," he murmured against you, the vibration making you tremble, "but it enhances the glide." His tongue delved deeper, circling your entrance before sucking your clit gently, his fingers joining to slip inside you — one, then two, curling to hit that spot with unerring precision. The pleasure was overwhelming — the cold wall at your back, the hot water pounding down, Spencer's mouth relentless. He mapped you like data points, learning what made you gasp, what made you buck, his free hand holding your hip to keep you in place.
"Spence — oh god, don't stop," you begged, your body coiling tight, the edge approaching fast. He looked up, water dripping from his lashes, his eyes dark with lust. "I won't," he promised, adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously as his tongue lashed your clit faster. The orgasm hit like a hypothesis proven — explosive, shattering, your cries echoing off the tiles as waves crashed through you, your walls clenching around his fingers, release mixing with the water streaming down.
Spencer rose, his cock hard and throbbing against your thigh, as he captured your mouth in a kiss — tasting yourself on his tongue, the water making everything slick. "Turn around," he instructed, voice rough now, his control fraying. You did, bracing against the wall, the cold tile a stark contrast to the heat building again. He positioned himself behind you, one hand on your hip, the other guiding his length to your entrance. "The angle here optimizes depth," he said, almost clinically, but his breath hitched as he pushed in slowly — inch by inch, the water easing the way, his thickness filling you completely.
You moaned, pushing back against him, the fullness exquisite. Spencer groaned, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave faint marks — his strength always tempered, but evident. He thrust slowly at first, building a rhythm, each stroke deep and measured, the water splashing with every movement. "Feel how the water changes the friction?" he panted, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple as he picked up speed. The angle hit your g-spot perfectly, pleasure spiking with each thrust, your bodies slapping wetly together.
"Yes — Spence, harder," you gasped, your hand reaching back to tangle in his hair. He obliged, his hips snapping forward, the pace turning relentless — his profiler's mind calculating the perfect angle, the ideal speed to drive you both wild. The water made everything more intense — the glide smoother, the sounds obscene. His free hand slipped between your legs, fingers circling your clit again, matching his thrusts. "Come with me," he commanded, voice breaking, his own release building as your walls fluttered around him.
The second orgasm tore through you, clenching around his cock like a vice, your cries mingling with the water's roar. Spencer followed, thrusting deep one last time, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering against yours. He held you close as you both came down, the water washing away the evidence, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder.
Turning off the shower, he wrapped you in a towel, his touch gentle now. "Hypothesis confirmed," he murmured with a shy smile, pulling you into bed. In the quiet afterglow, facts gave way to feelings — your bodies entwined, pleasure lingering like a proven theory.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!alex, sub!reader, sex in the office, fingering (r and a receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), masturbation, dirty talk. Minors dni.
The fluorescent lights in the district attorney's office file room buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the endless rows of metal shelves crammed with dusty case files. It was well past midnight, the kind of hour where the building felt like a ghost town — empty hallways, the distant hum of a vending machine, and the occasional creak of settling floors. You'd been sent down here by the night shift ADA to pull an old case for reference, but the solitude was a welcome break from the chaos upstairs. Or so you thought.
The door clicked open behind you, and you turned, expecting a clerk or maybe a janitor. Instead, Alex Cabot stood there, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. Her blazer was open, revealing a silk blouse slightly untucked, the top buttons undone just enough to hint at the lace beneath. Her lipstick was smudged — probably from that endless cup of coffee she always clutched during late-night prep — and her blue eyes, sharp as a prosecutor's cross-examination, scanned you in seconds, processing, judging, desiring.
"Detective," she said, her voice low and smooth, laced with that authoritative edge that made juries hang on her every word. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a definitive click, the lock engaging. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. "Working late again? Or avoiding the bullpen?"
You swallowed, heart racing as she approached, her heels echoing softly on the concrete floor. Alex had always been a force — blonde hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, her presence commanding even in the dim light. But tonight, there was something predatory in her gaze, a hunger that made your skin tingle. "Just pulling files," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, but the way she looked at you — like you were evidence she intended to examine thoroughly — made it hard.
She stopped inches away, her body heat radiating through the thin fabric of her clothes. "Always so diligent," she murmured, her fingers brushing your arm as she reached past you for a random file on the shelf. But she didn't pull it down; instead, her hand lingered, trailing up to your shoulder. "But I think you've earned a break." Before you could respond, she pushed gently but firmly, guiding you back against the shelf, the cool metal pressing into your spine. Her body followed, pinning you there — her curves soft against yours, her breath warm on your neck.
"Alex — what are you —" Your words cut off as her lips crashed into yours, demanding, insistent. The kiss was fierce, her tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth, tasting of coffee and victory. Her hands roamed — one tangling in your hair, tilting your head for better access, the other sliding under your shirt, fingers splaying across your bare stomach. You moaned into her mouth, the sound muffled, your body responding instantly, heat pooling between your thighs.
She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing yours. "I've watched you all week — bending over these files, that focus in your eyes. Do you know how distracting you are?" Her hand dipped lower, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease, her fingers slipping inside to trace the edge of your panties. You gasped, hips bucking involuntarily as she teased, circling but not quite touching where you needed her most. "Tonight, I'm taking what I want. And you're going to let me."
The authority in her voice — the same tone she used to dismantle witnesses — sent a thrill through you. You nodded, breathless, as she tugged your pants down your thighs, followed by your underwear, leaving you exposed in the chilly room. Alex's eyes darkened, drinking in the sight of you, her free hand pushing your shirt up to reveal your breasts. "Beautiful," she whispered, leaning in to suck a nipple into her mouth, her tongue swirling as her fingers finally found your core, parting your folds to feel your wetness.
"Fuck, Alex," you whimpered, your hands clutching the shelf behind you for support. She hummed against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight to your clit. Two fingers slid inside you easily, curling to hit that spot that made your knees weaken. She thrust slowly at first, building a rhythm, her thumb pressing against your clit in circles that matched her sucks on your breast. The dual assault was overwhelming — pleasure coiling tight in your belly, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.
But Alex was in control, her prosecutor's mind calculating every move. She pulled her mouth away, kissing a trail down your stomach as she knelt, her fingers never stopping. "Spread your legs wider," she ordered, and you did, the files rattling slightly as you braced against the shelf. Her breath ghosted over your thighs, hot and teasing, before her tongue flicked out, tasting you. You cried out, the sound echoing in the empty room, as she licked a slow stripe up your center, savoring.
Her mouth was relentless — lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently while her fingers pumped deeper, faster. The pleasure built in layers: the suction pulling whimpers from you, the thrusts hitting your g-spot with precision, her free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to leave marks. "You taste so good," she murmured against you, the vibration intensifying everything. Your hips ground against her face, chasing the high, but Alex held you steady, dictating the pace.
