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she/her,22 <3 , VS greg house + spencer reid yume, @ellieslovr is my (inactive) tlou side blog!

[frijolebean]

Starry night💫

[maladaptive-daydreamer-23]

🛩️Mile High Club🛩️

Mal’s Notes: This… Is… Porn. That’s all… Nearly 60 pages of pure filth, and very little plot… In fact, what plot? I regret nothing.

Love,

Mal🩶

Acknowledgments: @cringeiknow and @theghostofcosmichorrorpast I could not have done this without either of you! I love you both to pieces! You're the best friends and Beta readers a girl could ask for!

Pairings: Hotch x reader, Emily x reader, Spencer x reader

Warnings and tags: DDDNE, 18+ MDNI, you’re responsible for your own media consumption but for the love of god MDNI, Buckle up Folks this list is a doozy, Explicit Sexual Content Past This Point, Discussions Pertaining to reader’s sexuality while reader is not present, reader is female, reader is bisexual, reader has sex with both men and a woman in this fic, if that’s not your thing you should probably move along, mentions of wet dreams, praise kink, implied female masturbation, massage that leads to sex, bisexual Emily Prentiss, Bisexual Aaron Hotchner, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Canon Characters Do Not Engage In Sexual Activity With Each Other, They Do All Engage In Sexual Activities With Reader (at the same time (no d/p I wasn’t feeling that brave)), voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dom/sub and Switch Dynamics, dirty everything, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, EVERYBODY GETS SOME HEAD, Almost everybody gives some head, bodily fluids, ingesting bodily fluids (just cum, male and female, nobody panic), PinV sex, sex on a plane, rough sex, rough oral, biting, bite marks, bruises, post sex bruises, hair pulling, hickies, nipple play, pet names, finger sucking, very slight (microscopic) breath play, begging, reader begging, hand job, Hotch spanks reader twice but it’s minor, unprotected sex WRAP IT UP PEOPLE, deep throating, Aftercare, teasing, subspace, plot what plot, reader tells Hotch to Fuck her like he owns her.

Word Count: 17.8k

Back to Mal’s Masterlist

AO3

The case had been a rough one; with JJ stuck back at home having had her new baby, Rossi away on a book tour, and Derek out on an injured knee from a renovation incident. JJ’s liaison duties had fallen to you, to your silent horror.

It wasn’t that you were bad at public speaking or presenting. It’s just, your palms got all sticky with sweat, your legs shook, and there was a tightness in your chest that you knew was going to stick around for hours.

Which was not exactly ideal when trying to impress your hot boss.

So you stuffed your anxiety down and did what needed to be done. Because even false confidence had to become actual confidence at some point, right?

As of that moment though, you wouldn’t dare let Hotch know you felt out of your depth. Not while you had something to prove, and especially not when any amount of his attention gave you butterflies in your stomach.

With you on PR duty, the stress that Emily and Spencer were under had doubled.

And with Rossi gone, Hotch had no one to split the administrative duties with.

Which left you all so busy that you had barely seen much of Spencer and Emily. While you and Hotch had been alone together at the station the entire time, with little more than orders and questions conveyed back and forth between the two of you.

Until Hotch had gathered you all into a conference room together to go over the evidence and write up the profile—press releases and administrative bullshit be damned.

Which left you reeling, because the three of them were just as stressed as—if not more so than—you, and when they got stressed...

They tended to get undressed.

Not completely—obviously—just a suit jacket here, a few popped buttons there, maybe some rolled up sleeves and messy hair.

But a girl could dream.

And God, did you dream vividly.

Nothing about Hotch escaped your notice. The width of his shoulders and chest made you itch to splay your hands over them. His thick hair would look so tempting between your thighs. You wondered if he would like the way you’d tug on it as he devoured you. Even the way the man dressed drove you crazy. His suits must have been tailored, because they fit far too well for your sanity. His silk ties looked soft and pullable. Your fingers itched to give them a good tug, preferably while guiding him to your lips.

Your attraction to Spencer was different from how you lusted after Hotch.

Spencer had an innocence and pureness about him that was impossible not to adore… An innocence you fantasized about corrupting. You often watched Spencer read, a habit you couldn’t break. It was so hard to look away, however, when he drug his fingers down the page, gentle and reverent. You wondered how that would feel against your ribs. Or lower. His sweet smiles often tempted you to tease him mercilessly. The way his amber eyes lit up when he rambled on made your stomach fill with butterflies. His soft voice always left your heart pounding and your pussy throbbing. Not that he knew that—thank God—though even if he did, it would just embarrass him.

Emily was, well… Emily.

