notes: i hope this injects some dopamine directly into your brain cells. loves, reblogs, and soft screams in the inbox are appreciated!! 🥰
warnings: absolutely none. zero. pure unadulterated tooth-rotting fluff. local hero is devastatingly in love with his family, more at 11. casual mentions of paperwork and exhaustion but that’s literally it.
The key turned in the lock with a soft, metallic click that sounded way too loud in the quiet of the apartment.
Izuku slipped inside, shoulders dropping the absolute second the door closed behind him. It had been a long day. The kind of day where your bones feel heavy and your mind is just a blur of paperwork, patrol routes, and trying to explain to a rookie why you can't just smash through a building to catch a petty thief.
He kicked off his boots, sighing as he padded into the hallway in his socks. The apartment was dark, save for the faint, warm amber glow of the kitchen nightlight and a sliver of light escaping from the cracked living room door.
He followed the light. Obviously. Because he’s a moth to the flame when it comes to his family.
Izuku pushed the door open an extra inch, and his heart just… melted. Completely liquefied. There was nothing left but mush.
There, sprawled out on the couch under a giant, fluffy All Might throw blanket (a housewarming gift from All Might himself that Izuku will defend with his life), were you and your four-year-old son, Haru.
Haru was completely dead to the world, face pressed right into your side, one chubby little hand gripping the front of your shirt like he was holding on for dear life. He had inherited his dad’s unruly curls, which were currently sticking up in every single direction imaginable. And you were slumped against the arm of the couch, one arm wrapped securely around Haru’s waist, your breathing slow and even. A half-finished book was resting dangerously close to slipping off your lap onto the floor.
Izuku just stood there for a solid minute, a soft, ridiculous smile spreading across his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb brushing against his collarbone, just taking it in. This is mine, he thought, and the sheer weight of how lucky he was hit him all over again.
He stepped into the room, making sure his footsteps were completely silent—a skill that usually served him well during stealth missions, but was currently being deployed solely to not wake up his sleeping treasures.
He knelt beside the couch, carefully picking up the book from your lap and placing it on the coffee table. Then, he leaned in.
First, a tiny, feather-light kiss to Haru’s forehead, right between his messy curls. Haru let out a tiny, soft sigh, his little nose twitching, but he didn’t wake up. He just shuffled closer to you.
Then, Izuku shifted his gaze to you. He reached out, his calloused, scarred fingers being incredibly gentle as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered on your cheekbone, smoothing over your skin.
"Hey," he whispered, so quietly it was barely a breath.
Your eyelashes fluttered, and you blinked sleepily, the ambient light catching the haze in your eyes. It took you a second to register him, but when you did, your lips curved into that soft, sleepy smile that always made Izuku’s chest ache in the best way.
"Mmh… 'Zuku," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. You tried to shift to give him space, but Haru let out a tiny whine, tightening his grip on your shirt.
"Don't move, don't move, it's okay," Izuku quickly whispered, placing a hand on your shoulder to keep you still. "Stay comfortable. I've got you."
He leaned down and kissed you properly—soft, slow, and lingering, tasting like home and warmth. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours for a second, just breathing you in. The scent of your laundry detergent and the faint smell of the tea you’d probably had earlier completely washed away the lingering stress of his day.
"You're late," you murmured, your eyes already half-closed again.
"I know. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Reports took longer than expected," he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He ran his hand down your arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Go back to sleep."
"Come to bed soon?"
"In a few minutes. I'm just gonna change."
He kissed the tip of your nose, making you huff a little laugh, before he carefully pulled the All Might blanket up a little higher, tucking it securely around both you and Haru.
Izuku stood up, looking down at his wife and his son, completely at peace. He might be the Number One Hero to the rest of the world, but standing in his quiet living room, looking at the two people who held his entire universe in their hands?
summary - after shooting and killing Philip Dowd, Spencer struggles with the numbness he feels when he comes home to you. based on this request.
word count - 1.1k
content warnings - after the events of L.D.S.K, established relationship, mentions of spencer killing Dowd.
The apartment smelled faintly of cold tea and old paper, a comforting combination that usually anchored Spencer the moment he stepped through the door. Tonight, though, the quiet inside felt almost oppressive compared to the chaotic, ringing echo in his head. He stood in the doorway for a beat too long, key still clasped tight in his fingers, before he let the heavy wooden door click shut.
You came around the corner from the kitchen, wiping your hands on a dishtowel. The tension in your shoulders dropped the second you saw him intact, alive, and home. "Spencer," you breathed, stepping forward to wrap your arms around his middle, burying your face against the crook of his neck. He stayed still for a fraction of a second before his hands found the small of your back. His grip was tighter than usual, almost desperate, though his posture remained strangely stiff. The scent of rain, stale coffee, and gunshot residue clung to his wool coat.
"Hey," he whispered. His voice was raspy, stripped raw.
You pulled back just enough to look up at his face. His eyes were wide, dark, and distant, fixed on a spot somewhere past your shoulder.
"I heard," you said gently, reaching up to frame his jaw with your hand. His skin was pale and cold. "JJ called me from the plane. She couldn't give me details, but she said... she said everyone made it out, and that you saved Hotch."
Spencer blinked, the words washing over him without quite landing. He unbuttoned his coat slowly, methodically, hanging it on the hook by the door as if following a script. "Yeah. I... I had to shoot him."
"Come sit down," you said softly, taking his hand. His fingers were trembling, not the quick, restless movement of his usual fidgeting, but a fine, uncontrollable tremor.
You led him to the sofa. He sat rigidly on the very edge of the cushion, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at his hands. You sat on the coffee table in front of him, wrapping both of your hands around his, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles to warm him up.
"It was Philip Dowd," Spencer said quietly, his voice dry and flat. "He had us trapped in the hospital room. He took away my gun earlier, mocked me for failing my firearm qualification... he called me a kid. He thought I was harmless."
You didn't interrupt. You just listened, keeping your steady weight anchored across from him.
"Hotch... Hotch started kicking me," Spencer continued, the words coming faster now, driven by that familiar, rapid cadence, yet entirely devoid of emotion. "He was playing along with Dowd's hero-complex narrative, pretending to vent his frustration at me so Dowd would drop his guard. He was giving me an opening. He was telling me where his backup gun was strapped to his ankle." He looked down at his hand, the hand you were holding, and flexed his fingers slowly. "I took the ankle holster. I aimed for his head. I shot him. Point blank."
The silence in the living room stretched, heavy and thick. You waited, giving him space to process, knowing how his mind worked in hyper-drive, analysing every micro-second of the event.
"Spencer," you gently prompted. "How are you feeling?"
He finally lifted his head to look at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, searching your face with a harrowing kind of panic, not because he was overwhelmed by emotion, but because of the absolute absence of it. "That's the thing," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm not. I don't feel anything."
Your heart ached for him, but you kept your touch steady. "What do you mean?"
"When Gideon talked to me after... he asked if I was okay. People always talk about the guilt, or the trauma, or the weight of taking a human life. They talk about the horror of the moment," Spencer explained, his speech speeding up as his rational brain tried to solve an unsolvable equation. "Adrenaline spikes, the body triggers an acute stress response, often followed by remorse or psychological distress. But I watched the light leave his eyes, and I... I felt relieved. I felt calm. I killed a man today, and I don't feel guilty at all."
He pulled his hand out of yours and covered his face, breathing heavily. "What does that mean? Am I breaking down? Am I becoming desensitised? I'm supposed to understand human behavior, I'm supposed to have empathy, but right now I feel like an absolute blank."
You reached out, gently pulling his hands away from his face and holding them back down in his lap. "Spencer, look at me," you demanded softly.
He hesitated, then lowered his gaze to meet yours.
"You didn't execute someone in cold blood," you told him, every word deliberate and firm. "You were trapped in a room with a man who was actively murdering people, who was about to kill Hotch, and who would have killed you next. You didn't kill him out of malice or anger. You stopped a monster from taking more lives."
"I know the logic," he said, frustration bleeding into his tone. "I know the justification. But the emotional disconnect-"
"-is your brain protecting you," you finished softly, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. "You've been through a high-stress trauma. Your body spent hours in a state of hyper-vigilance, and then you had to make a split-second decision to save your friend's life. Your mind isn't feeling guilty because you didn't do anything wrong. You feel numb because you're exhausted."
Spencer stared at you, the frantic light in his eyes dimming just a fraction, replaced by a vulnerability he only ever showed behind closed doors with you.
"You aren't a bad person, Spencer," you whispered, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss against his forehead. "You aren't cold, and you aren't broken. You're just human, and you brought everyone home alive today."
A long, shuddering breath escaped his chest. The tension holding his spine rigid finally snapped, and he leaned into you, resting his heavy head against your shoulder. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap as if anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that felt real right then.
"Stay with me?" he asked against your neck, his voice small, stripped of all academic shields and profile logic.
"I'm not going anywhere," you said, running your fingers gently through his hair as the quiet of the apartment settled around you both. "I've got you."
this will most likely be a full fic whenever i get around to it
spencer reid, who, hates that someone who challenges his intelligence joined the team. the bau loves you, adores you, even. he watches as you somehow manage to charm the lot of them through different techniques, envy seeping into his heart. he isn't sure if it's because he liked having the affectionate attention from them or if it's because not only were you charismatic, you were smart too, and they started to pay more attention to you- yes maybe that was it.
you, who, couldn't figure out why everyone liked you but spencer reid. er, doctor. he had corrected you when you had gone up to him, smiling a full tooth grin, hoping he would meet yours. but you recieved little to nothing back, causing it to dim. you tried a few times- or more- but you were hardly successful. the only moment that was more than a tight lipped grimace, was when you had handed him the last sugar from the coffee bar. he seemed surprised. it didn't last though.
spencer reid, who, can't explain why he started feeling the need to compete with you on the field or even in the office. it just clawed away inside his brain, like a deep seeded urge. if you had twenty files that needed to be completed, looked over, finished- spencer had double that. and he made sure it was done in a manner that irritated you, standing up abruptly, almost knocking his mug off his desk. gathering as much as he could in his arms, parading to hotchs' office, then proudly strolling out of the office, with a subtle glance at you. if jj was presenting a case to the team and a fact or topic you were knowledgeable on came up, spencer found a way to add on to it- which at first, made you shrink back in your seat. as he continued doing it, you started to sit straighter, firing back at him.
you, who, refuses to be partners with him on the field if it comes to it. you attach yourself to emily and morgan, hoping hotchs subconscious will just direct you to one of them- even rossi. at some point, though, you think hotch started to figure it out, and put you with reid to go to the me or to the scene that brought you there. each car ride was tense and uncomfortable, the two of you barely sharing any words unless it was strictly about what was in the file resting in your lap.
spencer reid, who, got stuck in the coldest hotel room, he thinks.
you, who, got stuck in the hotel room with the broken air conditioner in the middle of summer.
spencer reid, who, asks the front desk if they could fix the air. they send someone and he shrugs, saying it won't change. he watches the man give an extra slap on the ac unit, then make a tight lipped smile back at spencer. he barely registers the ice age joke that follows.
you, who, begs the front desk for a new room. the front desk attendant shakes her head, telling you they're at full capacity for the night but tomorrow she could.
you walk back to your room with sweat soaking through your tank top, dampening the light grey fabric. you're convinced you'll have to spend the night in the shower, with the water running, to withstand the heat. the air from the hallway is cool against your hot skin, making you linger in front of your door for a few more minutes.
spencer reid, also walking back to his room, catches a glance of you at your door, standing there like a freak, he thinks.
"is there something keeping you from making it inside your room?" he meant for the words to come out snarky, a little frigid, like his room, but they instead seem more interested.
you crane your head towards him, your face flushed red from the heat. "yeah, doctor. the broken air conditioner. think that's a case you can solve?" you fully face him and spencer tells himself he's not feeling just as warm as you look because of what you're wearing, what he has access to looking at.
"my air conditioner is set extremely low. um, it's cold in my room. if you want to cool down. it's also broken."
he searches for any reason why he could offer to spend time with you. you arch an eyebrow at him, but the thought of being on a plush comforter with the ac ripping somewhere in the sixties was too good to turn down. you follow him into his room, the arms on your hair immediately standing up.
spencer sees his mistake immediately. physically and visually. while your tank had already been see through due to the sweat that had soaked through the light fabric, the change of temperatures had your nipples peaking through the top.
he fought his gaze, looking away towards where the file for the week sat.
spencer reid, who, has a feeling he might fuck up tonight.
Synopsis: Spencer gets lost in the sauce wink wink
WC: 817
Tags/ Warnings: perv!Spencer, erotic fantasies, fantasies about: blowjobs, riding, cum eating (i think), oral f!receiving, oral m!receiving and belly bulge, mention of jerking off, praise, use of pet names (good girl, baby)
extra : i literally came up with this while i was eating a burger im deadass ALSO this is heavily self indulgent and that’s why it’s so short but i hope you enjoy! <3
You and Spencer were sitting opposite each other at the diner booth. It was almost tradition for you to go eat mediocre fast food at a mediocre 24/7 diner after a case. He wouldn’t eat but drink a cup of overly sweet black coffee, spewing statistics about how the food is normally served and what not but you didn’t care since the food was good, especially when you were starving after a long flight back home.