"I'm — close," you panted, your body trembling, tears of frustration and ecstasy pricking your eyes. Alex looked up, her blue eyes locking onto yours, smudged lipstick now mingled with your essence. "Come for me," she commanded, her voice muffled but unyielding, redoubling her efforts — tongue lashing your clit, fingers curling relentlessly. The orgasm hit like a verdict — hard and final — your body convulsing, cries filling the room as waves crashed over you, your release coating her fingers and chin.
But Alex wasn't done; she rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her blazer slipping off her shoulders. "My turn," she said, shedding her clothes with efficient grace — blouse unbuttoned, skirt unzipped, revealing lace that matched her intensity. She pushed you further into the shelf, her naked body pressing against yours, breasts soft and full against your chest. "Touch me," she demanded, guiding your hand between her legs.
You obeyed, fingers finding her slick and ready, slipping inside her with ease. Alex moaned, her head falling back, hips rocking against your hand. "Deeper — yes, like that." You thrust, curling your fingers as she had, your thumb circling her clit. Her breaths quickened, nails digging into your shoulders as she rode your hand, her control slipping in the pursuit of pleasure. "Fuck, you're good," she gasped, pulling you into a messy kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue.
The mutual need escalated — your free hand roaming her body, pinching her nipples, eliciting sharp gasps. Alex's hand joined yours between her legs, guiding your rhythm, her other tangling in your hair to deepen the kiss. "Make me come," she ordered, voice breaking, and you did — thrusting harder, circling faster, until she shattered, her walls clenching around your fingers, a cry muffled against your neck as her release flooded your hand.
Panting, she pulled back, her eyes softening in the afterglow. "That was... compelling evidence," she teased, kissing you gently now. The file room smelled of sex and secrets, the case forgotten in the haze. But as you dressed, stealing glances, you knew this "closing argument" was just the beginning of many private sessions. In Alex Cabot's world, pleasure was a win she always claimed.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!casey, sub!reader, orgasm control, fingering (r receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (r receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, strap-on. Minors dni.
The dimly lit bar near the SVU precinct was buzzing with the usual after-work crowd — cops unwinding with beers, lawyers trading war stories over whiskey. The happy hour had started innocently enough: you, a fresh-faced detective assigned to the unit, mingling with the team. Olivia and Elliot were at the pool table, Fin cracking jokes with Munch, but your eyes kept drifting to Casey Novak, the fiery ADA with her sharp suits and sharper tongue. She was perched on a stool, nursing a gin and tonic, her red hair catching the neon lights like flames. Casey never lost cases, and from the stories, she never lost games either — whether it was poker in the break room or debates in the courtroom.
You'd had a few drinks, enough to loosen your inhibitions, when the challenge slipped out. "You know, Casey, for someone who always wins, you must get bored. Ever play a game where the stakes are... personal?" The words hung in the air, laced with flirtation, your gaze locking onto hers. The team chuckled, but Casey's green eyes narrowed, a slow smile curving her lips. "Objection," she said, her voice low and teasing, "leading the witness. But if you're challenging me, Detective... overruled. Meet me outside in five."
Now, here you were, in her apartment — a sleek Manhattan loft with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. The door had barely closed before Casey had you pinned against it, her mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was all dominance and heat. "You think you can challenge me?" she murmured against your lips, her hands already working the buttons of your shirt. "In my courtroom, I control everything. Including you." Her fingers trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly, sending shivers through you. This was her game now: orgasm control, where she decided when — and if — you came.
She led you to the bedroom, her grip firm on your wrist, pushing you onto the king-sized bed. "Strip," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. You complied, shedding clothes under her watchful gaze, your body thrumming with anticipation. Casey remained dressed, her pencil skirt hugging her hips, blouse unbuttoned just enough to reveal the lace of her bra. She was the judge, jury, and executioner tonight. "Lie back. Hands above your head." You obeyed, and she produced silk ties from the nightstand, binding your wrists to the headboard — secure but not painful, a reminder of her control.
Kneeling between your legs, Casey traced a finger along your inner thigh, her touch feather-light, teasing the edge of your arousal. "You're already wet for me," she observed, her voice husky, dipping a finger through your folds to gather your slickness. She brought it to her lips, tasting you with a hum of approval. "But you don't come until I say so. Understand?" You nodded, breath hitching as she leaned down, her breath hot against your core. Her tongue flicked out, a single, deliberate lick along your slit, making you arch. "Casey—please," you gasped, but she pulled back, smirking. "Not yet. That's strike one."
She built it slowly, torturously — her mouth descending fully now, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently while two fingers slid inside you, curling to hit that spot. The pleasure was immediate, intense, your hips bucking involuntarily. Casey's free hand pressed down on your abdomen, holding you still. "Control yourself, Detective," she warned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. She thrust her fingers rhythmically, tongue swirling in patterns that had you teetering on the edge within minutes. Your moans filled the room, body trembling, but just as the coil tightened, she stopped — fingers withdrawing, mouth pulling away. "No," you whimpered, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. "Please, Casey—"
"Objection sustained," she said, climbing up your body to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on her lips. "You come when I decide." Her hand returned, but slower now, circling your clit with maddening lightness, keeping you on the brink without release. The denial was exquisite agony — your body aching, clit throbbing, every nerve alight. Casey watched you intently, her own arousal evident in the flush of her cheeks, the way she ground subtly against your thigh. "Look at you," she murmured, slipping her fingers back inside, three this time, stretching you deliciously. "So desperate. Beg for it."
"Please, Casey—let me come. I need it," you begged, voice breaking, hips straining against her hold. She sped up, fingers pounding now, thumb pressing your clit hard. The edge rushed back, pleasure coiling tighter, tighter — until she stopped again, pulling out completely. A sob escaped you, frustration boiling over into tears that slipped down your cheeks. "Fuck—Casey, please!" She leaned in, licking a tear from your skin, her eyes dark with lust. "That's better. Your pleas are my favorite testimony."
She undressed then, slowly, teasingly — skirt sliding down her legs, blouse discarded, revealing her toned body, breasts full and nipples hard. Straddling your thigh, she ground against you, her wetness coating your skin as she resumed her torment. "Feel how wet you make me," she groaned, her fingers diving back in, thrusting relentlessly. This time, she didn't stop — building you higher, her free hand pinching your nipple, rolling it until pain mingled with pleasure. "Come for me now," she commanded, and you shattered — orgasm ripping through you like a verdict, body convulsing, cries echoing as waves crashed, your release soaking her hand.
But Casey wasn't done. "My turn to rule," she said, untying your wrists and flipping you onto your stomach. She positioned herself behind you, a strap-on harnessed — thick, veined, ready. "On your knees." You complied, ass up, and she entered you slowly, the girth stretching you to your limits. "Take it all," she growled, thrusting deep, her hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. The rhythm was punishing, each stroke hitting your g-spot, pleasure rebuilding fast. "Don't come yet," she ordered, one hand reaching around to circle your clit. The control was hers — speeding up, slowing down, edging you twice more until tears streamed freely, your begs incoherent.
Finally, mercy: "Now—come with me." Her thrusts turned erratic, her own moans mixing with yours as she ground the base of the strap against her clit. You came together — your orgasm explosive, clenching around the toy, sobs of relief and ecstasy mingling. Casey followed, shuddering against you, her release a quiet gasp.