Confident, strong, sassy and could break you in half, something you definitely wished she would do. Her dark hair and porcelain skin were a thing of beauty. The way she held herself with such surety was enthralling. Her clever and bold personality was absolutely deadly, both to unsubs and your libido. You often wondered how it would feel to earn her attention. She had a ‘take charge’ attitude in the field that you were almost sure would extend to the bedroom as well. You found yourself daydreaming about her scarlet lips giving commands of the erotic variety, smiling, and calling you a good girl… Among other things you imagined they would be very good at.

In layman's terms you were metaphorically fucked.

If only you could get physically fucked… specifically, by one of them.

Alas, it’s against regulations to fuck your co-workers. So your imagination, that new vibrator, and—if you were lucky—a wet dream or two would just have to do.

Being alone with one of them was truly a battle between your common sense and your carnal imagination.

However, being in a room with all of them… that was enough to put you in a mental crisis of truly epic proportions.

Just to make everything astronomically worse, you were pretty sure they had started to notice.

They had all started to notice.

You had been so relieved to wrap up the case and finally head home. Until you realized that heading home meant being on that cramped jet for several hours with just the three of them.

Hotch, who was sitting across from you, had immediately noticed that something was off with your demeanor. You were usually so exuberant, talkative and flirtatious in a way that rivaled even Penelope.

Now your eyes darted around the cabin, never lingering longer than a second on anything—especially a person. Your cheeks were flushed, like you were a little overheated or had spent just a little too long in the sun.

His biggest clue, however, was the way your chest expanded in small rapid breaths. He was growing concerned and was about to ask if you were alright.

Before he could, you offered a quick excuse to Emily—who had been chatting animatedly to you—and headed toward the restroom.

“Okay, has anyone else noticed that she’s been acting strangely all day?” Spencer asked the other two, once the bathroom door latched behind you.

Hotch nodded his head, agreeing with Spencer’s assessment of your odd behavior.

“I agree, she’s not been quite herself this week.” Hotch murmured, raising his brows and shaking his head. “She definitely hasn’t been nearly as flirtatious as she normally is.” The usual crease in his brow returned to its proper place. “She didn’t say anything remotely off-color in front of me at all this week, now that I think about it.”

Your quiet, nervous state was so unlike you—not that he had watched you enough to know.

Usually, you would crack a poorly timed joke or two, earning a disciplinary glare, and he would have to bite back a grin all the way through it.

There were no jokes today, no flirting, just intense focus. Your eyes locked on the evidence board. Never straying for a second, not even when he made an attempt to draw your attention. You only responded when asked a direct question and only made eye contact when absolutely necessary.

He had easily noticed your skittish state. How you seemed to duck out of a room as soon as he entered, or disappear for a while and come back laser focused on anything that wasn’t him.

You were usually quite confident. Or at least did a very effective job at hiding it when you weren’t.

“No kidding.” Emily snorted in halfhearted amusement. “I’ve been trying to snap her out of it the entire flight, and apparently, my flirting only made it worse.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like girls, Em.” Spencer joked with a smug grin.

“She definitely does…” Emily countered, giving Spencer a healthy dose of side-eye and a knowing smirk. “She flirts with me all the time, and Penelope told me that she has an ex-girlfriend. If anything she doesn’t swing your way.”

In Emily’s humble—expert—opinion, you practically had a flashing neon sign above your head that said: GAY!

Hotch chuckled and shook his head, smiling faintly, “I think you’re both wrong.” He refereed. “She’s bisexual, at the least.”

He glanced up from his case file, his brows raised and a smug smirk on his face.

“She very well could be.” Spencer admitted, his face stuck in that expression that said he was overanalyzing every detail about you that could ever apply to this situation. “We could test that hypothesis…”

His eyes were sparkling with a curiosity that was definitely scientific.

“It’s not a bad idea…” Emily mused. “It could be fun… and we do have five uninterrupted hours of airtime left…”

“Ground rules would be necessary,” Hotch added, murmuring almost as if to himself. Pretending to be lost in the case file again. His eyes traced boredly over the lines of text on the page, “and clear consent, from everyone.”

“Now we’re talking.” Emily smirked, sitting up a little straighter. She had been waiting for a chance to take her harmless flirting into a more serious pursuit. “I'm surprised though, you’re seriously gonna let us do this Hotch?”

“I can’t say I’m not curious to see where it goes…” He admitted, smirking a bit. However, his eyes barely lifted from the page, seemingly disinterested.

He was, in fact, very interested.

He saw the way you looked at him—and the other two—on a regular basis. He knew you were attracted to them.