This night was no different, you were eating a burger as he talked about how unhealthy frozen processed meat was and how fries don’t have any nutritional value but for you it was only background noise. But uncharacteristically for Spencer, he stopped talking. He just stared at you as you practically slobbered your food, mayo dripping down from your mouth to your chin and even to the exposed skin of your chest since you chose to wear a low cut shirt tonight. He watched intently how surprisingly attractive you looked while you licked your thumb that got covered in sauce and he started to imagine how your lips would curl around his or…well…his dick. He wasn’t a creep, or so he wanted to think. He watched how you opened your mouth to take a bite out of your food and started to fantasise about how wide your mouth would open as you took him into your mouth. He was also ogling your chest as mayo dripped out of your burger and down to your collarbone, imagining how you’d look with his cum in your pretty little mouth.
His fantasy was pretty simple. You’d both arrive at his place and barely make it through the door, making out as you step foot into his home and having to kick the door closed with his foot. You’d stumble backwards into the living room. You would get on your knees as he sat down on the couch with his legs open. He’d help you with unbuckling his belt and he’d lift his hips so you could pull his pants and boxers down to his knees. He wanted to curl his fist gently into your hair as you bobbed your head up and down his already leaking cock. You’d make eye contact with him the whole time and when he wasn’t whimpering and moaning your name he’d sweetly praise you, calling you his good girl while his hips bucked involuntarily deeper down your throat. “You’re doing great, baby. You’re so beautiful with my cock in your mouth. Good girl, keep going” He would say to you, slowly pushing himself deeper and deeper into your mouth. He’d cum embarrassingly fast and you would swallow every ounce of it and even lick his dick clean so it would only be glossy because of your saliva. Or, instead, he’d be under you as you rode him and he would watch how your tits moved as you were bouncing on his dick and he’d feel the bulge in your cervix with one hand while the other was on your hip as he guided the pace of your fucking, moaning his name over and over again until you both came at the same time. Or better yet, he often fantasies about going down on you. How it would feel to have you squeeze his head in between your thighs…
But those are only fantasies. He knew he’d never get to see you in those circumstances. Things he thought about mainly when he jerked off. You were just coworkers, friends even. But he couldn’t get these thoughts out of his head, especially when he saw your lacy bra peek out of your shirt or when you bend over…or even when you were simply looking at him with your stupid but perfect smile. He knew he loved you romantically but he was also aware that you’d only view your love towards him as platonic. He truly thinks that he would treat you better than anyone could, he was almost certain of that but you’d never give him a chance-
“Hello? Earth to Reid?” You wave your hand in front of Spencer and that seemed to do the trick because he finally snapped out of his daze. “Why didn’t you just tell me I had sauce all over myself?” You look down at your chest and quickly get a tissue to clean yourself.
“Huh? Sorry…I’m just a little bit tired” He pretended to yawn.
“Let’s just get out of here and get you into bed.” You sigh and signal to the waitress to bring your check.
But he didn’t want to sleep in his bed. He wanted to sleep in yours. Or to have you in his. Both would do just fine. But one thing is certain, he had to jerk off immediately when he got home since he felt himself getting hard just at the thought of you loving him back.
Spencer Reid x f!reader | Series MasterList | complete, epilogue coming soon
" The look in your eyes told me everything I needed to know; without a second thought, I was ready to let it eat me alive. "
In [ 𝓢𝔂𝓷𝓬 ] (pt.1)
You and Spencer have been working at the BAU for so long that everyone jokes you two are in sync; somehow you can figure him out through a glance. This superpower isn't always a blessing you've learned.
In [ 𝓗𝓪𝓻𝓶𝓸𝓷𝔂 ] (pt.2)
After a case gone wrong, you learn the hard way that yours and Spencer's superpower isn't so super. A fact you'd come to accept if it didn't continue to torment you both.
In [ 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 ] (pt.3)
The race against the clock continues, and Spencer is painfully aware your time is running out. He can't help but wonder: will the look in your eyes remain, or has this superpower damned you both?
Criminal Minds did Spencer Reid SO dirty with his ending! And I've been re-watching the series again and this kept popping into my head.
Picture Reid does get his happy ending and live the life he dreamed of.
I picture him with someone that isn't apart of his same field, I've always thought he'd pair best with a English Lit major because of his love of reading. He finds love with a fellow professor at Georgetown who teaches English Literature classes and has a PhD, and is well-known for her writing as an author.
They'd go on dates to museums, bookstores, wear cardigans and their typical night in is Reid reading a book while she grades papers and writes her next novel.
I also saw a TikTok of a lady saying she playfully teases her husband and kids as "my lord/my lady" in the most medieval peasant voice ever, and that's for sure the life he has.
He's for sure a girl dad! And he is always ready for the next recital or sports event his girls are in, he's a professional when it comes to doing their hair. And he bonds with his kids by always reading to them at night since they were in the womb because he read how important it is for babies to hear your voice.
Anyways, what I mean to say, is that this is the life and the ending that Reid's character deserved.
Oh my god hyperspermia izu and you giving him a handjob while focusing on the EXTREMELY SENSITIVE chubby tip 🙏🏼🙏🏼 hes sooobbing and hiding in your neck
an: shut up. oh my god yes anon.
"h-hic! mmfgg t-too sensitive.." izuku cries softly, his tears wetting your shirt as your hand jerks at his tip quickly. his pre is oozing all over your hand, coating it in the sticky substance.
you're seated on his thick thighs, whispering soft things into his ears. "shh.. it's okay izu. 'm gonna make you cum, okay?" you coo softly and he sniffles, raising his head from your shoulder to look at you. his emerald eyes are glossed over, fat tears fall down his cheeks while you massage his tip thoroughly.
"'m can't. t-too sensitive.." he whispers, hips bucking up into your fist that's wrapped around him. his tip is red and leaking soooo much now, he's so painfully hard it looks like it hurts :(
"well do you want me to stop then, baby?" you ask, removing your hand from his dick and his eyes shoot wide open. "no, no, no! j-just... no teasing.. wanna cum please!" he begs, his hands grip onto your hips. you hum and bring your hand back onto his chubby cock, stroking him once again. alllll the way from the tip to his thick base.
he chokes out, gasping at the stimulation once more, he's burying his face in your neck again. his hips continue to buck up into your hand and you quicken your strokes, squeezing your fist around him more that it has him seeing stars.
"o-ohmgod. gonna c-cum.. c-cum.. c-cumming!" you watch his head fall back, his hips jerk upwards and large ropes of gooey, thick, creamy cum spurt from his tip. he lets out the loudest of whines while his thighs shake. the cum pools in his lap, each spurt slowly gets shorter and shorter until there's no more.
he lays back against the bed and you lean down and kiss his tip, he lets out a soft whimper. "now that's my good boy."
now suddenly, his cock is hard again and leaking. who would've thought?
an: I love both subby and dominant izu, but writing him subby while you're jerking him off feels so right. I feel like the only time he'd be dominate is when he's trying to breed you or just he's fucking you. I'd say he's a pleasure dom when you to aren't going at it super rough ykyk?
content : gn reader , smut , improper use of izuku sensei's tie , choking , degradation/dumbification , devious backshots.
for how sweet izuku is, you would've never expected him to be so nasty during sex.
the snap of his hips leaves a stinging sensation in its wake every time it comes down on your ass, pushing you further into the mattress. your face is smushed against the pillows, muffling the downright pornographic moans that slip past your lips.
"mmh, izuku! wai—ah!" the mean rhythm set by him didn't give you a second to collect your thoughts, leaving you to blabber mindlessly while his thick cock rearranges your guts.
"what was that, my love?" izuku sighs out, leaning down just enough to hear you better. his hold on your waist tightens as a result, coaxing a soft hiss out of you, far from what he wanted.
izuku is a man of discipline, to put it simply. he expected a coherent answer from you, yet all he got were the remnants of an "izuku, fuuuuck.. gi-gimme a momeeeent..!" that he could barely piece together. a slight tsk escaped him, both due to the nonsense you're blabbering and the words you have the audacity to utter.
"no, baby, not after what you did." he chides. why should he put up with a spoiled brat like you anyway? he always tries to be so, so loving with you and every time it ends with him having to dick you down—his most efficient way of teaching you a lesson. his pace is always so mean, his touch so rough and completely different from how he handles you outside the bedroom.
it reduces your mind to nothing but mush. as expected of a cockdrunk whore, you can't even muster up a proper sentence but still have enough attitude to make demands.
in the midst of your haze you can hear the faint sound of fabric rustling. out the corner of your teary eyes you catch a glimpse of izuku's toned torso, slightly more exposed than before but you can't tell why. not to worry, he immediately spoon feeds you the answer!
your airway is constricted before you can even register the feeling of his tie encircling your neck, causing a ragged gasp to claw at your throat. izuku tugs once, pulling your head out of the pillows. your hands scramble to support your weight, laying flat against the sheets.
at the same time, it feels as though he's bullying his cock into you so much faster than before, sending your eyes rolling and leaving your lips agape. the sight is downright filthy and izuku has to bite his lip, holding back a rather undignified reaction.
"shit," he pants, "that's how you like it, huh? with my tie around your pretty neck.."
every last word coming from his lightly swollen lips sends your mind reeling, unable to do anything but call out his name like a mantra of desperation. a heavy slap to your ass interrupts the string and replaces it with a shriek. music to izuku's ears, really.
"didn't know you were so dirty, baby."
well damn, you had no idea izuku could be so freaked out either.
masterlist.
ugh izuku senseiiii... back to rewatching & finishing mha, everyone's so fine even the side characters it's not fair.
I HAD THE BEST IDEA IF UR UP FOR IT!! Honey!! Where is my supersuit!? From the incredibles with izuku and reader
A/N: BIGG SMOOCH TO YOUR BRAIN.
HONEY! WHERE'S MY PROHERO SUIT?!
Midoriya Family Shenanigans
Warning: NSFW warning, light teasing.
Izuku lay back in his recliner. It was a wonderful afternoon of spending time at home. He was supposed to be on call but it seems like his agency was handling everything super well with him not there. He had decided to spends some very valueable time with the boys.
A snore left his mouth, his head back as Shoyo was snuggled on his left and Koda was on his right. Both boys also dead asleep after a water balloon fight in the garden. Hero who had much enjoyed the shenanigans had refused a bath and was passed out on the couch nearby too. However Koda and Shoyo were forced into a bath that ended up in more splashes than soap.
Izuku felt a vibration in his pocket that made him pry his eyes open. The orange afternoon light falling on his face. He rubbed his eyes with his hand before pulling out his phone. He yawned wide as he put the phone to his ear to answer. "Deku, speaking." He answered mid yawn.
He heard a crash on the otherside of the line. "ProHero Deku sir! Sorry to-" The sound of a scream interupted the call and some crash again. "Interupt your day but we're dealing with a S rank that just escaped out of Cerberus and we thought we could contain him- agrh."
"WE CAN'T CONTAIN HIM!" Another one of his sidekicks shouted from the distance.
"I promise, everything is under control."
"NOTHING IS UNDER CONTROL! AHHH THE GRANDMA!"
"Please get here soon."
Izuku let out a groan but his body was already moving. "I'll be right there. Try hold on." He said more awake than he was a few second ago. The call dropped as he put his son's in place of him on the recliner, and grabbed a blanket to roll up and put over them. He then raced out of the living room.
In a flash of lightning, he was in his study only to find that his prohero uniform, the suit that signified his very heroism, was missing. He paused his eyebrows furrowing. He was sure it was there.
He raced over to the bedroom, into the walk in closet, digging through where sometimes he or you would put it. Despite all type of exercise and other wears, he couldn't see it.
"Honey!" Izuku shouted with his head deep in a drawer.
"Yes, sweetheart." You said as you stayed laid in bed, unbothered by your husband's zipping and electric racing. You were nose deep in a book, absolutely unbothered as you could finally have time for yourself.
"Where is my prohero suit?" He asked half muffled by all the sounds of hangers moving and drawers opening and closing.
You paused your reading as you turned your attention up. "What?!" You asked
Izuku's shoulders sagged before pausing all his moving around. "Where is my prohero suit!" He raised his voice loud enough for you to hear him.
There was a suspicious pause from you that Izuku noted. "Why do you need to know?" You asked unbothered.
"Cause I need it. I was just called in for an emergency." He left the walk in closet to stand in the doorway. His hands were together as he pulled a smile onto his face. "My love."
"Nah uh."
"Sweetheart."
"Izuku." You sat up as you closed your book, a stern look in your eyes that did not fit the oversized shirt you were wearing and the sweatpants. "You promised me that you would give me a back massage. I've been looking forward to that massage!" You complained.
"Honey, Japan is in danger." He motioned outside.
"My evening's in danger!"