She collapsed beside you, pulling you into her arms, kissing away the tears. "You were perfect," she whispered, her dominance softening to tenderness. In her private courtroom, you'd both won — the pleasure a verdict neither would appeal.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, soft!dom!clark, sub!reader, size difference, fingering (r receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), dirty talk, creampie, p in v, they don't use condoms. Minors dni.
The dim light of the Kent farmhouse filtered through the lace curtains, casting soft golden hues across the wooden floors and the rumpled sheets of Clark's childhood bed. The air was thick with the scent of fresh hay from the fields outside and the faint musk of anticipation. It was one of those rare weekends when Clark — Superman to the world, but just Clark to you — had stolen away from Metropolis, from the chaos of saving the day, to the quiet sanctuary of Smallville. You, his anchor in the storm, had come along, craving the simplicity of farm life and the intimacy that came with it.
Clark stood at the foot of the bed, his massive frame filling the room like a living statue — broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world, quite literally, and arms corded with muscle that made you feel impossibly small in the best way. At 6'4", he towered over your smaller stature, his blue eyes softening as they roamed over you, lying there in nothing but one of his old flannel shirts, unbuttoned just enough to tease. The size difference had always been a thrill between you — the way his hands could span your waist, how he could lift you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. Tonight, with the house empty — Martha away visiting friends — it was time to indulge in that fully.
"Come here," he murmured, his voice a deep rumble that sent shivers down your spine. You rose to your knees on the bed, crawling toward him, the shirt slipping off one shoulder. Clark's gaze darkened, his large hands reaching out to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a gentleness that belied his strength. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that started slow, tender, but quickly deepened — his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your core ache.
You pulled back slightly, breathless, your hands fumbling with the buttons of his plaid shirt. "You're so big," you whispered, half-teasing, half-reverent, as you revealed the expanse of his chiseled chest. Clark chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through you, but his eyes were intense. "And you're perfect," he replied, shrugging off the shirt and kicking off his jeans, leaving him in just his boxers, the outline of his arousal straining against the fabric.
He lifted you then, effortlessly, as if you were a feather — his hands under your thighs, hoisting you up until your legs wrapped around his waist. The height difference made it easy; your face level with his, you kissed him again, feeling the hard planes of his body press against your softness. Clark carried you back to the bed, laying you down gently, but his touch grew more insistent. He peeled off the flannel shirt, exposing your body to the cool air, your nipples hardening instantly. "God, look at you," he breathed, his large palm covering your breast completely, kneading with just enough pressure to make you arch.
The size kink ignited fully as he settled between your legs, his broad shoulders spreading your thighs wide — wider than any ordinary man could. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but safe in his care. Clark's mouth descended, kissing a trail down your neck, your collarbone, lingering on your breasts. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing, while his hand engulfed the other, pinching and rolling until you moaned. "Clark—please," you gasped, your hands tangling in his dark curls.
He looked up, eyes gleaming with desire. "I love how small you feel under me," he admitted, voice husky. "Like I could break you — but I won't. I'll make you feel everything." His hand trailed lower, fingers — thick and long — parting your folds, finding you slick and ready. One finger slipped inside, the stretch immediate and delicious, but when he added a second, you felt full already, your walls clenching around him. "So tight," he groaned, pumping slowly, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
You writhed, hips bucking, but Clark's free arm draped across your waist, holding you down effortlessly — his strength a reminder of the Kryptonian power he wielded with such control. "Stay still, baby," he commanded softly, his thumb circling your clit in tandem with his thrusts. The pleasure built fast, coiling tight in your belly, your smaller frame trembling under his dominance. "Come for me first—like this." His fingers sped up, relentless, and you shattered, crying out as waves crashed over you, your release coating his hand.
But Clark wasn't done. He shed his boxers, his cock springing free — thick, long, veined, a perfect match to his size. You stared, a mix of awe and anticipation, knowing the stretch would be intense. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your wetness, teasing. "You ready?" he asked, voice strained with restraint. You nodded, pulling him down for a kiss, and he pushed in slowly — inch by inch, the girth filling you to the brim, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.
"Oh god—Clark," you whimpered, nails digging into his unbreakable skin. He paused halfway, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours. "You're taking me so well," he praised, kissing away the tear that slipped from your eye — not from pain, but from the sheer fullness. When he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, you felt impaled in the best way, his size hitting depths no one else could.
He started moving then, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that made you feel every ridge, every vein. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly to meet him, the angle perfect for grinding against your clit with each stroke. The size difference amplified everything: his body covering yours completely, his arms caging you in, making you feel protected, possessed. "Fuck, you feel amazing," he groaned, pace quickening, the bed creaking under his power — though he held back, always careful not to hurt you.
You wrapped your legs around him as best you could, but his waist was too broad; instead, you clung to his shoulders — shoulders of steel, unyielding as he drove into you harder. Pleasure built again, sharper this time, your walls fluttering around his thickness. "Clark—I'm close," you panted, and he shifted, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit, the other pinning your wrists above your head in one massive palm. The restraint, combined with his relentless thrusts, sent you over — orgasm ripping through you, clenching around him like a vice, milking him as you cried out his name.
Clark followed, his rhythm faltering, a guttural moan escaping as he thrust deep one last time, spilling inside you — hot, abundant, filling you to overflowing. He collapsed beside you, careful not to crush you, pulling you into his arms. His size enveloped you completely, a human blanket of warmth and safety. "You okay?" he whispered, kissing your forehead. You nodded, nestled against his chest, the pleasure lingering in aftershocks. In his arms, on shoulders of steel, you felt unbreakable too.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!wanda, sub!reader, dacryphilia, fingering (r receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (w receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, magic strap-on. Minors dni.
The dim glow of scarlet energy flickered like candlelight in the shadows of Wanda's quarters, casting ethereal patterns across the walls of the Avengers compound. The room was a sanctuary — soft velvet drapes, a king-sized bed piled with silk sheets, the faint scent of lavender and something darker, more primal, lingering in the air. Outside, the world was chaos: missions, threats, the endless grind of heroism. But here, with you, Wanda Maximoff wove her own reality, one where pain and pleasure intertwined like the red threads of her chaos magic.
She'd always known it — pain and pleasure were threads of the same fabric. From the ashes of Sokovia to the illusions she'd spun in Westview, Wanda had learned that tears could be as intoxicating as ecstasy. And tonight, she decided to stitch them into you, her beloved, her canvas. You'd consented long ago, in whispered confessions during stolen nights, your trust in her absolute. "Make me cry for you," you'd said once, eyes gleaming with anticipation. Wanda's heart had raced then, her magic humming in response. Now, as you knelt before her on the bed, naked and willing, she felt that power surge.