What he didn’t know—with certainty anyway—was how you would react to an advance by all three of them at once. He was certain, however, that you were in for the surprise of your life—and a very good time—if you let it get that far.

“It’s settled then.” Reid smiled in self satisfaction. “When she comes back out we’ll conduct a little… experiment.”

Then the three of them produced a hurried plan.

When you exited the restroom a few minutes later you were no better—if not worse—off than you had been before. Trying to get yourself off had not only failed, it had also made the problem almost painful. However, staying in the restroom any longer would not only be embarrassing, but suspicious as well.

You tried not to look at Emily when you sat back down, looking anywhere else would be safer. So you shifted, only to catch Spencer’s eye, who was studying you with a strange expression.

The last time you felt so scrutinized, you had been defending your thesis to earn your Master’s.

You decided it was probably safest to stare at your lap instead, fiddling with the hem of your pencil skirt. Anxiously rubbing circles in the cotton fabric between your fingers in an effort to soothe… something. Hoping, praying, that none of them knew it had been hiked around your waist only moments before… with your hand tucked between your thighs.

“Hey, are you alright?” Emily asked softly.

You could feel all three sets of eyes burning into you, you didn’t dare look up. The racing of your pulse was only getting faster.

“Mm hmm.” You nodded, continuing to play with the seam of your skirt and then trying to smooth a run in the delicate black nylon of your stocking. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Your voice was a little higher than normal, and you knew they hadn’t missed it.

“Hmm, I don’t know…” Emily responded, you could hear slight teasing in her voice. “You haven’t been acting fine. In fact, you seem a little stressed,” You could practically feel the grin on her face as she turned, “Hotch, doesn’t she seem stressed?”

“Incredibly stressed.” He agreed, and if you’re not mistaken, that was amusement in his tone.

You flush even brighter.

“You should relax a little.” He suggested in that stupidly hot low timbre of his. He didn’t even have the decency to toss you a glance. You often wondered if anything could tear the man away from his file. God, maybe one of these days you’d strip down and stand in front of him butt-ass naked, just to see if that would do it.

You couldn’t help the little snort of indignant laughter that escaped you, because Hotch’s tone was practically sinful—proving that, yeah, you could get wetter than you already were—and the fact that Hotch, of all people, told you to relax.

“You’re one to talk.” You retorted before you could think better of it. A slight feeling of panic washed over you at your brashness and you risked a glance up at him, his expression was frustratingly neutral.

His eyes, however, held a peculiar spark. A spark that still somehow gave you nothing.

Emily scooted a tad closer to you, turning her body to face yours and pulling her knees up under her on the bench seat.

“Turn around.” She commanded, twirling her finger around in a circle. You raised a brow at her questioningly, unsure of what she was about to do. She rolled her eyes. “Just trust me.”

You sighed—long sufferingly—and did as she asked, turning to face the other end of the jet. Your back now facing the others. You had little indication of what Emily intended to do with your back facing her, but you didn’t have the energy, or the nerve, to argue with her. The only hope in your mind was that she didn’t touch you and send you spiraling down another unfortunate slip-n-slide of arousal.

Then you felt the french pin slide out of your hair, which promptly unfurled and cascaded down your back. The pressure lifted off your scalp, leaving behind a dull ache.

Why had you twisted it so tight that morning?

Oh, that's right.

So you could at least appear put together when you’d realized that it would only be the four of you on the jet home, with no case briefings to distract you.

You could only dream of where you wanted this to go.

Hot mouths, desperate grabs, pleasured moans… snap out of it before you let one slip, holy shit.

You stiffened, very aware that this was a bad idea and tried to pull away.

“Relax…” She cooed, alarmingly close to your ear. You bristled a little further. “I only want to help…”

Her hands slid into your hair then, nails raking over your scalp gently before her fingertips began firmly massaging your temples. Your eyes closed involuntarily and most of the tension fled your body without warning. A little sigh escaped your lips and you felt your cheeks start to burn as you sunk into her hands.

“There, isn’t that better?” She murmured softly, a lilt to her voice you couldn’t quite place yet.

“It does feel nice…” You admitted nervously.

Her fingers trailed down from your temples to the back of your neck. Working into the muscles, tight with the start of a tension headache.

“I bet it does, your knots have knots.” She hummed sympathetically, if not a little disapprovingly. “You shouldn’t let it get this bad. It’s not healthy and it feels painful.”

“It’s been a long week…” You responded a little defensively. “I don’t think I can handle many more cases without JJ and Rossi around.”