He let out a scoff but a smile couldn't help but go to his face at how ridiculous this all sounded. "Y/N we are talking about the greater good of this city!" He emphasised.
You folded your arms over your chest. "I am your wife! I am the greatest good you are ever going to need or get!" Izuku's shoulders sagged as he covered his face with both his large hands with a deep groan. He knew you could not possibly be serious right now and yet you were. He sighed as he lowered his shoulders. He sighed. "You are going to pick up that phone and tell them to call some other hero cause I don't want my evening to be ruined because they are too lazy to-"
Suddenly your husband's tongue was in your mouth, and his hand wrapped around your neck. You let out a squeak in surprise as your head was tilted up. However at his mouth on yours, you quickly became putty in his hands.
The feeling of his thumb brushing against your jaw, a shiver ran down your spine as you relaxed, opening your mouth for more. Your hands moved up from where they were wrapped around you to hold onto his torso. Izuku leaned back making you gasp for air, but not for long as he gave your neck a light squeeze. "Open." He breathed out a command for you, his eyes staring down at you with such blatant want.
You opened your mouth without a second thought, your eyes half open as you stared up at him waiting for his next command. Izuku opened his mouth, his tongued meeting yours briefly making you whine. He knew what you wanted.
He shushed you at the sound of your whine. His lips traveled from your mouth to your jaw all the way to your ear. "I promise you that when I get back, I'll have you so relaxed and thoroughly fucked that you won't remember this conversation. But in order for me to do that, I need to know, where is my suit?" He whispered.
Your breathing was heavy as you felt him continue to kiss down your neck. "Under... under the bed."
The moment your answer was out you felt his presence leave you like cold wind.
You blinked confused. In a flash of green lightning, your husband was standing in front of the bed with his hero suit half on as he zipped it up, hopping up and down as he started moving towards the balcony. "Thanks sweetheart!" He grinned with a sweet smile. "I'll see you in a few minutes. Love you!" He said as he started walking backwards, grabbing his cape off the stand.
Rage filled you as you just realised you had been played. "IZUKU!"
"See you later, honey!" And just like that, your husband was gone and ProHero Deku was in the sky.
-Careful by tenpintsof_sundrop: Single Mom reader and Spencer IS the father. Cute but angsty. Has me all up in my feelings during EVERY chapter. Sweet and heartwarming but very spicy. (MDNI) 10/10
-Dear Whoever You May Be by idmakeitbehave: Text-only fic, always makes me cry, angsty but heavy on the hurt/comfort. One of the only fics I can reread days after finishing. 100/10
-The Girl Next Door, and the Boy Who Needed Her by brittishmenorbust: Addict!Spencer, angsty but also cute. This one always leaves me sitting in silence for a while. 10/10!
summary - the five times Spencer had debilitating baby fever, and the one time it was actually warranted
word count - 2.2k
content warnings - babies and kids, broody spencer, pregnancy
1-
The hum of the hospital room’s fluorescent lights usually gave Spencer a migraine, but today, his attention was completely consumed by the tiny, glass-walled bassinet being wheeled past your open door. He had insisted on driving you to Urgent Care after you slipped on the rain-slicked steps of the Bureau, spraining your ankle with a sickening pop. You were currently propped up on a crinkly paper mattress, an ice pack strapped to your swollen joint, while Spencer paced the linoleum.
Then, a sudden, piercing cry echoed down the hallway, a newborn.
Spencer stopped mid-sentence. His head snapped to the door. His dark eyes dilated, his chest rising and falling in a silent, suspended breath. You watched as his long fingers, which had been frantically fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag, went completely still.
“Spencer?” you murmured.
He didn’t answer right away. He stepped toward the doorway as if pulled by an invisible string, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The sound of the infant’s cry hit something deep in his chest, a sudden ache that flared behind his ribs. He had spent his entire life studying the human brain, analyzing attachment theory, oxytocin release, and evolutionary psychology. But none of his textbooks had prepared him for the physical, heavy pull in his gut at the sound of a brand new life. He turned back to you, his eyes wide and glossy, his gaze dropping involuntarily to your lap before darting back to your face.
“They weigh an average of seven and a half pounds at birth,” he murmured, his voice oddly breathless. “Their lungs are so small, yet they can produce sounds up to eighty-five decibels.” He swallowed again, his thumb brushing over the back of his own knuckles. “It’s… incredible, isn’t it?”
You offered a warm, wry smile. “You’ve got that look again, Spence.”
He bit his lower lip, flushing a deep, embarrassed pink, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, soft and helplessly longing.
2-
The bullpen was usually a place of harsh artificial light, stale coffee, and heavy case files, but today it smelled faintly of baby powder and fresh laundry. JJ had brought baby Henry in for his very first visit. The entire team was gathered around her desk, cooing and taking turns marveling at the tiny bundle wrapped in a pale blue blanket. But while Hotch and Prentiss were admiring the baby's tiny fingers, Spencer was locked in a quiet, internal war.
When JJ gently transferred the bundle into Spencer's arms, his entire body went rigid with terror and awe. He adjusted his grip, resting the back of Henry’s tiny, warm head against the crook of his elbow. The baby shifted, making a tiny smacking sound with his lips, and settled against Spencer’s chest. Spencer looked up, catching your eye from across the desk where you were filling out paperwork.
He didn't smile. Instead, a full, shameless pout settled onto his lips. He adjusted Henry slightly, holding the baby a little higher so you could see the way the tiny fist was curled into the fabric of his sweater vest. Spencer’s shoulder blades tightened, he felt the heavy ache in his chest, a desperate envy that made his throat feel tight.
He caught your gaze, jutted out his bottom lip, and gave you a look so blatantly full of sorrowful longing that it almost made you laugh aloud. Look at this, his big, puppy-dog eyes were saying. Look at what we don't have. Look how good I am at this. He subtly shifted his stance, rocking back and forth on his heels in an instinctual, fluid rhythm, his cheek resting lightly against the fuzz of the baby's head as he kept his eyes pinned on you, silently begging you to read his mind.
3-
Halloween night in your neighborhood was thick with the smell of damp oak leaves and pumpkin spice. You and Spencer sat on your front porch, a large plastic bowl of full-sized candy bars sitting between you. A shadow fell over the steps, and a little girl, no older than three, came shuffling up the walkway in a disproportionately large, fluffy bumblebee costume. Her yellow-and-black tutus rustled with every tiny, uncertain step, her little shiny black shoes clicking softly against the concrete.
"Trick or treat!" she squeaked, tilting her head back so far her antennae wobbled wildly.
Spencer froze. He didn't just hand her candy, he dropped down onto both knees right on the cold porch floor, bringing himself down to her exact eye level. His knees made a dull thud against the wood, but he didn't care.
"Hello," he said, his voice dropping into a register so gentle, so soft, it made your heart do a sudden, terrifying flip. "Are you a Bombus terrestris? A buff-tailed bumblebee?"
The little girl blinked, confused, then giggled and held out her plastic pumpkin. "I'm a bee! Bzzz!"
"You are the best bee I have ever seen," Spencer whispered, his face breaking into a radiant, unguarded smile that crinkled the corners of his brown eyes. He carefully picked out two of the largest chocolate bars from the bowl, placing them inside her bucket with extreme precision, as if he were handling delicate artifacts. "There you go. Fly safely tonight, okay?"
"Thank you!" she chirped, waddling back down the steps toward her waiting parents.
Spencer stayed on his knees, watching her go until she turned the corner. When he finally stood up, his hand lingered on his knee, and he looked back at you. The autumn wind blew a strand of dark hair into his eyes, but through it, his expression was completely exposed, tender, aching, and overwhelmingly hopeful.
4-
A routine trip to the local superstore for laundry detergent had gone completely off the rails the moment Spencer accidentally wandered down aisle four. You found him standing dead-center in the baby clothing section, completely motionless. He was staring at a tiny peg hanging near the end of the aisle.
You walked up behind him, stepping around a display of baby wipes. "Spence? I found the detergent, we can-"
You stopped. Spencer was holding a pair of baby socks. They were light gray, no larger than the palm of his hand, with tiny yellow ducks embroidered on the toes.
He wasn't just looking at them, he was holding them between his long thumb and forefinger, feeling the impossibly soft cotton as if trying to comprehend how a human foot could ever be that small. His thumb rubbed over the little elastic cuff, again and again.
"They don't have heels," he murmured quietly, his voice thick. He didn't look up at you. "Infant socks are knitted without a defined heel cup because their feet grow too rapidly during the first six months for standard sizing."
"Spencer," you said softly, stepping closer.
He slowly turned his head to look at you. His eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, carrying a vulnerability that struck you right in the center of your chest. "They're four inches long," he whispered, his finger curling around the microscopic duck. "Our hands are almost double this width." He held the sock up against his own long palm, showing you the absurd, beautiful contrast. "Can you even imagine... a foot this small?"
He didn't put them back on the peg. He held them against his chest for three full seconds before reluctantly placing them down, his fingers trailing over the fabric until the very last second.
5-
The roundtable room was quiet, save for the hum of the projector and the rustle of case reports. Hotch was sitting at the head of the table reviewing budget sheets, while JJ was flipping through a stack of crime scene photos.
Spencer sat between them, bouncing his knee nervously under the wood. He cleared his throat, tapped his pen three times on his notepad, and cleared his throat again.
"Hotch?" Spencer blurted out.
Hotch didn't look up from his paper. "Yes, Reid?"
"When you... when you decided to have Jack," Spencer began, his voice dipping into a hurried, overly formal tempo that immediately tipped off everyone in the room. "What was the primary motivational variable? Was it a conscious decision based on financial stability and psychological readiness, or was it an instinctual drive dictated by the biological mandate to propagate the species?"
Hotch paused, his pen hovering an inch above the paper. He slowly raised his head, his sharp eyes settling on Spencer with an unreadable expression.
Before Hotch could answer, Spencer whipped his head toward JJ. "And JJ! From a maternal perspective, how did you balance the neurological disruption of chronic sleep deprivation, specifically the loss of REM sleep during the first trimester, with the emotional payoff of primary bonding? Did you feel ready? How do you know you're ready? Is there a specific cognitive threshold, or is it purely emotional?"
JJ stopped flipping her photos. She looked at Spencer, then slowly turned her head to look at Hotch. A slow, knowing smile spread across JJ's face.
Hotch allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch upward. "Reid," Hotch said calmly, closing his folder. "If you're asking if there's a mathematical formula to know when you're ready to be a father... there isn't."
"I wasn't- I'm not asking for me," Spencer lied instantly, his cheeks bursting into a furious, dark red flush as he frantically shuffled his neat stack of papers into total chaos. "It was a purely theoretical inquiry regarding the socio-psychological stressors of federal agents!"
JJ chuckled softly, leaning back in her chair and meeting Hotch’s eyes with a raised eyebrow. "Right. Theoretical."
+1-
The bathroom was quiet, save for the slow drip of the sink faucet. You sat on the edge of the bathtub, the small plastic stick resting on the counter beside a crumpled paper towel.
Two solid, pink lines stared back at you.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, a dizzying blend of shock, joy, and sudden, overwhelming reality. You picked up the test, took a steadying breath, and walked out into the bedroom.
Spencer was sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shoes. He looked up the moment you stepped into the room. He took one look at your face, saw the way your hands were trembling slightly behind your back, and immediately stood up, his shoes half-unlaced.
"What's wrong? Are you okay? Is it your ankle again?" His doctor's mind immediately went to physical injury, his brows drawing together in instant concern as he took two long strides toward you.
"Spence," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat.
You took his right hand, pulling it away from his side, and placed the small white stick into his long, slender palm. Spencer looked down. He stared at the display. For five long seconds, he didn't move. He didn't speak. He didn't even seem to blink. His brilliant, fast-moving brain, usually capable of processing thousands of words a minute, completely flatlined. His eyes tracked back and forth across the two pink lines, verifying the result, re-verifying it, searching his vast mental database for any possibility of a false positive.
0.2 percent, his brain tried to supply. The error rate is only 0.2 percent...
Then, his breath hitched, a sharp, gasping intake of air.
His hand began to tremble. The plastic stick shook in his grip. He looked up at you, his brown eyes wide, completely unshielded, and brimming with sudden, heavy tears that spilled over his eyelashes without warning.
"Is this..." His voice cracked completely, dropping to an unstable whisper. "Are you... is this real?"
"It's real, Spence," you breathed, a tear slipping down your own cheek. "You're going to be a dad."
A strangled, breathless sob escaped his throat, a sound of sheer, unadulterated relief and joy. He dropped the test onto the nightstand and pulled you into his arms with a sudden, fierce desperation. He wrapped himself around you. His long arms locked tightly around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath hitching against your skin as he wept openly, his shoulders shaking against yours. You could feel the rapid, frantic thud of his heart beating right through his shirt, pressing directly against your chest.
"I love you," he stammered into your skin, his hands pressing flat against your back, slipping down to rest delicately, reverently, over the small of your back. "I love you so much. I... I'm going to read every medical journal, I'm going to build the crib, I'll- I'll double-check all the safety ratings on car seats tonight, I-"
"Spencer," you laughed tearfully, pulling back just enough to frame his face in your hands.