Wanda stood at the edge of the mattress, her lithe form clad in a crimson corset that hugged her curves, lace panties barely concealing her arousal. Her auburn hair cascaded like a waterfall of fire, and her green eyes — sharp, commanding — locked onto yours. "On your back, detka," she murmured, her Sokovian accent thickening with desire. You obeyed, lying down, your body exposed to her gaze, skin prickling under the cool air. She climbed onto the bed, straddling your hips, her weight a delicious pressure as she leaned down, lips brushing your ear. "Tonight, I want your tears. Not from pain alone, but from overwhelming pleasure. Can you give me that?"
"Yes, Wanda," you whispered, voice trembling with excitement. Her fingers trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly, leaving faint red lines that made you gasp. She smiled, that wicked curve of her lips, as wisps of red magic danced from her fingertips, wrapping around your wrists and ankles, pinning you spread-eagle to the bed. The bonds were soft, like silk restraints, but unyielding — her chaos magic ensuring you couldn't escape, only surrender.
"Good girl," she purred, her hand sliding lower, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened. She pinched, hard enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath, but not enough to hurt — yet. "I love how responsive you are." Her mouth followed, lips closing around the peak, sucking gently at first, then with teeth grazing, biting just enough to sting. You arched, a soft whimper escaping, and Wanda's eyes darkened. "That's it. Let me hear you."
She moved to the other breast, lavishing the same attention, her free hand dipping between your thighs, fingers ghosting over your folds. You were already wet, aching for her, and she hummed in approval, slipping one finger inside you, curling it slowly. "So ready for me," she whispered, adding a second finger, thrusting languidly, building the heat without rushing. Your hips bucked, seeking more, but her magic held you firm. The frustration built — a delicious edge — and tears pricked at your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming need.
Wanda noticed immediately, her gaze softening with hunger. "Already? Oh, detka, you're perfect." She withdrew her fingers, bringing them to her lips, tasting you with a moan that sent shivers through you. Then, she shifted, positioning herself over your face, her panties discarded with a flick of magic. "Now, make me feel good. Use that pretty mouth." She lowered herself onto you, her slick heat pressing against your lips. You dove in eagerly, tongue lapping at her folds, circling her clit with fervor. Wanda gasped, grinding down, her hands in your hair, guiding you. "Yes—just like that. Deeper."
You obeyed, tongue delving inside her, savoring her sweetness, your own arousal throbbing untouched. Wanda's moans filled the room, her body trembling as she rode your face, her chaos magic pulsing in rhythm with her pleasure. But she wasn't done teasing — she reached back, fingers finding your core again, thrusting in time with her hips. The dual sensation was maddening: pleasuring her while she drove you to the brink, but never over. Tears welled up, spilling down your cheeks as the need became unbearable, your sobs muffled against her.
Wanda looked down, seeing the glistening trails on your face, and her breath hitched. "Look at you, crying for me. So beautiful." She lifted slightly, her fingers never stopping, now three deep inside you, curling relentlessly against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. "These tears... they're scarlet in my magic." Red energy swirled around your face, catching the tears, amplifying the sensation — each drop a spark of pleasure-pain. She leaned down, licking a tear from your cheek, her tongue tracing the salt, moaning at the taste. "You taste like surrender."
The kink ignited her — dacryphilia, the thrill of your tears fueling her desire. She ground harder against your tongue, her own climax building, but she held back, wanting more of your vulnerability. "Cry more for me, love. Let it out." Her thrusts quickened, fingers pounding into you, thumb pressing your clit in circles. The overstimulation hit — you came hard, body convulsing against the bonds, tears streaming freely now, sobs wracking you as pleasure bordered on agony.
Wanda followed, her release flooding your mouth, her cries echoing as she shuddered above you. But she didn't stop — her magic released your bonds, flipping you onto your stomach with a wave of her hand. "Not done yet," she growled, positioning herself behind you, a scarlet strap-on manifesting from her chaos energy, slick and ready. She entered you slowly, the girth stretching you deliciously, bottoming out with a groan. "Feel that? All for you."
She thrust steadily, one hand on your hip, the other reaching around to rub your oversensitive clit. The angle hit deep, each stroke sending jolts through you, tears renewing as the pleasure became too much. Wanda leaned over, kissing the tears from your back, her pace increasing. "Your tears make me so wet, detka. Cry for me — let me feel your pleasure in them." You did, sobs mixing with moans, the pain of overstimulation melting into ecstasy.
She flipped you again, face to face now, the strap-on still buried deep as she rocked into you, her breasts pressing against yours. Her mouth captured a tear-streaked kiss, tongues tangling, her magic heightening every sensation — your clit throbbing, walls clenching around the ethereal toy. "Come with me," she commanded, her own climax building again. You shattered together, tears flowing as waves crashed, her magic wrapping you both in scarlet warmth, prolonging the bliss until you were spent, trembling in her arms.
Wanda held you close after, wiping your tears with gentle fingers, her eyes soft with love. "You were exquisite," she whispered, kissing each eyelid. The pain and pleasure had woven something unbreakable between you — tears like scarlet threads, binding your souls in ecstasy.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, tongue piercing, oral (s receiving), p in v, breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), creampie, they don't use condoms, dirty talk. Minors dni.
The BAU briefing room was alive with the usual hum of focused energy — maps pinned to boards, profiles flickering on screens, the scent of stale coffee mingling with the faint metallic tang of markers. The team was deep into a case: a string of ritualistic killings in a small Midwestern town, the unsub's signature a bizarre obsession with body modifications. You, the newest profiler, were mid-sentence, gesturing to a photo of a victim's pierced ear, when it slipped out casually. "It's like my tongue piercing — subtle, but once you notice it, it's all you can think about." The words hung in the air for a beat, innocuous enough in context, but you caught the flicker of reactions around the table.
Hotch's eyebrow arched slightly, ever the stoic leader, while JJ offered a polite smile, her eyes twinkling with mild curiosity. Morgan chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Wait, you got a tongue piercing? That's badass. Didn't peg you for the type." You shrugged, playing it cool, the small barbell clicking faintly against your teeth as you spoke. "Got it on a whim in college. Healed fine, no big deal." The conversation moved on swiftly — Rossi steering back to the unsub's psychology — but your gaze drifted to Spencer Reid, the resident genius, who was uncharacteristically silent.
Normally, Reid would launch into a torrent of facts: statistics on piercing infections, historical cultural significance, or some obscure linguistic tie-in. But today, he sat rigid, his long fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the table, eyes fixed on his notes. His cheeks held a faint flush, barely noticeable under the fluorescent lights, and he avoided your gaze entirely. You filed it away, intrigued, as the briefing wrapped up and the team dispersed — Hotch assigning tasks, everyone grabbing files and coffee.
The bullpen emptied out gradually, agents heading to their desks or the jet for the impending flight. You lingered, reviewing notes in a quiet corner, when you felt a presence behind you. Turning, you found Reid, his lanky frame towering slightly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Hey, Spence," you said, smiling. "You okay? You were quiet back there." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, his hazel eyes darting behind those wire-rimmed glasses. "Yeah, just... processing. The case." But his voice was tighter than usual, and he shifted his weight, glancing down the empty hallway.