The words are almost strangled, her hands on your neck both a blessing and a curse. Then they slide down to your shoulders. Kneading and digging into your traps in an earnest attempt to banish the tension there.

“Why is that?” She asked curiously, but there was something more… sensuous, about the way she said it. It sent a small shiver down your spine that, luckily, was easy enough to conceal. But you still wondered if she felt it.

You tensed up slightly again.

“Because, I am not a trained press liaison. JJ does a much better job, and we’re all better off with more of us in the field. You guys almost ran yourselves ragged trying to get everything done, and Hotch didn’t have Rossi to delegate administrative tasks to. Not to mention the locals were being a pain in the ass the whole time. It honestly felt like a bit of a clusterfuck.” You confessed, though that was only half the truth.

“You did a wonderful job with the press, JJ even texted me to tell me she was proud of you.” Hotch murmured from across the aisle, giving you a rare compliment. You glanced over at him in surprise, you hadn’t known JJ had sung your praises to Hotch as well. “But she told you that herself earlier. So why are you really so anxious?”

“It was just a lot for the four of us to take on, that’s all.” You insisted, but Emily’s hands started to work their way down your spine. She found a particularly sore spot and dug her thumb into it mercilessly, forcing a moan to escape your lips without permission.

“Sorry.” You murmured in absolute mortification.

“Don’t apologize.” Emily hushes you, a sly knowing smile on her face. “I like it when you're vocal.”

That startled you so thoroughly that you actually jumped a little. Any other day and it wouldn’t have phased you at all. That type of flirting was normal from Emily, she liked to make you blush. Tonight, however, you were woefully underprepared for her raunchiness. You laughed nervously, knowing that she would expect you to laugh on a normal day.

“Mmmm, I’m with Hotch.” Spencer hummed, finally entering the conversation. “I think something else has you all worked up. You’re missing Morgan, JJ, and Rossi because they’re a good buffer.”

You almost choked on air, he couldn’t possibly have worked that out so easily.

“I don’t know what you mean.” You lied.

He didn’t respond, and instead shared a glance with the others behind your back. Hotch gave a subtle nod to Emily, and she smiled in pure glee, before pulling your hair to one side and tracing her nose down the side of your neck. Her breath caused goosebumps to rise on your skin.

“You don’t? Are you sure?” She murmured, voice taking on a blatantly seductive tone.

You shot a worried glance in Hotch’s direction, only to find his eyes glazed over. Something heated hiding just beneath the surface.

“I- I’m sure.” You stuttered, every bit of that false confidence you’d been building ripped away in an instant. Leaving you a mess, you squeezed your thighs together once more trying to silence the throbbing ache between them, and his eyes flicked down to track the movement.

“You can’t lie to us. We’ve all been paying attention, sweetheart, and we see everything.” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and husky. “You know better.”

Sweetheart? Oh god. What on earth was happening?

You looked away from him quickly, hoping the truth wasn’t on blatant display in your eyes.

He chuckled softly.

Emily’s hand cupped your chin gently as she turned your head to face her, to face all of them.

“Emily?” You murmured in apprehension. She started to lean in closer to you, much closer. Too close for you to keep your wits about you. “What are you doing?”

She was searching your eyes intently for any hint of discomfort or fear.

She found none.

“This.” She whispered and then her lips met yours.

It was a gentle, seeking kiss. Her lips sure and firm against your own. You couldn’t help but lose yourself in it for a moment. The world narrowed down to her.

Her soft lips against yours. The way her mouth moved, seeking more from you. Her hand skimmed up your jaw from your chin and tangled in your hair as she deepened the kiss, pulling a soft whimper from your throat.

A whimper that was echoed by Spencer, just a few feet away.

His soft needy whine pulled you back down to earth, or rather, inside the jet. Where it suddenly dawned on you that Emily was shoving her tongue down your throat, in front of the team. In front of the team and your boss, who was-unfortunately–a stickler for rules.

Jerking away from Emily, you looked over at Hotch.

“Emily!” You gasped quietly, scrambling backward away from her on the seat. Despite your very, very willing participation. She followed you slowly. “What has gotten into you!?”

You were panting, your breaths shaky, your hands even shakier.

She smiled at you softly and threw a glance back over her shoulder at the others. Her gaze seemed to project, I told you so, as she crawled a little closer to you. You looked around at them then—panicked and breathless—the throbbing between your legs not at all helping you to make sense of the situation.

You focused on Hotch. Your eyes searched his frantically, knowing a reprimand would be swiftly coming your way. Or the inevitable glare of disappointment. Or worse, suspension.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor when he smirked at you instead.