His face was flushed, his cheeks wet, his dark hair a messy halo around his head. He looked at you with a gaze so fiercely loving, so utterly overwhelmed with devotion, that it took your breath away. He slowly lowered one of his hands from your waist, placing his broad, warm palm gently, hesitatingly, flat against your stomach. He let out a shaky, exhaled laugh, his thumb brushing a soft circle against your shirt.
Spencer Reid who realises that you really, really like it when he rambles
warnings: SMUT - MDNI, p in v, oral m!receiving, no mention of protection, reader loves her hot nerd boyfriend
Live On Air is broadcasting all week long! Requests are still open. For more information and more stories, click here! 📺
Spencer notices everything.
It’s simply the way his mind works. He’s spent the better part of the last decade training himself to pick up on the little things and it’s made him very good at what he does.
But when it comes to women, there are still plenty of things that he doesn’t pick up on.
Especially when it’s late in the evening and he’s over at your place, the two of you watching some medical drama with far too many inaccuracies for him to ignore.
He’s on what feels like his twentieth “That’s actually…” of the episode but you couldn’t tell anyone what he had been saying, even if they held a gun to your head.
There’s just something so effortlessly sexy in the way that he can correct the logistics of an on-screen surgery without even a stutter. Or how he’ll tut to himself whenever they recite a made up illness to up the stakes.
A big brain has always been your weakness. And your pupils are blown wide as you stare — not at the tv, but at him.
And Spencer doesn’t even notice. Not when you trail your fingertips over his thigh or even when you absentmindedly press a kiss to his shoulder.
He might glance over at you, but he gives you no more than a second’s notice, before he’s turning back to the screen as he huffs, “And the craziest thing is that they have researchers for this kind of thing but…”
It isn’t until you’ve managed to creep into his lap that Spencer looks at you fully, cupping your cheek, “You seem… are you okay? Am I talking too much?”
His eyes flick down to where you’re pressed against him, then back up to your face.
You shake your head, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, “Mm-mm. Keep talking.”
Something about the way you say it makes him swallow. Hard. So he does keep talking. And he doesn’t get more than a few sentences out before you’re kissing him, grinding down against his slacks.
His words are coming out stuttered now because this was not the evening he thought he’d be having when you suggested a cosy night in.
He tilts his head back against the couch, muttering a quiet, “Oh my God.” under his breath.
But the second he’s stopped rambling, you stop grinding and he’s whimpering and you just smile sweetly at him until something in his brain clicks.
The talking.
And suddenly he’s racking his brain for every other time you’ve reacted like this and kicking himself for not noticing sooner when you’d drooled over his cock the night he’d helped you finish up your dissertation or how fast you’d pulled him into a supply closet when you’d come back from sick leave to find out Spencer had finished up all your reporting for you.
And for once, boy genius, Spencer Reid feels like the stupidest man alive and now he just won’t shut up.
Not when you’re kneeled on the floor between his legs, eyes locked onto him as you wrap your lips around the head of his leaking cock. Nor when you’re on top of him, tits bouncing and sweat gathering along your skin as you ride him with more fervour than he’s ever seen. He’s reeling off every little fact he can think of to get you off on his brain.
One thing is clear, Spencer Reid is not going to be shutting up anytime soon.
Omg just read breeding season and Its one of my new faves, followed closely by heat of the moment.
......would you ever consider doing (for lack of a better word) a hybrid between those two scenarios?
(Not Proof Read)
Part 1
You returned from the kitchen with the jar of apple sauce, ready to hand it over to Maya. But as you stepped back into the living room, you froze completely.
There was Spencer, standing near the couch with Maya's baby cradled perfectly in his arms.
The jar nearly slipped from your suddenly nerveless fingers as every thought in your mind narrowed to this single, overwhelming image. He was so gentle, so naturally at ease with the tiny life cradled against his chest, and something deep inside you shifted violently, like a switch being thrown that you hadn't even known existed.
The baby looked impossibly small in his arms, her chubby legs dangling while her little hands explored the fabric of his shirt with that curious, grabbing motion babies made. But it was Spencer's face that completely undid you. His usual sharp, analytical expression had melted into something softer, more open than you'd ever seen. There was pure wonder there, unguarded and beautiful, the kind of expression people wore when they held something precious and fragile.
Heat bloomed low in your belly, sudden and fierce.
The response was immediate and overwhelming, flooding your system before you could even process what was happening. Your body recognized what your mind was still catching up to: Spencer Reid holding a baby was the most attractive thing you'd ever witnessed in your life. Every biological imperative you possessed roared to life at once, demanding attention, demanding action.
He was talking to her, his voice pitched in that gentle murmur that made your knees weak, and the baby was responding with soft coos and gurgles. Her tiny fist tangled in his shirt as if she was claiming him, and Spencer let her, his large hand moving to cup the back of her head with such careful reverence that you felt your breath catch in your throat.
The longing that crashed over you was visceral, immediate, and so intense it left you dizzy. You could see it so clearly it felt like prophecy: Spencer holding a baby that was yours and his. Spencer with his eyes full of that same tender wonder as he cradled your child. Spencer being the perfect father you suddenly needed with a desperation that overwhelmed you.
Your hand pressed against your stomach without conscious thought, fingers splaying across your shirt as if you could already feel life growing there. The want was consuming, primal, reducing you to pure biological need in a way that should have embarrassed you but instead only intensified the heat spreading through your body.
He was rocking her slightly, an unconscious swaying motion that looked as natural as breathing, and you realized with a jolt that this was what Spencer would be like with your own children. Patient and devoted and impossibly gentle. The image of him soothing a crying baby with whispered facts about stars, teaching a toddler to read with infinite patience, filled your mind with such vivid clarity it felt like memory.
Your breathing grew shallow as your body continued its betrayal, responding to the sight of him with an intensity that made your skin feel too tight. You could feel the change beginning, that telltale shift in your scent that signalled the start of something you'd never experienced quite like this. Heat had always been manageable before, predictable, something you could control. But this was different. This was being triggered by pure emotional response.
The baby began to fuss slightly, and Spencer responded immediately, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur as he adjusted his hold. The care he took, the way he seemed to instinctively know what she needed, made your pulse race and your body temperature spike. Every nerve ending felt hypersensitive, every breath bringing with it a fresh wave of need that you were rapidly losing the ability to suppress.
Maya was saying something about Emma being tired, but her words felt distant and unimportant compared to the sight of Spencer gently bouncing the baby in his arms. His shirt was slightly wrinkled where tiny fingers had grabbed at it, and there was wonder in his expression, pure and unguarded in a way that made your chest tight with emotion.
This was what had been missing. This was what your body had been waiting for without you even realizing it. Not just any partner, not just Spencer in general, but Spencer like this: protective and nurturing and so naturally paternal it made every instinct you possessed scream that he was perfect, that he was exactly what you needed to build a family with.
Maya reached for her daughter, and you watched Spencer reluctantly pass the little one back, his hands lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. There was something almost bereft in his expression as he let go, as if he was already missing the weight of her in his arms. The sight made your heart clench with fierce affection and desire so tangled together you couldn't separate them.
Somehow you managed to force your legs to move, carrying you forward on unsteady steps until you were offering Maya the jar of apple sauce. Your smile felt strained as she accepted it with grateful thanks, her words washing over you like white noise. All you could focus on was Spencer, the way his eyes lingered on the baby even after she was no longer in his arms, the soft expression that remained on his face like an afterimage.
Maya gathered her things and headed toward the door, still talking, still thanking you both, but you barely registered her departure.
And then they were gone.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you and Spencer alone in the sudden quiet of your living room. The silence stretched between you, filled with the weight of everything you'd just witnessed, everything you'd just felt.
Spencer stood by the door looking dazed, as if he was still processing what had just happened, still feeling the phantom weight of the baby in his arms. His hair was slightly mussed from where little fingers had grabbed at it, his shirt wrinkled and bearing a small wet spot from baby drool, but he looked beautiful.
He looked like everything you'd ever wanted and hadn't known how to ask for.
You remained frozen halfway across the room, your entire being focused on him with an intensity that felt dangerous. Your heart was racing with that steady thrumming beat that meant your body was preparing for something significant. The need coursing through you was unlike anything you'd experienced, primal and consuming and focused entirely on the man standing ten feet away from you.
Spencer's head lifted slowly, his attention drawn away from his memories by something he couldn't ignore. His nostrils flared slightly as he caught the scent that now filled the room, rich and unmistakable. His eyes found yours across the distance, and you saw the exact moment recognition hit him. The way his pupils dilated, the way his breath caught, the way his entire body went still as he took in your changed state.
His gaze locked on you with an intensity that made your pulse race even faster, and you knew there was no hiding what seeing him with that baby had done to you.
The air feels heavy, thick, almost humid with the weight of something you cannot name but feel in every nerve. Spencer is still by the door, one hand resting loosely on the frame, his eyes tracking you as if he cannot quite decide if he should move or wait for you to come to him.
His gaze is sharper now, locked on you, his pupils swallowing the warm hazel you know. Your scent must be pouring into the space between you in an unrestrained flood. You can feel the heat of it under your skin, pressing outward, demanding to be noticed.
Your body moves before your mind can catch up, closing the distance in quick, uneven strides. Spencer’s shoulders twitch in surprise, his weight shifting back as if he might take a step away, but then you’re on him. Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him down, and your mouth crashes into his with force.
He makes a small, startled sound against your lips, the kind that vibrates straight into you and stokes the heat already building under your skin. His breath is warm and quick, mingling with yours as you press harder, desperate to feel more, to taste more. The kiss is messy, unpractised in its urgency, your teeth catching on his lower lip, your tongues sliding together in fevered strokes.
Your fingers are everywhere, tugging at fabric with no patience for precision. You feel the flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips as you pull his shirt off, hearing it hit the floor. He’s trying to keep up, his own hands clumsy as they find the hem of your shirt and push it upward, knuckles grazing heated skin.
It’s reckless, the way you pull at him, the way he lets himself be pulled. Every movement is fast and uneven, driven by something you can’t quiet, something that feels like it’s been waiting under the surface for far too long.
When you break the kiss for air, your lips stay close enough that you can feel the trembling exhale he gives. His eyes are wide, his pupils still blown, and you know without a doubt that he’s reading every ounce of your need. You don’t bother hiding it. You don’t think you could if you tried.
You crush your mouth to his again, tasting the change in him, and his response is instant. His hands are firmer now, sliding under your shirt to tear it away without care for the fabric. You’re moving together toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss, stumbling through the hallway, bumping into the wall in your urgency. Each step is a blur of breathless kisses, of clothes tugged and dropped to the floor.
His shirt is already gone, your own falling somewhere behind you. You push his pants down over his hips, fingers brushing hot skin, and he groans into your mouth. His hands are working at your waistband just as frantically, stripping away anything in his way. By the time you reach the doorway, there is nothing left between you but heat and skin.
Spencer’s kiss is rougher now, his rut rising with every second, his body crowding yours as if he can’t get close enough. You feel his breath against your cheek when he parts from your lips just long enough to draw in the air heavy with your scent, and it sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the cool air of the room.
You hit the mattress hard enough to bounce, a gasp tearing from your throat, and before you can even push up on your elbows, Spencer is there. His hands clamp around your hips, hot and unyielding, hauling you down the bed until you’re flush with the edge. The look in his eyes is molten, pupils wide and unsteady, his rut pulling every last shred of control from him.
He drops to his knees, crowding in close, the heat of him sinking into your skin before his mouth even touches you. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you exactly where he wants you, and then his tongue is on you.
Spencer’s mouth is on you before you can even catch your breath. His tongue drags through the mess of your heat, tasting you like he’s starving, and when he finds your clit, it’s like a live wire under his mouth. The sharp tug of pleasure makes you cry out, hips jolting, but his grip only tightens, anchoring you to his face.
He groans when your slick coats his tongue, the sound rough and hungry, the kind that vibrates through you until your toes curl. Every breath you take is thick with the scent of rut, the air heavy with his need, but he doesn’t give in to it. Not yet. His cock hangs hard and aching between his thighs, twitching with every roll of his tongue, dripping without a single touch.
All his focus is on you. On your clit. He licks in fast, wet circles that make your stomach clench, then seals his lips around it and sucks, pulling a sharp whimper from your throat. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, muscles fluttering with the strain of holding still, but he doesn’t let up. If anything, your reactions spur him on, his mouth working harder, tongue flicking and pressing until you're clenching the sheets beneath you.
His groan vibrates against you, the sound raw and primal, and it makes your spine arch off the bed. You know he can taste the shift in your scent, the hormonal surge pouring off your skin, flooding the air between you. It only drives him deeper into you, like every part of him is tuned to what you need.
It’s overwhelming, the way sensation keeps piling up without pause, like he’s determined to wring every drop of pleasure from you before he lets himself give in. Your fingers twist in the sheets, nails dragging hard against fabric, but your hips won’t stop moving, chasing him, grinding into the heat of his mouth because it’s impossible not to.