Before you could probe further, he gestured vaguely. "Walk with me? I need to grab something from the archives." You nodded, falling into step beside him, the click of your heels echoing in the deserted corridor. The BAU offices were a maze after hours — dimly lit, shadows pooling in corners, the hum of distant printers the only sound. Reid led you deeper, past locked doors, until you rounded a corner into a secluded alcove, far from prying eyes.
Without warning, he stopped, turning to face you. His hand reached out, gentle but firm, pressing against your shoulder until your back met the cool wall. The suddenness stole your breath — Reid, the awkward genius, pinning you with a gaze that burned. His glasses caught the faint overhead light, reflecting it back like twin sparks. "That piercing," he murmured, voice low and rough, nothing like his usual rapid-fire cadence. "You mentioned it so casually. But I've been thinking about it. All briefing." His free hand came up, thumb brushing your lower lip, coaxing your mouth open slightly. "Show me."
Heat flooded you, a thrill racing down your spine at the command in his tone — the shy doctor revealing a hidden edge. You parted your lips, sticking out your tongue just enough for the silver barbell to glint in the low light. Reid's eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he stared, transfixed. "God," he breathed, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your face. "Do you know what that does to me?" Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours — hesitant at first, then hungry, his tongue seeking yours, brushing against the piercing with a curiosity that made you moan.
The kiss deepened, his hands roaming — one tangling in your hair, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip, pulling you flush against him. You felt him harden through his slacks, the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your thigh. "Spence," you gasped when he pulled back, nipping at your jawline. "Here? Anyone could—" But he silenced you with another kiss, this one fiercer, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your blouse as he backed you further into the shadows.
"I've calculated the risks," he whispered against your skin, voice laced with that genius precision even now. "Shift change in 12 minutes. Hallway clear for at least 8." His lips trailed down your neck, sucking lightly, marking you as his hand slipped inside your open blouse, cupping your breast through lace. You arched into him, fingers clutching his vest, the piercing clicking as your tongue met his again. He groaned at the sensation, the cool metal contrasting the heat of your mouth. "That... feels incredible," he admitted, pulling back to meet your eyes. "Show me more. Show me what it can do."
Emboldened, you dropped to your knees right there in the hallway, the risk heightening everything — the distant echo of footsteps somewhere far off, the thrill of potential discovery. Your hands worked his belt, zipper rasping down as you freed him, his cock springing out, already hard and leaking. Reid's breath hitched, his hand steadying against the wall as you looked up at him, tongue extended, the barbell gleaming. "Fuck," he whispered, the curse foreign on his lips but delicious.
You started slow, teasing — licking a stripe along the underside, the piercing dragging cool and firm against his sensitive skin. He shuddered, hips jerking involuntarily, a hand flying to your hair. "That's... oh god." Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, the barbell pressing against the head as you swirled your tongue, the metal adding extra friction that made his knees buckle. Reid's usual eloquence dissolved into gasps and moans, his free hand bracing as you bobbed slowly, taking him deeper each time, the piercing rubbing along his length in ways that had him trembling.
"More," he begged, voice strained. "Show me everything." You obliged, hollowing your cheeks, sucking harder, the barbell flicking against the underside with each thrust. His cock throbbed in your mouth, pre-cum salty on your tongue, and you hummed around him, the vibration drawing a choked groan. His hips bucked, fucking your mouth gently at first, then with more urgency, his control fraying. "You're so good at this," he panted, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses. "The piercing... it's driving me insane."
You pulled back briefly, stroking him with your hand as you caught your breath, the barbell clicking against your teeth. "Want to feel it elsewhere?" you teased, voice husky. Reid nodded frantically, pulling you up and spinning you around, pressing your front against the wall. His hands hiked up your skirt, fingers hooking into your panties and yanking them down. The cold air hit your slick folds, making you gasp, but his warmth followed — his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing your entrance.
He entered you slowly, inch by inch, the stretch exquisite as he filled you completely. "God, you're wet," he groaned, hands gripping your hips. You pushed back against him, the angle perfect, his thrusts deep and measured. But you weren't done showing him — the piercing's magic extended beyond your mouth. As he fucked you from behind, you twisted slightly, capturing his lips in a messy kiss, your tongue piercing rubbing against his, the metal adding a spark that made him thrust harder.
"Feel that?" you whispered between kisses, clenching around him. Reid's response was a guttural moan, his pace quickening, one hand sliding around to rub your clit in tight circles. The pleasure built fast — his cock hitting that spot inside you repeatedly, your walls fluttering around him. "Spence—I'm close," you gasped, and he redoubled his efforts, fingers pinching your nipple through your bra, the dual sensations overwhelming.
"Come for me," he commanded, voice rough, and you did — orgasm crashing over you in waves, your body convulsing around him, milking his cock. The piercing clicked as you cried out into his mouth, the sound muffled but intense. Reid followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a final thrust, spilling inside you with a shuddering groan, his body pressing you against the wall as he rode out his release.
Panting, he pulled out slowly, tucking himself away as you straightened your clothes, the hallway still empty — his calculations spot on. He adjusted his glasses, a shy smile breaking through the afterglow. "That was... educational," he murmured, kissing your forehead. You laughed, the barbell glinting as you licked your lips. "Anytime you need a demonstration, Doctor."
The case awaited, but in that moment, the unsub's obsessions paled against your own shared secret — one that promised many more "briefings" to come.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!hotch, sub!reader, cock warming, oral (a receiving), p in v, creampie, they don't use a condom, masturbation (r receiving). Minors dni.
The hotel room in Quantico was a fortress against the storm raging outside, but the chill seeped through the cracks anyway — the kind of bone-deep cold that came with a late December blizzard, snowflakes whipping against the window like angry whispers. The heater hummed futilely in the corner, doing little to combat the draft, and the dim lamp on the desk cast long shadows across the carpet. Aaron Hotchner — Hotch, to the team, but Aaron to you in these stolen moments — sat at the small desk, his broad shoulders hunched slightly over a stack of case files, his tie loosened but still hanging around his neck like a remnant of the day's authority. His dark hair was tousled from running his fingers through it in frustration, and his jaw was set in that familiar line of concentration, the one that made him look unbreakable. But you knew better; you knew the man beneath the suit, the one who needed this as much as you did.
You were exactly where you belonged: on your knees between his spread legs, the plush hotel carpet cushioning your position as you nestled close to him. The cold air nipped at your exposed skin — you'd shed your clothes earlier at his quiet command, leaving you bare and vulnerable, your body heat contrasting sharply with the room's frigidity. Aaron's pants were undone, zipper down and fabric pushed aside just enough to free him, his cock heavy and warm in your mouth. This wasn't about frantic passion or quick release; it was about warmth, about comfort, about the slow, intimate act of keeping him enveloped while he worked. And tonight, with the storm howling and the case weighing on him, it was exactly what he needed.