“Don’t stop on my account.” He murmured, his voice thick and low, a slight rasp starting to come through. “It was just starting to get interesting.”

What. The. Fuck.

“W-w-what?” You stuttered, unsure if you had maybe misheard him, or imagined the whole fucking thing.

“You heard what I said.” He shrugged at you. “Don’t stop.”

Your mouth opened and closed, trying to form words when you were pretty sure your brain was on a hiatus.

“But-” You started to argue and he furrowed his brows at you.

This absolutely could not be happening. It was impossible. Any second now you were going to wake up and employ that new toy you had ordered specifically to deal with this issue.

“Are you saying you don’t like it when Prentiss kisses you?” He asked, his expression making it clear that he already knew the answer was no. You searched his eyes intently, looking for any sign that this would end poorly for you. What you saw instead was pure, unadulterated lust. The deep hazel of his eyes was almost consumed by his pupils and dark with hunger. He wanted you, he wanted to watch you make out with Emily, wanted to hear your moans and it was driving him crazy. So you shook your head no. Because you definitely did like the way Emily had kissed you and you wanted more. “Then close your mouth before I use it, and let Emily make you feel better.”

“Okay.” You murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

That was all Emily needed to hear.

Her mouth crashed into yours again and she pressed you back against the seat, slowly laying you down. Her body hovered over yours, the sweet scent of her perfume curling around you and numbing your senses. A moan ripped its way out of your mouth and she devoured it whole as her hand rested softly on your leg, just below the knee length hem of your skirt, and began to push it slowly up your thigh. The coolness of the air on your newly exposed skin made you shiver, a small shuddery breath accompanying it.

Emily grinned against your lips.

“Garters, huh? Can’t wait to see if they match your panties.” She murmured, Hotch and Spencer both groaned.

The idea of the two of them watching the two of you and enjoying it… was enough to make you squirm, the throbbing between your legs became agonizing again. Your thighs were rubbing together seeking any amount of friction…

Until Emily forced her knee between your legs, forcing them apart and not allowing the friction you so desperately needed. Her fingers still slowly dragged your skirt up the expanse of your thigh until she had it hiked up around your waist again.

“So pretty…” Hotch murmured, his voice thick and rough.

You turned your head to look at him, not at all phasing Emily who began kissing your neck instead, and found him sitting with his legs spread. His pants were undone and his long thick member was firmly gripped in his palm. If you weren’t so occupied with the fact Emily had found a spot on your neck that made your entire body tingle, your eyes might’ve bugged out of your head.

Emily’s lips managed to coax another soft moan from you and your attention was temporarily diverted. Your head rolled back a little to give her space to work, which made her chuckle. A sound that you were sure was pure sin.

You heard another sound, a soft moan from across the aisle, and you realized that Hotch…

Wasn’t the only one.

Spencer had taken his out as well, watching you intently while stroking himself slowly. A loud and surprising moan erupted from your lips, pulling soft groans from the three of them in response.

You didn’t know what you wanted more.

Emily’s mouth… or either of the cocks now standing at attention in front of you.

However, the decision would not be left up to you.

Emily’s hand was now popping open the buttons of your blouse one by one. Working her way down your stomach, her mouth following her hands slowly. She was taking her sweet time, kissing, sucking and biting gently. Sucking your skin into her mouth and rolling it softly between her teeth, probably leaving some little red marks. Her head dipping lower and lower toward the apex of your thighs.

More little moans escaped through your heavy, panting breaths.

Her mouth finally hovered over the place you wanted it most. Emily’s breath was hot as she slowly closed her lips around your clit over your black lacy panties. A strangled cry breaking free as you threw your head back, your mouth wide and your eyes closing tightly.

Hotch knelt down behind you, pushing his shoulder under your head, forcing you to look down at Emily between your legs. His hand brushed your hair out of your face gently.

“Do you like having Emily’s mouth between your legs, sweetheart?” He hummed against your temple, placing a tender kiss there.

You opened your mouth to answer, but Emily had other plans, sucking harder on your clit that she had been previously, while flicking at it with her tongue. Your panties weren’t even off yet and she had you nearly in tears from the pleasure.

A strangled, half moan, half gasp left your mouth in the place of words.

Hotch chuckled softly and his breath moved your hair, tickling your forehead.

“Where did that clever mouth go? It was working so well earlier.” His fingers curled around your open blouse, and he gently pulled it off your shoulders. He guided you back onto his shoulder again as he placed kisses to the side of your neck, and then tossed the shirt to Spencer, who brought it to his nose and took a deep breath of your perfume.

“She smells so good…” Spencer mumbled softly, still palming his own erection and watching Emily's head move between your legs.