And he takes it. Every push, every moan, every sharp gasp that spills out of you. He drinks it in, rut-sick and desperate, eating you like you’re the only thing that can quiet the ache tearing through him.
Your fingers knot in the sheets, desperate for something to ground you, but nothing can. Not when his mouth is on you like this, tongue stroking in slow, devastating circles that make it impossible to think.
The room feels hotter than it should, every breath thick with the scent of your heat, rolling off you in waves that demand to be answered. You can feel the way it coils inside you, hungry and insistent, pulling at every nerve until your whole body feels tuned to him.
Spencer groans against you, the sound sinking into your skin and pulling a ragged cry from your throat. He tastes you like he’s been starving, slick dripping over his tongue, filling his senses until he’s drowning in you. You know what it’s doing to him. You can see the way his cock throbs in the air between his thighs, neglected, leaking, begging for attention. His rut is already twisting through him, you can feel it in the rough edge of his touch, in the way he keeps you pinned to the edge of the bed with no chance of escape.
The pressure at your clit is unbearable, his tongue flicking in quick, ruthless strokes that drag you closer and closer to the edge. You want to tell him, want to beg for more, for his knot, for all of him. The words form on your tongue but break apart before they can leave your lips, dissolved by the sharp pleasure racing through you. All that comes out are half-formed sounds, gasps that stutter into the air, a pitiful attempt to translate the need clawing through your body.
You can’t move. Every time your hips try to lift, to grind harder against his mouth, his grip tightens and hauls you back down. He groans like he loves it, like your helplessness feeds him. The slick he licks from you is endless, coating his mouth, shining on his chin, your body spilling it for him in a constant stream.
The pleasure builds in slow, torturous waves, each one cresting higher than the last. You can feel the tension coiling tighter, your muscles clenching around nothing, your breath coming in short, uneven pants. Spencer’s rhythm never falters, his tongue working you with single-minded focus, as if he’s determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from your body.
Then—just as you teeter on the edge—he pulls back.
Your whine is immediate, high and desperate, but he doesn’t give in. Instead, he presses a single, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, his breath hot against your damp skin. His voice is wrecked when he speaks, rough with restraint.
"Look at me."
You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His lips are slick with you, his pupils blown so wide there’s barely any hazel left. The sight alone sends another pulse of liquid heat through you.
"I want to watch you cum," he murmurs, before diving back in.
This time, he doesn’t hold back. His tongue laps at you with renewed hunger, his fingers spreading you wider as he devours you like a man starved. The pressure is perfect—just shy of too much—and when he slips two fingers inside you, curling them just so, you shatter.
Your climax crashes over you with startling intensity, your body locking up before melting into the mattress. Spencer doesn’t let up, his mouth working you through it, drawing out every last shuddering wave until you’re gasping, oversensitive and boneless beneath him.
Only then does he pull back, lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His eyes are dark, possessive, fixed on the way your body trembles in the aftermath.
"Good?" he rasps.
You can only nod weakly, still trying to catch your breath.
Spencer’s smile is slow, satisfied.
"Good."
Then he’s on you again.
Spencer’s mouth abandons your thigh, his breath hot as he kisses up your body. His lips skim your hipbone, your stomach, the shuddering curve of your ribs, each touch fleeting but deliberate. When he reaches your collarbone, he lingers just long enough to drag his teeth over the spot where your pulse jumps.
You arch into him, fingers knotting in his hair, but he catches your wrist and presses it into the mattress. His grip is firm, his voice a low rasp against your ear.
"Patience."
For the first time since his rut slammed into him, you feel him hesitate. His weight shifts as he pulls back, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His chest heaves, sweat damp at his temple, and you realize what he’s doing when you hear the faint crinkle of foil.
“No,” the word breaks from you, raw and frantic, your voice tumbling over itself as you claw at his shoulders. “Don’t—don’t do that, please. I need you, Spencer, I need it. I want you to cum in me, fill me up, breed me until it takes—please, I want your pup, I want it so bad—”
Your babbling hits him like a strike to the gut. His hand freezes around the foil packet. His head drops, forehead pressing to yours, and you feel the sharp tremor rip through his body. The condom slips from his fingers and lands forgotten on the sheets.
“Fuck,” he chokes, voice shredded. His hips grind against your thigh, cock throbbing hard, slick at the tip from how long he’s been ignoring himself. “You can’t—don’t say that unless—” He cuts off, shuddering, pupils blown wide as your words echo in his head.
You’re gasping, desperate, the heat burning through you unbearable now. “I want it, I want you. Knot me, Spencer. Please. Please don’t stop.”
He’s trembling, holding himself back with everything he has, but you can’t let him. Not when your body is on fire, not when the need inside you feels deeper than instinct.
“Spencer,” you gasp, clutching at him when he tries to pull back.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging him closer, forcing him to feel how badly you’re shaking under him. “I’m not saying it because of the heat,” you whisper, voice ragged but steady enough to cut through his doubts.
“Please. Don’t use protection. I want you to cum inside me, impregnate me. I want you to know, when you look at me, that that I’m carrying your child.”
His breath is ragged, chest pressed hard against yours, but his eyes are wild, conflicted, pupils swallowing the hazel whole.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he rasps, voice breaking.
“Yes, I do,” you plead, kissing his mouth, his cheek, wherever you can reach. “You’ll be such a good father. I want to give that to you. I want your baby. I want to be the one who makes you a dad.”
He shudders, forehead dropping to yours, and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh, aching and desperate.
He shakes his head, but his hips betray him, grinding down against you, cock sliding through the slick mess between your thighs. His self-control is shattering right there in your hands.
“God,” he groans, voice breaking, “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” You cup his face in your palms, forcing him to see you, to see how clear your eyes are even through the haze of heat. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. I want your knot. I want you to fuck me full until it takes. I want to give you a family.”
The sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest. His control, what little was left, finally breaks. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and hot, tasting of your own arousal as he pins your wrists and pushes you down into the mattress. His cock grinds against your soaked folds, slick sliding against slick, both of you trembling with need.
He doesn’t line himself up so much as slam forward, the tip of his cock catching and then sliding deep in one desperate thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs. You cry out, arching under him, the stretch sharp and perfect.
Spencer’s groan tears out of him, raw and broken, forehead pressing hard to yours as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt. His hips stutter like he’s barely hanging on, like the feel of you around him is more than he can take.
“Fuck—” he gasps, his voice harsh, wrecked with need. “You’re so—You’re so tight.”
You can’t answer, not with words. Your mouth opens, but all that spills out is a ragged sound, a half-whine, half-moan that vibrates against his lips when he kisses you again. His thrusts start shallow, shaky, his restraint already fraying with every slick slide of his cock inside you.
The heat has you keening, your nails dragging down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, harder, faster. Your body pulses around him, urging him on, every instinct inside you screaming for his knot, for him to breed you until you’re filled, claimed, and his.
“Spencer,” you sob against his mouth, your thighs locking around his hips to hold him in place, to stop him from pulling away. “Please—fuck me, don’t hold back.”
He doesn’t.
With a roar that echoes through the apartment, Spencer starts to move. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s raw and primal, his body driving into yours like he’s fighting to claim something that’s always been his. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his grunts.
He’s relentless, his hips slamming into you with a force that shakes the bed. The headboard hits the wall in a steady rhythm, the noise a counterpoint to the slick wetness of his cock inside you.
Your eyes lock onto his, the intensity of his gaze never wavering even when you tighten around him, trying to pull him deeper. His hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, your hips, your wrists, leaving bruises that you crave.
He fucks you like he’s trying to break something—like he’s fighting his own instincts, his own fears—but you can see the pleasure in his eyes, the way his pupils shrink to pinpricks when he hits that perfect spot inside you.
You can’t hold back your moans. They spill out of you in a constant stream. You end up mewling against his neck just trying to hold on. Your teeth sink into the soft flesh at his shoulder, and he groans, his grip tightening on your hips. His cock pulses inside you, stretching and filling and owning every part of you.
"Your heat is driving me fucking mad. I can feel how much you want this."
Spencer’s rhythm continues to build quick, frantic, primal now. Each stroke punches a moan from your throat, your head falling back against the pillow as your body writhes beneath him. He’s everywhere—his breath in your ear, his hands gripping your wrists against the mattress, his cock sliding deep inside you, stretching you, filling you until there’s nothing left but him.
His thrusts turn brutal, every snap of his hips punching the air from your lungs. You’re clawing at his back now, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin, but he only drives into you harder, fucking you down into the mattress like he’s trying to mould your body to fit his.
“God—” his voice is ruined, guttural, torn apart with need. “You’re taking me so fucking deep. You’re made for this. Made for me.”
You sob his name, thighs quivering as you cling tighter, locking your ankles behind his back to hold him there, to keep every inch of him buried inside you. The pressure is unbearable, delicious, your whole body begging him to give in.
“You want me to fill you?” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged. “You want my cum, want me to knot you so it stays?”
“Yes,” you cry, grinding up against him, desperate. “Breed me, Spencer. Fill me, please. I need it.”
His cock jerks inside you at the words, his rhythm faltering for a split second before he slams back in, harder than before. The sound that rips from his throat is animal, desperate, his hips pounding into yours with raw intent.
“I’ll fuck you so full you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You’ll feel me for days—” his voice breaks on a groan, his thrusts deepening, “—and then you’ll feel me inside you even longer when it takes. When you’re heavy with my pup.”
Your whole body clenches around him, the filth of his words making you cry out, your nails sinking into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he chases your reaction, slamming into you harder, deeper, each thrust angled to wring every last gasp from your throat.
“You want me to ruin you for anyone else? Want to be full of me until your body can’t hold any more?” His tone is vicious, ragged, like he’s unravelling with every word.
“Yes—fuck, yes,” you sob, clinging to him, lost to it. “I only want you. Only you. Please, Spencer, cum inside me, make me yours."
He groans into your neck, his teeth scraping your skin, his cock driving so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. His pace is frantic, almost violent, his control completely gone as he fucks into you like he’s chasing the inevitable.
“You’re mine,” he growls against your skin. “I’m going to knot you, breed you, make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”
The words tear through you, heat crashing in your stomach, and you arch beneath him, offering everything. His hand slides between your bodies, palming your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens under his touch. He groans, lowering his mouth to your chest, sucking you into his mouth hard enough to make your back bow.
Your whimper breaks into a moan when he bites down lightly, his cock pistoning into you at the same relentless pace. His tongue soothes the ache as his free hand kneads your other breast, rough and greedy, like he can’t get enough of you anywhere.
“Perfect tits,” he pants against your skin, flicking your nipple with his tongue until you’re keening. “Want to see them swollen when I’ve knocked you up. Want to see them bounce around while my cock’s still inside you.”
The filth of it makes your walls spasm around him, your nails dragging down his back, leaving red trails in their wake. He feels it, growls against your skin, and thrusts even harder, so deep you cry out.
“You like that? You like the thought of me fucking you pregnant, watching your body change because of me?” His teeth catch your nipple again, sucking, tugging, until you’re squirming under him, too far gone to speak, only nodding, moaning, gasping for him to never stop.
His hand tightens around your breast, holding you still while his cock slams into you, filling you to the hilt with each brutal thrust. He’s rutting against your body like nothing will ever be enough, like he could fuck you for hours and still want more, his voice breaking against your chest.
“Say it,” he demands, voice shaking, lips still wet against your skin. “Tell me you want me to fill you up. Tell me you want my knot.”
Your answer is a strangled cry, your body already giving him everything he’s demanding, but he won’t let you escape with just that. His mouth trails up from your chest, teeth scraping over your collarbone, breath hot and wild in your ear.
“Say it,” he growls again, hips pounding into you so deep the bed frame groans. “Say you want my knot locking you open, keeping me inside until every drop’s in you.”
“I want it,” you sob, nails biting into his skin. “I need it, Spencer, please—need you to fill me, breed me, don’t stop.”
A guttural sound rips from his throat, half growl, half moan, as if your words are feeding straight into his blood. His thrusts go harder, sharper, the headboard smacking the wall in a furious rhythm. His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your head back so you can’t look anywhere but at him.
Your breath shatters, a broken moan spilling out as your hips rise to meet him, desperate, shameless. His words have you fluttering tight around him, your body begging for it even as your voice stutters with need.
He feels every clench, every tremor, and his grip on your hips turns bruising. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re already milking me, already begging for it. This heat’s got you ready to be bred, doesn’t it? You want me to pump you so full you can’t even think of anything else.”
“Yes,” you cry, the plea falling apart in your throat. “Yes, yes, Spencer, do it, make me yours.”
He bends lower, his lips at your ear, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. “I’ll breed you until your belly’s heavy with me. I’ll keep you knotted all night if I have to, make sure you’re marked, claimed, ruined for anyone else.”
His words have you clenching uncontrollably, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from how much you want it, how badly your body aches to be filled and stretched, owned in every way.