You'd started slow, as always. After the team had dispersed to their rooms, you'd knocked on his door with a file as an excuse, but he knew. He always knew. "Come in," he'd said, not looking up from his paperwork, but when you closed the door behind you, his eyes had flicked to yours — dark, intense, a silent invitation. "The room's cold," you'd murmured, stepping closer, your hands already reaching for his belt. He'd nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips, the rare kind that softened his features. "Then warm me up," he'd replied, his voice low and gravelly, as he shifted in the chair to give you access.
Now, here you were, lips wrapped around him, your mouth a perfect sheath of heat. His cock filled you completely — thick, veined, pulsing subtly with his heartbeat as you held him there, not moving, just enveloping. The taste of him was familiar, salty and musky, a heady mix that made your own arousal throb between your thighs. You breathed through your nose, steady and controlled, feeling the weight of him on your tongue, the way he twitched occasionally when you swallowed around him, drawing a soft grunt from above. Your hands rested on his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his slacks, grounding yourself as the cold air raised goosebumps on your back.
Aaron tried to focus on the files — profiles of unsubs, timelines scrawled in his precise handwriting — but you could feel his distraction in the way his legs tensed, the subtle shift of his hips when you hummed softly around him. "You're doing so well," he murmured, one hand leaving the papers to thread through your hair, not pulling, just petting — a gentle affirmation that sent warmth pooling in your core. His touch was reverent, almost tender, contrasting the explicitness of your position. You loved this about him: the control he exuded, even now, as he balanced work and pleasure, using you as his anchor in the storm.
The snow battered the window harder, a gust rattling the panes, and you felt him harden further in your mouth, the cold making every sensation sharper. You resisted the urge to move, to bob your head and take him deeper; that wasn't the game tonight. Instead, you focused on the warmth — your saliva coating him, your tongue pressing flat against the underside, feeling every ridge and vein. Your own body responded, slick gathering between your legs, your clit aching for friction you denied yourself. This was for him, but god, it pleasured you too — the intimacy of it, the way his presence filled you, the quiet power exchange where you submitted so willingly.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the only sounds the scratch of his pen, the occasional turn of a page, and his deepening breaths. His hand in your hair tightened slightly when you swallowed again, the muscles in your throat contracting around his length, and he let out a low groan, his hips bucking just once before he stilled himself. "Fuck," he whispered, the word rough and unfiltered, a crack in his composure. You glanced up through your lashes — though you couldn't see much from this angle, just the underside of his jaw, the way his Adam's apple bobbed. His free hand gripped the desk edge, knuckles white, but he kept working, determined.
The cold nipped at your knees, but the heat from his body kept you grounded. You shifted slightly, pressing your thighs together to alleviate the ache building there, and the movement made you take him a fraction deeper, your nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. Aaron's response was immediate — a sharp inhale, his hand fisting in your hair now, holding you steady. "Easy," he warned, but his voice was strained, laced with pleasure. "Just... stay like that. You're perfect." The praise washed over you, making your core clench, arousal dripping down your thighs. You wanted to touch yourself, to chase your own release, but you didn't — this was about mutual torment, the slow burn that would make the eventual climax shattering for both.
As the storm intensified outside, so did the tension inside. Aaron's cock throbbed in your mouth, pre-cum leaking onto your tongue in salty bursts, and you savored it, swirling your tongue just enough to tease without breaking the rules. He dropped the pen finally, leaning back in the chair with a sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as he gave in to the sensation. "God, you feel incredible," he murmured, his voice a rumble that vibrated through you. His hand guided your head gently, not forcing, but encouraging — a subtle rock that had him sliding deeper, the head brushing the back of your throat. You relaxed, taking him fully, your gag reflex long trained for this, and the fullness made your eyes water with pleasure.
He worked like that for a while longer, but his focus frayed — notes becoming shorter, his writing less precise. Finally, with a frustrated growl, he pushed the files aside, both hands now in your hair, pulling you off him just enough to look down at you. His cock slipped from your lips with a wet pop, glistening with your saliva, hard and flushed. "Enough work," he said, his eyes dark with need. "Now, I want to feel you come while you warm me properly."
He stood, pulling you up with him, his mouth crashing against yours in a fierce kiss — tasting himself on your tongue, his hands roaming your chilled skin, warming you with rough caresses. He shed his clothes quickly, the suit jacket and shirt discarded, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest, the scars that told stories you knew by heart. The bed was cold, but he pulled you onto it, positioning himself against the headboard, legs spread. "Straddle me," he ordered, voice husky, and you did, sinking down onto his cock slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried deep inside you.
The stretch was exquisite — him filling you completely, your walls clenching around his heat. But again, no movement; just warmth, just connection. Aaron's hands gripped your hips, holding you still as he kissed your neck, your breasts, his teeth grazing your nipples until you moaned. "Ride me slow," he finally allowed, but it was a tease — every grind deliberate, building the pressure without release. His fingers found your clit, circling with expert precision, drawing gasps from you as you warmed him from within.
The pleasure built in layers — his cock pulsing inside you, your bodies generating heat against the cold room. You came first, shattering around him with a cry, your nails digging into his shoulders as waves crashed over you. Aaron followed soon after, thrusting up once, twice, before spilling deep inside, his groan muffled against your skin. The warmth spread, chasing away the chill, leaving you both sated and tangled in the sheets.
Outside, the snow continued, but inside, you were his warmth, and he was yours. The case could wait until morning.
Warnings. 18+, fem!reader, explicit sexual content, explicit language, dom!emily, switch!jennifer, sub!reader, fingering (r, e and j receiving), breast play (squeezing, nipple teasing), oral (r receiving), sensorial deprivation, masturbation, thigh rubbing, scissoring, dirty talk, description of cum taste. Minors dni.
The fluorescent lights of the BAU's auxiliary training room buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the sparse setup: a single metal chair bolted to the floor, a table cluttered with notepads and timers, and the faint scent of coffee lingering from the bullpen. The day had been long, filled with simulations and lectures on mental resilience, part of the FBI's annual protocol to prepare agents for the worst scenarios. You, as a new recruit, were eager to prove your worth, but you hadn't expected the sensory deprivation exercise to become something so... personal. Emily Prentiss and Jennifer Jareau, the team's veterans, had been assigned to oversee the session. They explained everything with impeccable professionalism at the start: the goal was to simulate isolation, test emotional and physical limits, build resistance against interrogations or captivity.
But throughout the afternoon, as the other recruits went through initial rounds of light exercises — eyes blindfolded for short periods, hands loosely cuffed to discuss sensations — you noticed something subtly shifting. Emily, with her confident posture and dark eyes that seemed to pierce souls, often leaned a little closer when adjusting the restraints, her fingers brushing your skin in a way that could have been accidental, but wasn't. "Remember, this is about vulnerability," she'd said in an earlier round, her voice low and husky, as she fastened a training cuff around your wrist. The touch lingered a second too long, and you'd felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the room's chill.