“You have no idea how good she smells.” Emily groaned, biting the inside of your thigh hard enough to sting and then started to suck a hickey over the indentations her teeth had made.

“Why don’t you take her panties off and tell us how she tastes.” Hotch suggested with a smirk, you groaned softly in agreement. Your hips bucked slightly and that knot in your core squeezed tight.

“You like that idea, huh?” He teased gently, you could feel his grin against your temple. Then he threaded his hand through your hair and pulled your head back to mouth hot kisses down the line of your throat.

“I definitely do.” Emily smirked, then hooked her thumbs into the waist of your panties and slowly began to drag them down your hips. Her fingers deftly unclipping your garters from your stockings, then continuing to drag your panties down your legs until she had freed them completely and tossed them to the floor. Her warm breath fanned out across your skin and yours hitched at the sensation. Much to Emily’s delight, goosebumps pebbled your thighs and she ran her fingertips over them slowly. Which only made them worse.

“It’s not braille.” You hissed at her impatiently. “It’s not going to magically spell anything out.”

“That fucking mouth…” She mumbled as she finally closed the distance between her mouth and your pussy. Your hips bucked at the heat of her tongue as she licked a path from your entrance to your clit.

A strangled cry flew from your lips. Emily’s laugh puffed against you, and the only thing keeping you aware of anything at all was the combination of Spencer and Hotch’s laughs filling the space as well.

“Not such a smartass with a tongue on your pussy are you?” Hotch’s gravelly voice reverberated in your ear before he took your ear lobe in his mouth and bit it gently. “Be good for us and we’ll see just how many times we can make you come.”

You only had the mental capacity to nod… because Emily had just sucked your clit into her mouth and was rolling her tongue over it. That—combined with the gentle suction she so mindfully applied—meant whimpering, nodding, and squirming was all you could manage to do.

The warmth of her mouth was obscene, the slick firmness of her tongue enough to make you see stars. She gave a particularly rough pull of suction against your clit and you couldn’t contain yourself.

“Fuck!” You gasped, throwing your head back and closing your eyes.

Hotch wasn’t having that though.

Especially since Spencer was barely containing his own whimpers and moans from the chair across the aisle, where he was watching the entire scene with rapt attention, soaking in every detail. Hotch took your chin in his hand and forced you to look at Spencer.

“Look at him.” He commanded, growling in your ear. “Look at what you’re doing to him, Sweetheart, and you haven’t even touched him.”

You made eye contact with Spencer then, his eyes full of longing, sweat glistening on his brow and his hand struggling to maintain a steady rhythm on his cock. His chest was heaving from the effort it was taking him to remain in control, you could clearly hear his ragged breaths from your place across the cabin. His cheeks were flushed–a ruddy pink–and his hair was disheveled from his fingers, which he kept dragging through it.

“Spence…” You murmured softly, for no other reason than you felt the need to say his name. To acknowledge him and make sure he knew you saw him. To be certain he knew that you appreciated what you saw.

His cock was so hard it was closer to pink than his natural skin tone and you were anxious to do something about it. It looked almost painful.

You felt like you could hear everything he was thinking as he broke eye contact to study the length of your body, then brought his gorgeous amber doe eyes back yours.

“Tell her how beautiful she looks Reid, talk to her, she loves it when you ramble.” Hotch urged him gently. “Don’t you, pretty girl?”

You really did and the pleading look in your eyes was all he needed to see to know that was true.

“You should see yourself right now, Angel…” Spencer murmured softly, hesitantly at first but the heat in your eyes as you gazed back at him was undeniable, and the boost in confidence he needed. “You’re stunning, absolutely ethereal, bewitching even. From the luster of your hair to the delicate curves of your legs, you look like a dream. Your perfect breasts look so firm and smooth, I want to cup my hands around them just to see how it would feel.”

You moaned softly at that and Hotch hummed his agreement and approval of Spencer’s pretty words. He had to admit he was impressed, Reid seemed to have a way of waxing poetic. He watched with glee as your body reacted, both to Emily’s ministrations and Spencer’s words as he continued to speak. “Darling you are divine, the very smell of your perfume is intoxicating. Your lips are tantalizing and I can only imagine the feel of them on mine would be soft as silk.”

You hung on every word, his voice mesmerizing you as he spoke. You had no idea that Spencer had such a way with words. His poetic phrasing had your heart racing and your stomach fluttering.

Emily’s warm tongue slowly drifted away from your clit, trailing down your pussy to the wetness of your entrance… and she began to leisurely fuck you with it. You moaned so loudly it startled you and bit your bottom lip to stifle the noise.