“You’re mine,” he snarls, snapping his hips so hard you cry out.
His cock slams deep and unyielding, every thrust shoving you higher into the mattress until you can barely breathe from how much he’s taking from you. His mouth is at your ear again, his words dripping with raw hunger, every syllable like a claim burned into your skin.
“Gonna knot you so hard you won’t be able to think straight. You’ll be trembling, glassy-eyed, begging me to stay inside you.” His hips slam into yours. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be fucked dumb on my knot, so used up you can’t stop shaking?”
You sob his name, clinging tighter, unable to find the words.
His laugh is low, guttural, breath hot against your cheek. “When I knot you, it’s gonna wreck you. You’ll be drunk on it, babbling, begging me not to pull out. And I won’t. I’ll keep you stretched around me, plugged full of my cum until there’s no room for anything else.”
Your cunt clenches down hard, sucking at him, and he groans, hips stuttering for the first time. His hands grip your thighs, forcing them wider, as if he needs to remind you how thoroughly he owns you.
“Everyone’s gonna know you belong to me. You’ll walk into work, into the damn grocery store, and they’ll smell it on you. My scent all over your skin, dripping out of you, your body screaming that you’ve been bred.” His teeth sink into your neck, possessive, bruising. “You’ll carry me with you everywhere, and no one will doubt who put it there.”
You’re crying out beneath him, your body bowing into his, every nerve alight with the filth he’s feeding you.
“I’ll knot you over and over until your begging me to let you rest. Until you’re desperate for me to split you open again, to lock us together so you can feel me emptying inside you. You’ll beg for it in your sleep, you’ll wake up wet and aching for me, and I’ll give it to you. Again and again, until you’re ruined for anyone else.”
His thrusts turn ragged, deeper than before, each one shoving his cock so far inside you that your breath catches. He’s losing control, his voice breaking with a raw edge.
“Beg me for it,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his hairline. “Beg me to fill you up. Tell me you want my seed.”
Your voice comes out shattered, trembling between gasps. “Please, Spencer—please breed me. I want it all, I want you to cum in me, to knot me. I need you to make me yours.”
The sound he makes is half snarl, half groan, his hips driving into you hard as his knot starts to swell. The pressure is relentless, the thick base of him stretching you wider, forcing your body to take him inch by inch. The burn is sharp, making you cry out, your thighs trembling around his waist.
“Take it,” he grits out, burying himself to the hilt, holding you flush against him as his knot locks inside. The fullness is overwhelming, the seal of him pressing deep, unmovable.
And then it hits—hot, heavy pulses flooding into you, his cock jerking violently as he empties himself inside. His cum pours into you in thick, forceful spurts, filling you so fast it gushes around the seal of his knot, every twitch pushing more into your womb. You can feel it everywhere, the heat of it spreading, your body clamping down around him helplessly.
“Fuck, yes—take all of it,” he pants against your mouth, his words broken by groans. “I’m breeding you, filling you so deep you’ll never forget who you belong to. Every drop stays in you. You’re mine.”
You whimper beneath him, overwhelmed by the sheer force of it, the way your body milks him for more.
“You’re gonna my child,” he growls through clenched teeth, rutting his cock into with sharp movements.
The intensity of his release doesn’t stop—it keeps pouring, hot and endless, his knot jerking inside you with each deep surge. You feel stretched, plugged, filled to the brim, your own body shaking with the effort of taking everything he gives.
The first hot rush of his cum inside you rips your climax from you so violently it feels like your body explodes around him. You scream his name, back arching off the bed, every muscle seizing as the heat of his seed floods you. Your cunt spasms around his knot, clutching at him in frantic waves, milking his cock.
“Yes—fuck, yes, cum on my knot,” he groans, hips grinding harder against you, driving his release deeper with every pulse. “Your body knows who owns it. You’re squeezing me so tight, taking it all, begging me for more without even saying it.”
You sob beneath him, nails digging into the sheets, unable to control the way you writhe against him. Every spurt inside you makes the pleasure crest again, your orgasm dragging out endlessly, each contraction pulling another sharp cry from your throat. The knot is swollen thick and heavy at the base of his cock, locking him deep, forcing every last drop of his release into you.
“I can feel you clenching,” he pants, voice breaking, teeth grazing your ear. “Your cunt’s sucking me dry."
The pleasure is unbearable, your orgasm refusing to stop, wracking through you in brutal waves as his cock twitches inside. The gush of his seed keeps coming, spilling in thick pulses that make you shake apart under him. You can’t catch your breath, can’t think past the way he fills you, the way your body grips him so desperately it feels like you’ll never let go.
“You’ll stay tied to me until every last drop takes,” he growls into your hair, his thrusts shallow now, the knot keeping you locked tight. “By the time I’m done, there won’t be an inch of you untouched by me. Everyone will see it in your walk, in your smell—you belong to me.”
Your climax peaks again, dragged higher by the weight of his words, by the steady pump of his cock still spurting inside. You cry out, broken and raw, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as the release tears through you, your body clinging to him like you’ll never recover.
The frenzy ebbs slowly, leaving you both gasping, slick with sweat. His body slumps over yours, chest heaving against your breasts, his cock still buried to the hilt, knot swollen and unyielding. You can feel every pulse of him inside you, the heavy warmth of his cum sealed deep where your body cradles him.
For the first time since he touched you, the air feels still. His breath fans over your neck, slow and ragged, his lips brushing your damp skin as though he can’t bear to be even an inch away. You shift slightly, and the movement reminds you of how completely he’s lodged inside you. The knot stretches you open, impossibly thick, a constant reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed you.
He murmurs something low against your ear, not words at first, just the sound of his relief. His hands soften where they hold your waist, his fingers now stroking lazily at your skin. There’s no urgency, no frenzy—just the warm weight of him pressed into you, the deep ache of being full, and the quiet knowledge that you’re his.
You can feel his heartbeat slowing where his chest is pressed against yours, his whole body gradually unwinding. The contentment settles heavy and sweet between you, like a blanket. He kisses your temple, gentle this time, lips lingering as if to savour the quiet.
Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. The knot keeps you joined, holding you in this suspended moment where everything else falls away. The frantic fire of your heat has calmed for the moment, leaving only the soft, satisfied glow of being filled and kept.
His thumb drifts over your hip, absent, soothing. He exhales into your hair, a sound almost like wonder, and you let your eyes close, sinking into the steady rhythm of him inside you, the warmth spreading slow and deep. Locked together, you feel safe, claimed, complete.
Every shift, every shallow breath reminds you of how full you are, but there’s no urgency anymore. Just the heavy stillness of being completely claimed.
Spencer doesn’t move much, save for the lazy circles his fingers draw against your skin. His mouth brushes slow kisses along your temple, your cheek, sometimes just nuzzling into you as though he’s trying to melt closer. His breathing evens out, the frantic edge burned away, leaving only the steady rhythm of his heart beat.
You let yourself sink into it, eyes fluttering shut. The ache between your thighs settles into something sweet, a reminder of how deep he’s reached. Your body adjusts gradually to the swell of his knot, the constant stretch making you shiver whenever you shift even slightly beneath him. Still, it feels right—like your body was made to hold him.
The minutes pass in unhurried silence. The heat of him pressed against you, the gentle weight of his hand on your hip, the soft brush of his lips when he tilts his head, all of it lulls you into something close to peace. You can feel him softening gradually, his knot slowly losing its grip, each pulse easing until the stretch lessens.
You should be relieved, but as the knot deflates, something inside you stirs. The emptiness creeps in before he’s even pulled out, your body already restless, needy. The haze of your heat flares sharp again, curling low in your stomach, a hunger you can’t quiet.
He shifts against you, groaning quietly, and you know it’s not just you. The edge in his movements is back—the rut clawing its way up again. He draws his hips back, the slow drag of his cock slipping free of your swollen body, leaving you open, slick, aching. The cool air hits your sensitive skin and you whimper, already clenching around nothing.
Spencer lifts his head, eyes dark, wild all over again. His hand slips down between your thighs, spreading you open, smearing the mess he’s made of you with his fingers. “Still wet for me,” he pants, voice already roughening, the control he found in the quiet gone as quickly as it came. “Heat’s not letting you rest, is it? You’re still begging for it.”
The loss of his knot is unbearable. Your hips lift into his hand, desperate, the needy sound spilling from your throat before you can stop it. His cock twitches heavy against your thigh, hardening again with frightening speed.
Your body aches with the emptiness, the dull throb of your heat clawing back to the surface. His fingers slide over your folds, teasing, gathering slick without giving you the stretch you crave. It makes your voice crack when you finally manage to speak.
“Please,” you whisper, then stronger, desperate. “Please, Spencer… fill me again. I need it.”
He groans low in his chest, his hand pausing like the words alone nearly undo him. You clutch at him, thighs parting wider, shameless in your begging. “Don’t make me wait,” you gasp, writhing against his hand. “I can’t—I can’t stop wanting you inside me.”
His cock presses harder against your skin, the weight of it a promise. His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing, breath harsh as he forces restraint for just a moment longer. “You’re going to beg every time, aren’t you?” he mutters against your pulse. “Heat’s got you aching for me, aching for my seed.”
You nod frantically, hips tilting to chase his hand, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes,” you plead, broken and raw. “I want it again. I need you to fill me. Please, Spencer.”
The calm has shattered. The fire is back, hotter than before, pulling you both under as he lines himself up and thrusts back into your soaked, swollen cunt.
He drives into you hard enough to make the bed creak, his breath ragged against your ear. “Gonna put a baby in you,” he grits out, voice breaking as his hips snap forward. “Fill you so deep you can’t help but take it.”
You cry out, body gripping him tighter, and it only spurs him on. His hand comes down over your stomach, pressing against you as he fucks into you. “Right here,” he growls, his tone harsh, desperate. “Gonna make it swell with me. Everyone will know you’re mine.”
You whimper at his words, your body clenching down hard around him, and Spencer’s rhythm falters for a moment like the thought alone nearly undoes him. His palm stays flat over your stomach, pressing down, owning the space that isn’t even rounded yet but already belongs to him in his mind.
“Gonna watch you change for me,” he groans, hips still pounding into you, the sound of your bodies obscene in the quiet. “Gonna see you soften, see you glow… you’ll look like a goddess carrying my child.” His mouth is at your jaw now, hot, insistent, his words spilling between harsh breaths. “Breasts heavy, belly round, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The images fall over you like waves, one after another, his voice hoarse with conviction. His hand squeezes over your belly as if he can already feel it there, as if his seed has already taken root. “You’ll be so fucking needy. Hormones will make you ache for me every second and I’ll give you everything you want. Every time you beg, I’ll fill you again. Never gonna leave you unsatisfied.”
Your head tips back against the pillow, overwhelmed, body thrumming at the sheer force of his need. He pushes deeper, angling to hit you where it makes your breath catch, relentless and reverent all at once.
“You’ll be soft all over,” he rasps, eyes catching yours, dark and wild. “Plush for me to hold. I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. I’ll worship you every night, fuck you slow and hard until you’re shaking, make sure you know how perfect you are like that.” His thrusts drag deep, grinding against your walls, pulling gasps from your throat.
Your nails clutch at the sheets, the intensity of it winding tighter and tighter inside you. He doesn’t stop talking, can’t stop, too lost in the vision of you heavy with his child. “I’ll watch you swell for me and I’ll never let you forget who did it. Everyone will see it and know you belong to me. That I made you a mother.”
Every word hits you as hard as his thrusts, your body clenching around him like it’s desperate to give him what he’s demanding. His voice breaks into a ragged groan, the sound torn out of him. “Fuck, just imagining you like that… glowing, aching for me, begging for my cock even when I've already impregnated you—” He chokes off on a gasp, pounding harder, the bed rattling beneath you.
You cry out, back arching, the pleasure too sharp to hold onto. His hand stays splayed over your stomach, anchoring you to every word, every brutal thrust. His lips find your ear again, his voice a broken growl. “You’re gonna be perfect pregnant. Perfect. Mine.”
The thrusts are brutal, rocking you into the mattress, every movement shoving a helpless cry from your throat. His mouth drags over your jaw, teeth catching your skin, breath ragged as he fucks into you like he’s starved. “Can’t stop picturing it,” he groans, hips slamming forward, voice wrecked. “The way you’ll fill out, soft and glowing while you carry what we made.”
The filthy edge of his rut claws at him, but he slows, grinding into you instead of slamming, just to feel every flutter, every pull. He buries his face in your neck, kissing, biting, breathing you in. “You’ll look like a goddess,” he whispers against your skin, almost reverent despite the heat behind it. “I’ll spend every day worshipping you.”
The sheets are damp beneath you, your skin slick with sweat, his body hot and solid against you. He grips your hip tight enough to bruise, panting through his teeth as he ruts into you. “You won’t ever go without. I’ll keep you swollen, stuffed, satisfied, until you can’t remember what it feels like not to have me inside you.”