JJ, on the other hand, was the soft counterpoint: her calming presence, with those blue eyes that conveyed empathy but also a sharp curiosity. During group discussions, she guided conversations on how sensory deprivation amplified repressed emotions, and more than once, your gazes met — a subtle smile, a quick wink that made your stomach flip. "It's normal to feel intensity," she'd commented softly during a break, handing you a water bottle, her fingers lingering on yours. "Sometimes, it uncovers desires we didn't know we had."
The session had progressed to individual exercises, and the recruits were dismissed one by one after their rounds. You'd been last, intentionally, it seemed. The room had gradually emptied, leaving only the echo of distant footsteps in the hallway. Emily locked the door with a definitive click, claiming it was to "maintain focus without interruptions." JJ adjusted the lights, dimming them slightly to create a more immersive atmosphere, or so she said. The air had grown heavier, charged with a tension you'd initially attributed to the day's fatigue, but now recognized as something more primal.
"We're moving to the advanced level now," JJ announced, crossing her arms as she positioned herself in front of you. Her tone was authoritative, but there was a glint in her eyes — a veiled challenge. You reviewed the protocol: verbal consent at every step, safe words (green to continue, yellow to pause, red to stop), and the emphasis on how deprivation could unearth deep layers of the psyche. But as she spoke, you'd noticed how Emily moved in the background, organizing items on the table — a silk tie (her own, you realized), a black scarf that didn't look like standard gear. Your heart had raced, a mix of nervousness and excitement bubbling in your chest.
They started slow, testing the waters. First, a temporary blindfold without restraints, just to discuss sensations. With your eyes covered by a simple cloth, you'd described the amplified sound of their breathing, the subtle mingling of their perfumes. Emily had chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated through you. "Good. Now, imagine this with your hands immobilized. How would that feel?" Her voice had sounded closer, and you'd felt the air shift as she approached, the heat of her body radiating.
They removed the blindfold, and the discussion followed: they asked you to verbalize fears, expectations. That's when the conversation veered — Emily mentioned past cases where agents revealed unexpected attractions under sensory stress, and JJ supplemented with anecdotes about how team proximity could cross lines. Your gazes intensified; you'd felt the flush rising, admitting softly that the idea of vulnerability with them was... intriguing. "Intriguing how?" JJ pressed, leaning forward, her lips curving into a smile that was both encouraging and predatory.
The transition was subtle: they proposed an "extended simulation" just for you, to "deepen the learning." You'd consented, your pulse quickening as Emily loosened her tie, her eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made the air crackle. "This is going to be more personal," she'd murmured, stepping closer. JJ nodded, positioning herself at your side, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. — a touch that sent sparks. They reviewed the safe words again, but the tone had shifted: less clinical, more intimate.
Emily knelt before you, her knees brushing yours as she looped the tie around your wrists, pulling it taut behind the chair's back. The silk was cool at first, then warming to your skin, binding you with a firmness that made your pulse throb in your ears. She tugged once, testing, her fingers lingering on your pulse point. "Too tight?" she asked, but her eyes — dark, knowing — said she already knew the answer. You shook your head, and she smiled, a slow curve that promised unraveling.
"Good," she said, rising to her full height, towering in your seated vulnerability. "Now, the blindfold."
JJ moved in then, her movements graceful, almost tender. She produced a black silk scarf from her pocket — nothing standard-issue about it — and draped it over your eyes, tying it with careful knots at the back of your head. Darkness swallowed you whole, absolute and immediate. The world narrowed to sound and touch: the rustle of fabric as they shifted, Emily's subtle perfume of jasmine and leather, JJ's softer floral notes mingling in the space between. Your skin prickled, every nerve alight, the deprivation amplifying the ordinary into the erotic.
"Talk to us," JJ instructed, her voice closer now, lips nearly grazing your cheek. "Tell us if it's too much."
"It's... perfect," you whispered, the words tumbling out before you could filter them. A soft chuckle escaped JJ — light, approving — and then silence fell, thick and expectant.
The first touch came without warning: Emily's fingers trailing down your arm, feather-light, from shoulder to wrist. Goosebumps erupted in their wake, your body arching instinctively toward the contact. Without sight, it was magnified — the heat of her skin, the calluses on her fingertips from years of gripping reports and guns. She circled your elbow, then dipped to your side, skirting the edge of your blouse. "Feel that?" she murmured, her voice a low rumble. "Every inch of you is ours right now. No distractions. Just us."
JJ's hand joined, on your other arm, mirroring Emily's path but slower, more teasing. Her nails scraped gently, sending shivers racing up your spine. "You're doing so well," she praised, her tone that soothing lilt she used in press conferences, now twisted into something intimate, coaxing. "Let it build. Don't fight it."
You bit your lip, breath hitching as their hands converged at your collarbone, thumbs brushing the hollow of your throat. The dual assault was overwhelming — Emily firm and deliberate, JJ soft and exploratory. They unbuttoned your blouse in tandem, fingers working the buttons with agonizing slowness, exposing inch after inch of skin to the cool air. Your bra followed, the clasp snapping open with a click that echoed in your ears, and then their palms were on your breasts, cupping, kneading, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked hard and aching.
A whimper escaped you, unbidden, and Emily's laugh was dark, approving. "There it is," she said, pinching one nipple sharply enough to make you gasp. "That sound. We want more of that."
JJ leaned in, her breath fanning over your exposed skin before her mouth followed — wet, warm, her tongue flicking your other nipple. The contrast — Emily's rougher touch, JJ's gentle suction — had you straining against the ties, the silk biting into your wrists. Without vision, every lick, every scrape felt like fire, your world reduced to the points of contact, the symphony of their breathing syncing with yours.
"Please," you gasped, head falling back against the chair. "Touch me... lower."
Emily's hand slid down your abdomen, tracing the waistband of your slacks, while JJ's mouth trailed kisses across your chest, nipping at the underside of your breast. "Patience," Emily chided, but there was no real bite to it — only hunger. Her fingers dipped beneath the fabric, popping the button with ease, zipper rasping down. JJ helped, both of them working your pants and panties off in a coordinated tug, leaving you bare from the waist down, legs spread by the chair's design.
The air kissed your newly exposed core, slick and throbbing, and you felt their gazes on you like physical weight — devouring, even in the dark. "God, look at you," JJ whispered, reverent, her fingers ghosting over your inner thighs, so close but not quite there. "So wet already. This is all for us?"
"Yes," you panted, hips bucking futilely. "Fuck, JJ—Emily—please."
Emily's chuckle vibrated against your skin as she knelt again, her breath hot on your thigh. "Such pretty begging," she murmured, and then her mouth was there — lips pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your folds, tongue darting out to taste you. You cried out, the sound raw in the empty room, your body jolting as she licked a slow stripe up your center, savoring. Her tongue was relentless, exploring every fold with slow, deliberate laps, alternating between broad circles and precise flicks on your clit, making your thighs tremble uncontrollably.