“They can’t hear you in the cockpit, Angel. The door is too thick and the engines are too loud. Not to mention, they’re wearing headsets to communicate with air traffic control.” Spencer explained quietly.

Hotch’s hands started to travel down your body. One slipping into the black see-through mesh and lace of your bra, the other sliding slowly down your stomach and finding your—recently abandoned—clit. He circled it with his fingertips gently. His other hand firmly massaging your breast and rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “You heard him, Sweetheart. No one can hear you but the three of us, and like Emily said: we like it when you’re vocal.”

You let out a soft whimper and he hummed in approval.

Emily drew most of your attention back to herself as she replaced her tongue with two fingers, stretching you wider and filling you more satisfyingly than before. She stayed between your legs though, sucking and biting at your thighs as she made her fingers match the pace of Spencer’s hand.

You knew that’s what she was doing because you were still watching him from the corner of your eye, and for every downward stroke of his hand, she thrust her fingers inside you at the same moment. Hotch caught on to what she was doing, and he also began to match that rhythm and pace, kissing and nipping at the column of your throat as he played with your clit and nipples.

“Let go babe, we’ve got you. I can feel how close you are, you’ve got my fingers in a vise.” Emily murmured against the skin of your thigh, pressing a kiss to the place she had just bitten. Hotch hummed against your neck.

“Are you gonna come on Emily’s fingers, Sweetheart?” He murmured, before biting your exposed throat gently and laving at it with his tongue.

All you could do was moan in response.

Emily’s mouth found its way back to your clit, nipping Hotch’s finger playfully to make him move it. He looked down at her with a smirk and flicked her forehead teasingly before bringing his hand up to your other breast.

She rolled her eyes at him and flattened her tongue against your clit, then circled it and finally began sucking on it again as she continued to fuck you with her fingers. Hotch was rolling both your nipples between his fingers and returned his mouth to your throat, you were almost certain he was leaving marks there.

He was and it was completely intentional, it was the weekend, and he intended to give you all two extra days off at the start of next week. They would fade.

Emily was getting worked up herself and the sound of your little pants and moans were driving her to distraction. When you let out a particularly loud whimper, she hummed in satisfaction and the vibration made you throw your head back farther and moan so lewdly that Hotch picked his head up to look at your face.

Your eyes were squeezed shut, your supple lips were shaped in a wide ‘O’ and he couldn’t help himself anymore, your mouth was just begging to be filled.

You were vaguely aware that he had lifted your head off his shoulder and moved to stand, but you were too focused on Emily—and her mouth— to wonder why.

Then something warm bumped your chin.

You opened your eyes and found Hotch standing in front of you, his cock bouncing just out of reach of your mouth. You looked up and met his eyes, questioningly.

He smirked down at you, reaching out and cupping your jaw in his hand. His calloused thumb rubbed a small circle on the smooth skin of your cheek.

“I told you to close your mouth or I’d use it.” He murmured, voice low and rough. His thumb stretched to pull your lip down just a little and let it snap back into place, then brushed the corner of your mouth softly.

You didn’t respond, you just opened your mouth a little wider and offered it to him.

“Fuck.” He murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

Em chuckled quietly and the vibrations ran straight up your spine then down your legs, making your toes curl. You threaded your hands through Emily’s hair, needing something, anything, to hold on to.

“A little wider sweetheart.” Hotch prompted you.

You obeyed immediately, opening your mouth as wide as you could and maintaining eye contact with him. You knew he would like the attention and he did, rewarding you with his thick cock as he slid it slowly into the warmth of your mouth.

He tasted clean, but salty, and the precum that was already leaking from him was sweet as well with a slightly bitter—but delicious—aftertaste. You groaned as you closed your lips around him.

“How does her mouth feel?” Spencer’s voice was strained, he still hadn’t moved to touch you, content to observe.

To learn.

“She’s perfect.” Hotch groaned, his hand buried in your hair fisting it firmly but not roughly. He began to use it to pull you slowly up and down the length of his cock. “Fuck sweetheart, you feel amazing.” He murmured looking down at you affectionately, “You’re so warm, and you’re being so pliant for me.”

You kept eye contact with him, trying to focus on him… While also being on the verge of coming from Emily’s tongue on your clit, her finger pumping in and out of your pussy. All three of them were still matching pace with each other, and it was intoxicating. In and out and in and out, all at the same time.

Realizing how close you were, just needing a little push to fall over the edge, Emily reached up and started rolling your nipple beneath the lace of your bra. Then she slightly changed the angle of her fingers, curling them slightly to brush against your g-spot with every thrust.