Your body trembles under him, but the bite of his words softens into something else as he noses against your throat. His mouth lingers there, lips dragging over the damp skin where your mate mark rests, teeth grazing, tongue soothing before he bites down again, harder this time. A sound breaks from your chest, sharp and desperate, and your hand flies to his hair, tugging him closer.
You tilt, catching his jaw, guiding his mouth up to yours. The kiss is messy, desperate, tongues colliding, teeth knocking. You can taste yourself on him, salt and sweat, and the flavour of it makes you moan into his mouth. He swallows the sound, one hand cupping your face, the other locked around your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
His cock drags inside you, slower now, grinding with deep precision that makes you shudder. You reach between you, slipping your hand down to your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles until your hips stutter. He growls at the sight, batting your hand away only to replace it with his own. Two fingers slide slick over you, pressing just right while he thrusts shallow and precise.
“Spencer,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back, leaving red lines in his skin. His eyes catch yours, blown wide, wild, and when you whisper his name again it comes out like a prayer. He kisses you hard, wet and hungry, before breaking off to scent against your throat. His nose drags along the line of your neck, inhaling deep like it feeds him, like your smell alone is enough to unravel him.
You mirror him, turning your face into his neck, nipping and sucking at the damp heat of his skin. His mark is there, high and raw, and you mouth over it greedily, biting until he gasps. The sound vibrates against your lips and his hips jerk, driving deeper, harder, until you both groan.
“Please,” you pant into his hair, legs tightening around his waist. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
He lifts his head, lips shining, and crashes his mouth back to yours. Every kiss is wetter, more frantic, a clash of breath and teeth and tongue. You taste his growls in your mouth, feel them roll through his chest into yours.
The air between you is thick with scent, the musky tang of sex and sweat, but also the raw bond pulling tighter. You can’t stop rubbing your face against his throat, mouthing at his mark until he shudders. His teeth sink into yours again in answer, rough enough to make you cry out, the sting flaring and settling into molten heat.
Your clit throbs under his touch, his rhythm perfect now—press, circle, drag—syncing with every deep thrust. Your moans mix with his, bodies moving like instinct alone is driving you, every nerve strung tight. His fingers slip lower, teasing the edge of where he splits you open, brushing the spot where his cock pounds in. The double sensation makes you jerk, clutching his face with both hands, kissing him until your lips sting.
Your body trembles on the edge, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to lose the aching sweetness of being kept right there with him. His cock grinds deep, dragging against the spots that make your stomach clench, his rhythm unhurried now, designed to keep you hanging in that desperate, delicious balance.
Your lips trail along his jaw, finding the spot on his throat where his scent pours strongest, pressing open-mouthed kisses there until you can feel his pulse hammering beneath your tongue. You scrape your teeth over the mark you’ve left on him before, and his whole body jolts, hips bucking hard against yours.
He answers in kind, dragging his lips down your neck until he finds the claim etched in your skin. His mouth closes over it, sucking hard enough to make your toes curl, his growl vibrating into your flesh. The sharp sting of his bite blooms into heat, mingling with the steady grind of his cock, with the sweep of his hand slipping down between you. Fingers part your folds, wet and swollen, circling your clit with a maddeningly slow pressure.
You whimper, nails sliding up into his hair, tugging at the damp strands as your thighs fall wider for him. He pulls back just far enough to watch your face, sweat shining across your cheekbones, lips parted around broken moans. His thumb circles faster, perfectly in time with the roll of his hips, until you’re shaking with the effort of holding on.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice catching, eyes locking to his. The plea is all breath and desperation, your chest heaving as you clutch at his face, kissing him hard, sucking his lower lip between your teeth. His moan spills into your mouth, rough and unrestrained, as if he’s teetering right there with you.
Your voice is shaky when you pull your mouth from his, your forehead pressed to his as his hips work deeper and deeper inside you. His thumb circles your clit with maddening precision, his body taut with restraint, but you feel how close he is, how badly he’s holding on.
You catch his face in your hands, forcing his hazy eyes to meet yours. Your lips brush his, trembling but sure, and you whisper against his mouth, “Spencer… cum in me. Let me make you a father.”
The words detonate in him, ripping the control from his body. His hips slam forward hard enough to jolt the bed, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as he spills inside you. His cock pulses deep, filling you in hot, relentless bursts as his knot swells thick, locking you to him.
The plea shatters him, detonates in him, ripping the control from his body. His whole body seizes, hips slamming forward with brutal force as he breaks, spilling into you in thick, desperate bursts. Each pulse of release drags a raw groan from his throat, his cock jerking deep inside you as if his body is determined to imprint the promise into your womb. The flood is hot, endless, every spasm wringing another surge until he’s panting raggedly against your mouth, still rutting to bury it deeper.
The pressure, the sudden fullness, the sheer force of him claiming you breaks you open. Pleasure surges white-hot, your cry muffled against his throat as your orgasm crashes over you. You pulse around him, gripping and milking him until he’s shaking, lost, panting against your ear.
His knot swells, locking him inside, grinding the last waves of release into you. The sensation tips you over, the fullness and heat and the way he’s trembling against you all fusing into one blinding rush. You cry out, clutching him tight as your climax continues, your body milking him, coaxing every drop from him until he’s shaking.
“Mine,” he groans, teeth sinking into your mark, voice breaking on the words. “You’ll carry my child, make me a father."
Your bodies are locked together, trembling through the last pulses of release, breaths ragged and uneven. His knot throbs where you’re sealed around him, each tiny twitch keeping you sensitive, fluttering against the thick swell that holds him inside. Neither of you can move, making every touch sharper, every breath shared between your lips heavier.
He strokes his nose along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth with trembling reverence, his hand spreading low over your belly again as if he can already feel the life he’s just spilled into you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice frayed but tender, each word hot against your skin. “So perfect for me. Taking all of me, keeping me right here."
His hips shift faintly, the knot tugging deep, and you both gasp at the stretch, the sensitivity. He groans low, forehead pressing against yours, eyes squeezed shut.
Your fingers tangle in his curls, pulling him down into a slow kiss, mouths sticky-sweet and desperate but unhurried now, savouring the closeness. You nip gently at his lower lip and he answers with a soft bite over your mark again, a shiver running through you both.
“I’ll keep you full,” he murmurs, lips grazing your throat, lingering at the tender skin of your bond mark. “I’ll give you everything you want. You’ll never have to doubt what you mean to me.” His voice cracks, but the words are steady, heavy with devotion. “You’ll be the mother of my children, and I’ll never stop worshipping you for it.”
He kisses the mark again, slow and reverent, while his hand cups your cheek, guiding you back to meet his gaze. “Look at you,” he whispers, awe softening every line of his face. “Mine. Always mine. And I’m yours.”
Time slows around you, the world shrinking until there’s nothing but the heat of his body pressed against yours, the steady thrum of his pulse where your chests touch. His knot still holds you tight, a dull, heavy ache that has softened into something comforting, anchoring you together. Every breath you take draws in his scent, sweet and grounding, wrapping you both in its haze.
Spencer shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over you, his arms winding around you protectively. His lips press a lazy kiss to your temple, then linger there, his breath fanning against your skin as if he’s too tired to lift his head again.
You hum, your cheek pressed against the damp skin of his chest.
His fingers find yours under the blanket, tangling gently, holding you even as sleep starts to pull him under. You feel the tiny jerks of his body as it tries to relax around the knot, his breathing evening out, his weight settling heavier into the mattress. He sighs, a soft, helpless sound, and nuzzles closer, his curls brushing your forehead.
The warmth is overwhelming, but not in the frantic, fevered way it was minutes ago. It’s heavy, drowsy, like being cocooned. The throb between your thighs fades into a distant awareness, replaced by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.
You close your eyes, sinking into the safety of him. His body twitches once more, then stills, breath deepening. The last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under is a faint whisper against your hair, so quiet you almost wonder if you dreamed it.
“My everything.”
-
Spencer could see the familiar golden sunshine spilling through the open curtains in a way that seemed to saturate the air itself. You were there, standing in the living room with one hand braced against the small of your back, the other resting over the curve of your belly. The sight stopped him cold. The soft swell beneath your touch was unmistakable, the fabric of your dress stretching gently over it, and the simple, content expression on your face told him this was exactly where you wanted to be.
A child’s laugh rang out from somewhere nearby. He turned, catching sight of a toddler darting past the coffee table with unsteady but determined steps, hair mussed and eyes impossibly familiar. You laughed at the sight, and the sound curled around his chest like a tether, drawing him toward you.
He crossed the room slowly, almost afraid that if he moved too quickly, the scene would dissolve. You didn’t move away when he reached you. Instead, you tilted your head toward him in silent invitation, and he stepped in behind you, sliding his arms around your waist from behind. His hands found their way to your stomach, splaying over the gentle curve. He could feel movement beneath his palms—faint, fluttering—something that made his throat tighten with a fierce kind of joy.
The child toddled back toward you, chattering in a language of half-formed words. You bent carefully to lift them, setting them on your hip with a practiced ease that spoke of hundreds of moments like this. The three of you stood there together, the golden light wrapping around you, his hand still warm against your belly while his other arm rested around your shoulders.
It was so vivid he could smell your shampoo, feel the fine strands of your hair brushing against his jaw, hear the soft cadence of your breathing. Nothing about it felt imaginary. It felt like memory, like a glimpse into something inevitable.
The scene began to shift, the edges blurring like watercolours bleeding into each other.
Now you were in the kitchen, moving with the careful grace of someone deep into pregnancy. Your belly was larger here, stretched full and round beneath a loose shirt that rode up slightly when you reached for something on the counter. The afternoon light caught the curve of it, highlighting the way your hand moved in slow, absent circles over the taut skin.
The toddler was at your feet, small hands gripping your leg for balance while they babbled up at you with urgent, incomprehensible demands. You looked down with that patient smile he'd seen you wear with children before, but now it carried something deeper. Maternal. Completely natural, like you'd been born for this.
"I know, sweetheart," you murmured, your free hand coming down to smooth over their hair. "Mama's almost done."
The word hit him like a physical blow. Mama. Said so easily, so naturally, like it had always been yours to claim. Spencer found himself moving closer, drawn by some invisible current, until he was close enough to rest his hands on your hips from behind.
You leaned back into him without hesitation, and he could feel the solid weight of you, the way pregnancy had changed your centre of gravity. His hands slid around to cradle your belly, fingers spreading wide to encompass as much of the swell as possible. The baby was active, pressing against his palms with what felt like tiny fists or feet, and the sensation sent heat spiralling through his chest.
Small hands suddenly gripped his pant leg instead. He looked down to find those familiar eyes staring up at him, arms raised in the universal gesture of a child who wanted to be lifted.
"Up," came the simple demand, spoken with the kind of confidence that suggested it had never been refused.
He bent to lift the toddler, their slight weight settling against his side with a familiar ease. A small head tucked under his chin, the scent of warmth and something faintly sweet rising to meet him. Little fingers clutched at his shirt, the grip certain and trusting.
Spencer's breath caught in his throat. This was his child. His. The realization hit him with startling clarity as he bent to lift the small body into his arms. The weight was perfect, solid and warm and real in a way that made his chest constrict with emotion so fierce it bordered on overwhelming.
Tiny arms wound around his neck with complete trust, and Spencer found himself holding this little person who carried pieces of both of you in their features. The curve of their cheek, the way their hair fell across their forehead, the serious expression they wore while studying his face from inches away.
"Dada," was said, one small hand patting his cheek.
The word broke open something inside him. Dada. Not a stranger, not someone else's child he was holding in a dream, but his own. His child, looking at him with the kind of uncomplicated love that children gave so freely to the people who mattered most to them.
Spencer pressed his face into the soft hair, breathing in that distinctive scent of the two of you combined. His throat worked around emotions too big for words. This was what he'd been aching for without knowing it, what every cell in his body had been reaching toward. Not just you, but this. The family you could build together, the future that stretched out before them in endless golden possibilities.
The child settled more comfortably in his arms, head resting against his shoulder with the kind of boneless trust that spoke of absolute security. Spencer's hand came up to cradle the small head, fingers threading gently through the fine strands of hair.
When he opened his eyes, the toddler was watching you, their expression lit with something pure and unguarded. He followed the gaze, finding you bathed in the same light that had haunted his dreams, your hand still resting over the swell of your stomach. The sight pulled something loose in him, something fragile and aching, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would spend the rest of his life protecting this. Protecting you.
From across the kitchen, you watched with a soft smile, one hand still resting on your belly. The kitchen around you held the evidence of a life fully lived. Drawings stuck to the refrigerator with colourful magnets. A high chair pushed against the table. Toys scattered across the floor in the particular chaos that only children could create.
The light began to dim, shadows stretching long and soft as the scene melted into something quieter.
Now he was in a nursery, walls painted in gentle colours with a mobile turning slowly overhead. The toddler had grown sleepy in Spencer's arms during the transition, small body growing heavier against his chest, tiny fist clutching at his shirt with decreasing determination.
He approached the crib and lowered the child slowly onto the mattress, watching as they turned their face into the pillow with unconscious trust. A soft murmur escaped their lips, but they settled quickly, small hand curling around the stuffed animal.