JJ didn't leave you wanting; her hands returned to your breasts, rolling your nipples between her fingers as she captured your mouth in a kiss. It was messy, desperate — her tongue tangling with yours, swallowing your moans as Emily worked between your legs. Without sight, the flavors blurred: JJ's minty sweetness, Emily's deeper musk on her tongue when she pulled back to gasp for air. JJ broke the kiss for a moment, whispering against your lips: "You taste incredible, don't you? Emily can't stop." And then she dove back in, teeth nipping your lower lip as one hand slid down to join Emily's.
Emily's hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, her tongue circling your clit with expert flicks before sucking it between her lips. The suction was intense, alternating with light bites that sent jolts of pleasure-pain through your body. Fingers joined Emily's tongue — two, thick and sure, sliding into your heat with a wet schlick that echoed in the room, filling you completely. She curled them, hitting that sensitive spot inside you repeatedly, thrusting with a rhythm that built slowly but relentlessly, while JJ took over your clit, her fingers circling with perfect pressure, slick with your arousal.
"You're so tight," Emily groaned against you, the vibration sending you spiraling, her mouth never stopping, licking and sucking as her fingers pumped deeper, faster. "Clenching around me like you never want me to stop. You want more, don't you? Want us to fill you up completely?"
"Yes—fuck, yes," you begged, teetering on the edge, every sense funneled into the building pressure. The room spun in your mind's eye, colors blooming in the black void — reds and golds from the intensity. JJ kissed your neck, sucking a mark into the skin as her fingers pinched your nipple harder, the pain-pleasure mix tipping you over. "Come for us," Emily commanded, her voice muffled but unyielding, fingers thrusting deeper, her tongue lashing your clit in sync with JJ's circles. "Show us how you fall apart when we control you like this."
It shattered you — orgasm ripping through like lightning, your body convulsing in the chair, cries echoing off the walls, waves of pleasure pulsing through you as Emily and JJ prolonged it, licking and fingering until you were whimpering, oversensitive, tears soaking the blindfold. Your entire body trembled, air coming in ragged gasps, but they didn't stop immediately — Emily gave one last slow lick, savoring your release, while JJ kissed the tears escaping beneath the blindfold.
They eased you down gently, Emily's mouth withdrawing with a final, soft kiss to your inner thigh, leaving a trail of light bites that stung deliciously. JJ untied the blindfold first, the sudden rush of light making you blink, squinting at their flushed faces — hair disheveled, lips swollen and glistening with your essence, eyes dark with their own unmet need. "Hey," JJ said softly, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "You okay? Still green?"
"Green... more than green," you rasped, voice wrecked, body still buzzing. Emily worked the tie loose from your wrists, massaging the red marks with careful fingers, her touch now soothing but still laced with promise. Her eyes met yours, a predatory smile forming. "Good, because we're not done. Now it's our turn—and yours again."
They weren't done — not with you splayed open, still quivering from aftershocks. Emily stood, shedding her shirt and bra in quick, efficient movements, revealing her full, inviting breasts, nipples already hardened with arousal. JJ followed, her lithe form pressing against your side as she kissed you again, slower this time, guiding your hand to her breast. "Your turn," she murmured, nipping your lip. "Touch us. Make us feel what you felt. I want to see you unravel us too."
Freed, your hands roamed eagerly — first JJ, thumb circling and pinching her nipple until she gasped loudly, her body arching into the touch, then Emily, pulling her down for a kiss that tasted of you, mingled with their flavors. Emily's tongue dominated, possessive, as you explored her breasts, kneading and sucking a nipple, drawing a guttural moan from her. They stripped fully now, clothes pooling on the floor in a disordered pile, and JJ straddled your lap first, her wet heat grinding against your thigh as you sucked her breast into your mouth, your tongue swirling in circles that made her moan and writhe.
Emily watched for a moment, hand between her own legs, fingering herself slowly as she watched, but soon joined — her fingers finding JJ's core from behind, thrusting deep as JJ rocked against you, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room. "That's it, fuck her for me," Emily growled, her fingers pumping hard, curling to hit JJ's sensitive spot. You slid a hand down, circling JJ's clit with quick motions, feeling her clench around you, her moans growing louder, more desperate. "Fuck, yes—there, right there," JJ whimpered, hips grinding, riding your hand and Emily's at once.
The sight was mesmerizing: JJ's head thrown back, blonde hair cascading, moans spilling as Emily fucked her with steady fingers, you adding pressure to her clit until she came undone quickly, shuddering against you with a cry that was half-sob, half-prayer, her body convulsing as the orgasm tore through her, soaking your thigh with her release. JJ collapsed against your chest for a moment, panting, kissing your neck in gratitude, but Emily pulled her gently aside, eyes burning with desire. "My turn now. But let's make this more... united."
Emily positioned herself in your lap next — her thighs bracketing yours, core sliding against yours in a slick glide that had you both moaning loudly, the immediate friction sending sparks. "Fuck me," she demanded, and you did, fingers plunging into her heat, curling as she rode your hand with powerful motions, her breasts bouncing with each thrust. JJ knelt beside, recovered enough to join, her mouth on Emily's breast, sucking and biting as her hand slipped between your legs to return the favor — two fingers inside you again, matching Emily's rhythm, filling you as you filled her.
But Emily wanted more — she adjusted, lifting one leg to interlace with yours, positioning your cores against each other in a perfect scissor, clits rubbing with every hip movement. "Like this," she moaned, eyes locked on yours as she began to grind, the wet, intense pressure making you both gasp. "Feel it—us coming together." JJ wasn't left out; she positioned herself behind Emily, fingers returning inside her from behind, thrusting in sync with the motions, while her other hand circled her own clit, moaning as she watched. You lifted your hips to meet Emily's, the friction building, slick and hot, each rub sending waves of pleasure that mounted rapidly.
It was a tangle of limbs and gasps, the chair creaking under the strain, wet sounds and moans filling the air. Emily moved with force, hips circling in ways that hit perfectly, her clit pulsing against yours, while JJ added fingers — now three in Emily, stretching her, and two in you, curling to hit your spot. "Fuck, you two are perfect," JJ panted, leaning in to kiss Emily, then you, her tongue dancing between the three in a messy three-way kiss. The scissoring intensified, Emily speeding up, sweat-slicked bodies colliding, until she broke first — clenching around you, nails digging into your shoulders as she came with a guttural moan, her release soaking you both, pulsing against your clit.
The sensation triggered yours, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave, convulsing as JJ prolonged it with relentless fingers, drawing loud moans from you. JJ came next, fingering herself furiously as she watched, her body trembling against Emily's in a shared climax, their moans blending with yours in a chorus of pleasure.
They collapsed around you, a hot, sweat-slicked pile — JJ's head on your shoulder, Emily's arm draped across your waist, bodies intertwined on the floor now, the chair abandoned. The room smelled of sex and exertion, the training forgotten in the afterglow.
"This... wasn't in the manual," you murmured, a weak laugh bubbling up.
Emily smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Our little secret addition." JJ hummed agreement, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.
As they helped you dress, the blindfold tucked away like a talisman, you knew this training had forged something unbreakable. But in the BAU's world of shadows, secrets like this were the only light worth chasing.