You were standing at the foot of the crib, the rounded swell of your belly prominent beneath your shirt, watching with that serene expression that pregnancy had given you. Spencer moved to stand behind you, his arms coming around your waist, hands settling over the curve where your second child grew.
His palms moved in slow, gentle circles over the taut skin, feeling the occasional flutter of movement from within. The baby was active, pressing against his touch as if responding to the warmth of his hands.
You leaned back against his chest, your head falling against his shoulder as both of you looked down at the sleeping toddler.
The mobile turned lazily overhead, casting gentle shadows across the small face that carried pieces of both of you. Spencer's movements never stopped, one hand stroking upward along the swell while the other traced lower, encompassing as much of your belly as possible.
The baby shifted beneath his palms, and he felt you draw in a soft breath at the movement. His chin came to rest against your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your hair mixed with something new, something that spoke of the life you were nurturing.
The mobile’s slow spin seemed to slow even further, the gentle creak of it stretching until the sound distorted. The soft golden haze of the nursery began to blur, edges dissolving like paint rinsed from a brush.
What rose in its place was the sound of steady breathing, warm against his ear. Spencer blinked, adjusting to the dim glow of the bedroom, the soft weight of night pressing around him. The haze of the dream clung for a moment, blurred edges and phantom echoes, until his gaze found you beside him.
You were asleep, your body curved toward his, hair spilling over the pillow in a dark halo. The sight of you stilled him. His eyes moved lower, to the swell beneath the blanket that rose and fell with each slow breath. Larger now, real in a way no dream could imitate.
The blanket shifted, and he caught the faintest movement from beneath. A small kick, so light it might have been imagined, yet it stole his breath. Spencer’s hand drifted down, trembling slightly as he rested his palm over the curve of your stomach. The answering flutter beneath his touch sent something fierce and tender flooding through him, so powerful he closed his eyes just to feel it fully.
You shifted in your sleep, brow smoothing as though soothed by some unseen comfort. Your hand, resting unconsciously low, brushed his as though you had been waiting for him. He stayed still, not daring to move, afraid to break the fragile perfection of the moment.
For a long time, he simply watched you. The curve of your mouth, the gentle rhythm of your breaths, the soft heat of your body pressed to his side. He leaned forward, pressing a quiet kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as if to anchoring himself to you.
The dream had shimmered with light, with the image of a nursery and a child who bore his eyes. It had felt achingly real, so sweet it almost hurt to wake from. But lying here, pressed against you, he knew the truth. The dream was only a shadow.
Reality was the warmth of your body curled against his. Reality was the gentle curve of your stomach beneath his palm, the quiet brush of your fingers against his in your sleep. Reality was the faint, miraculous flutter of life beneath his hand, proof of the future already written inside you.
He let out a slow breath, a smile touching his lips as he pressed another kiss to your temple. The dream had given him a glimpse of what might be. What he held now was better. What he held was real.
Spencer let himself drift, the steady rhythm of your breathing guiding him into sleep. And in the dark, with your warmth wrapped around him and the future resting safely between you, he wanted nothing more.
He pressed a kiss to your hair, breathing you in. You shifted faintly in your sleep, nuzzling closer, a sleepy sound catching in your throat that made his heart ache with tenderness. He held you tighter, not wanting to miss a single second of this, the simple miracle of you in his arms.
As his eyes drifted closed, he knew the truth. The dream had been sweet, but what he held now was sweeter.
Dreams had shown him glimpses of joy, but reality had crowned him with it. What he held was not a vision, not a fleeting wish, but the living proof that love was better awake than asleep.
sypnosis : your boyfriend Izuku gets nervous at the thought of physical touch.
Today’s a cold winter day in december, there’s snow falling down from the sky and mountains of snow underneath your feet. It’s perfect.
You’ve always admired winter days but this one is even better because you’re visiting the city with your cute boyfriend, Izuku.
You and Izuku have been dating for 2 weeks now and yet he’s still nervous when it comes to initiating physical touch.
Even you hugging him gets him all red and flustered, the sight of it is adorable.
You two walk through the city, admiring it in awe since you both come from a small village, the beautiful christmas illuminations was your favorite part.
Your hand has been brushing against his for the last 15 minutes, but you haven’t noticed since you’re too distracted by all the lights surrounding you two.
Izuku glances at your hand, clearly considering the idea of holding it, but gets nervous, his face gets red as he quickly looks away, trying to hide how flustered he is.
You notice his gaze but act like you didn’t just because you’re curious of what he’ll do next, a small smile tugs at your lips as you think about his cute little glances.
He thinks you haven’t noticed yet so he slowly moves his hand closer, hesitantly attempting to hold yours but he gets nervous again and quickly pulls his hand away, looking the other way as his face gets all red at the thought.
After a few minutes of panic, he finally musters up his courage and asks you nervously ;
“Bunny…uhh, can I—“
You grab his hand and interlocking your fingers with his as you look in his eyes, trying to read his expression—a mix of shock, relief and love.
His entire face lights up, his ears turn crimson red as he smiles warmly at you, wondering why he was so nervous in the first place ;
“Thank you, Bunny.”
“You’re welcome, Izu.”
For the rest of the walk, Izuku keeps glancing at your interlocked fingers with the biggest smile imaginable, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.
The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of your home office, casting stripes of light across the hardwood floor. Izuku sat at his desk, looking professional even in his own home with a button-up shirt and his reading glasses perched on his nose. He was reviewing student progress reports when you entered, carrying two glasses of iced tea.
"Taking a break?" you asked, setting one glass on a coaster beside his keyboard.
He glanced up, a tired but grateful smile spreading across his face. "Trying to. These mid-term evaluations are killing me. I swear, some of these kids write longer reports than my old mission debriefs."
You leaned against his desk, peering at the screen. "Still better than grading practical exams, right? At least there's no property damage to assess in a Word document."
"True," Izuku chuckled, leaning back in his chair and stretching. "Though I did have to write a strongly worded note about someone using their quirk to microwave their lunch in the cafeteria. Again."
His computer chimed with a notification, and he sighed. "And speaking of work, I have a video conference with the department heads in ten minutes. Something about budget allocations for next semester's training equipment."
You straightened up. "I'll let you get ready then. Want me to bring you a snack before it starts?"
Before you could leave, Izuku's hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His grip was firm but not painful, and there was an intensity in his eyes that went beyond simple fatigue.
"Stay," he said, his voice lower than before.
"Izuku, you have a meeting," you reminded him gently.
"I know." He pulled you closer, his free hand sliding up the back of your thigh, disappearing under the hem of your sundress. "That's why I need you to stay."
Your breath hitched as his fingers traced patterns on your skin. "But they'll see me..."
"Camera's off," he countered, his eyes darkening with desire. "And even if it wasn't, they'd only see you from the waist up if you stay right here." He patted his lap invitingly. "Come on. It'll be more interesting than budget allocations."
You hesitated for only a moment before giving in, straddling his lap as he requested. His hands immediately went to your hips, pulling you flush against him as he captured your lips in a deep, hungry kiss.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmured against your mouth. "Ever since you left for work this morning."
"You saw me an hour ago," you reminded him, though your body was already responding to his touch.
"An hour too long," he growled, his hands roaming your curves possessively.
The computer chimed again, a more insistent alert this time. Izuku pulled back just enough to click the accept button, his expression shifting seamlessly into something calm and professional.
"Good afternoon, everyone. Thanks for joining," he said, his voice warm and steady. Then he muted himself and turned back to you, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the hunger beneath. "Now. Where were we?"
His fingers worked quickly, unbuttoning his fly and freeing his already hard length. He positioned you above him, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance through the thin fabric of your underwear. With one deliberate motion, he pushed the damp cotton aside and pulled you down onto him in a single, smooth thrust.
You gasped, the sound escaping before you could stop it.
Izuku's hand came up immediately, one finger pressing gently against your lips. "Shh," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Not a sound. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded, biting your lip hard as he began to guide your hips into a slow, deep rhythm.
"Good girl," he murmured, and the praise sent a shiver down your spine.
The meeting continued in the background, but Izuku's attention was split with practiced ease. He unmuted himself briefly to greet another arriving department head, his voice betraying nothing. "Tanaka-sensei, good to have you with us. We were just about to discuss the preliminary budget proposals."
Then he muted again, and his eyes were back on you—dark, focused, hungry.
His hands slid up your thighs, gathering the fabric of your sundress as it bunched around your waist. He watched intently as the material rode higher with every movement of your hips, revealing more of your skin inch by inch. The contrast was intoxicating—his expression calm and composed above the collar, but below the desk, he was buried deep inside you, his fingers gripping your hips with bruising intensity.
"You're doing so well," he whispered, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down in slow, deliberate circles. "Staying so quiet for me."
You whimpered, the sound barely audible, but his eyes flickered with warning.
"I said not a sound," he reminded you, his voice soft but firm. He unmuted himself again, responding to something said on the call. "I agree that the first-year students would benefit from more durable equipment. The repair costs have increased significantly this past year."
Muted. His attention snapped back to you, and the shift was dizzying.
"Look at you," he breathed, his eyes trailing down to where your bodies joined. "Riding me so perfectly while I'm trying to work. You wanted this, didn't you? Wanted me to take you right here where anyone could catch us?"
You couldn't form words, could only nod as you continued to move above him, the pleasure building with every deep stroke.
His hands moved from your hips to the hem of your sundress, slowly pushing it higher. Up over your stomach, over your ribs, until the fabric bunched above your breasts, exposing them completely. His eyes drinking in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, barely holding yourself together.
"There," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your bare breasts, watching them bounce with every movement of your hips. "That's what I wanted to see."
He reached up to cup one breast, his thumb brushing over the hardened nipple. "But you're struggling to stay quiet, aren't you?"
Before you could answer, he gathered the bunched fabric of your sundress and brought it to your lips.
"Bite," he said, his voice low and leaving no room for argument.
You opened your mouth and sank your teeth into the soft cotton, the fabric muffling the moan that escaped as he thrust up into you particularly deep.
"Better," he said, satisfied.
He unmuted himself again, his voice shifting effortlessly back to that warm, professional tone. "Before we move on to the second-year training proposals, I'd like to revisit the urban simulation course requirements. The current program doesn't adequately prepare students for high-density environments."
His thumb returned to your clit as he spoke, rubbing tight circles that made your thighs tremble. You gripped his shoulders for support, the sundress still clamped between your teeth as you rode him faster, desperate for release.
"The collaboration between hero and support students has shown promising results," Izuku continued on the call, his voice never wavering even as his hips rose to meet yours. "But we need more structured opportunities for them to work together."
Muted. His eyes met yours, and the raw desire in them made your breath catch.
"You're close," he observed, not a question. His hand left your clit to grip your chin, tilting your face toward him. "I can feel it. You want to come so badly, don't you?"
You nodded frantically, the fabric still muffling any sound.
"Then come for me," he commanded, his thumb returning to your clit with renewed pressure. "Right now. While I'm still on this call. Let me feel you fall apart around me."
The command was all you needed. Your orgasm crashed over you in waves, your body clenching around him as you bit down hard on the sundress to keep from crying out. Izuku watched every second of it, his eyes dark with satisfaction as you trembled and shook above him.
"That's it," he breathed, his hips thrusting up to meet yours as he chased his own release. "So perfect. So—"
His words cut off as he found his own climax, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he spilled inside you. For a brief moment, his composure cracked entirely, a low groan escaping his lips before he caught himself.
He took a breath. Then another. Then he unmuted himself.
"My apologies," he said smoothly, his tone perfectly measured. "Technical difficulties with the microphone. Could you repeat that last point?"
You stayed in his lap as the meeting continued, his softening cock still inside you, your sundress still clutched between your teeth. His hand moved to your bare back, tracing lazy patterns on your skin as he discussed curriculum changes and budget allocations with the same gentle, kind tone he always used.
When the call finally ended, he let out a long breath and gently pulled the fabric from your mouth. He tugged the sundress back down over your body, the soft cotton settling against your skin like a gentle exhale.
"You did so well," he murmured, cupping your face in both hands and pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. The contrast was almost jarring—the dominant man from moments ago replaced by your sweet, caring husband. "Are you okay? Was that too much?"
You shook your head, still catching your breath. "No. It was... intense. But good."
His smile was soft, almost shy, as if he hadn't just taken you apart on a work call. "I love you. You know that, right?"
"I know," you said, leaning into his touch. "I love you too."
"Good." He pressed another kiss to your lips, gentle this time. "Now go take your shower. I'll clean up here and maybe actually finish those evaluations."
You laughed, climbing off his lap on unsteady legs, smoothing the sundress over your thighs as you steadied yourself. "Try not to start any international incidents while I'm gone."
"No promises," he called after you, his eyes following you appreciatively as you left the room.
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
(A/N): if you guys see this, please request more trope that you want to see. i'm running out of idea huhuhuuuu....T_T T_T
i posted a new work on AO3:
Rite of Desecration — Epiclesis
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