You uttered a very strangled cry, the sound muffled around Hotch’s thickness. “Whatever you just did, she liked it. Didn’t you, pretty girl?”

You moaned in response and his hand tightened in your hair, a low hiss sliding through his clenched teeth.

Emily chuckled and kept her pace steady, but the vibration of her laughter around your clit as she sucked on it was all it took to send you spiraling into blissful oblivion.

Your body felt fuzzy and warm and your pussy was pulsing uncontrollably around Emily’s fingers. Your legs were shaking and you finally broke eye contact with Hotch as you scrunched your face up in pleasure. Eyes closed tightly as she fucked you through it, then licked your pussy from bottom to top as though savoring the taste of your orgasm.

Your body slowly relaxed again and when Emily pressed one more kiss to your clit then stood from the couch, you opened your eyes again to look up at her. Panting heavily as you realized now, that Hotch had pulled out of your mouth so that you could breathe through your orgasm.

Emily smirked down at you and then held her two glistening fingers up to the light for Hotch to inspect. He looked at them with a feral sort of hunger in his eyes.

“Do you want to taste her?” Emily asked him, a sly grin on her face as she offered her middle finger up to him. “She’s delicious…” She purred, and Hotch glanced down at you, recovering from your orgasm with a look of pure adoration for Emily in your eyes.

Then he turned his head toward her and grabbed her wrist with his free hand, before drawing her finger into his mouth… and sucking it clean.

You groaned and let your head rest against his hand that was still tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, she tastes like heaven. Reid, you wanna taste?” Hotch asked the younger man, then turned his attention back to you, tugging lightly on your hair. “Get down on your knees for me, Sweetheart.” He coaxed gently.

You obeyed him, getting down on your knees in front of him, but watched Reid and Prentiss as you did it. She was offering her ring finger to him and he was licking it clean and groaning, as he stroked himself a little harder.

Spencer… Spencer who didn’t shake hands because of germs… was licking Emily’s finger, just so he could taste you.

Fuck…

You whimpered softly and Hotch chuckled quietly, using your hair to tilt your face up to look at him .

“You can have him as soon as I’m done with your pretty little mouth.” He murmured teasingly. “Open up sweetheart.” You let your mouth fall open in what you hoped was a sexy expression. “So pretty…” He whispered for the second time that night as he slid his cock back into your mouth.

He used your hair—again, to your delight—to guide your mouth up and down his considerable length. He was taking it slow, going easy on you… you didn’t like that, not one bit. So you surged forward on his cock, taking as much of him as you could without gagging and he let out a sharp, gasping, string of barely intelligible obscenities.

You tried to pull back a bit to do it again… but he held you firmly in place.

“You want me to fuck your mouth, pretty girl? Blink once for no, twice for yes.” You moaned, looking up at him from under your lashes and pleading with your eyes, you blinked twice.

That is exactly what you wanted.

He chuckled quietly and then gave you a soft look.

“Have you ever had your mouth fucked before? Once for no, twice for yes.” You blinked once—you hadn’t and you were nervous because with his cock so deep in your throat you couldn’t breathe, you were also struggling not to gag—but you wanted him to do it so badly in that moment.

“Then listen closely, so I don’t hurt you.” He warned you, then caressed your neck tenderly. “Relax your throat, soften the back of your mouth.” He instructed gently. “Go ahead, I’ll tell you when you’ve done it right.” You tried to do as he asked, relaxing all the muscles in your throat and opening the back of your mouth. “Good girl, that’s perfect.”

Your head was starting to feel fuzzy from lack of oxygen, but you knew he wouldn’t hurt you so you didn’t panic.

“Keep your jaw loose and let me move you, don’t fight against me or try to help. It’ll make you sore if you do. You can’t breathe right now can you?” He asked, seemingly knowing the answer was no, but you blinked once anyway. “You are going to have to focus on your breathing. Time it so that you take a full inhale through your nose as I’m pulling out.”

He pulled you back off his cock just enough so that your airway was clear, you immediately sucked in a full breath and your head cleared.

“Good girl…” He soothed, stroking your cheek with the back of his finger. “When you take a breath, hold it. Then release it when I pull out the next time. Do you understand?”

You blinked twice.

“Perfect.”

He started so slowly—barely moving at all—letting you get the hang of how to breathe and how to keep everything loose and relaxed.

“That’s perfect, sweetheart, just like that.” He praised you after a minute, and then he slowly increased his pace, going a little deeper as well.

“Look how well she takes it…” Emily purred, kneeling down next to you and brushing a stray hair from your face. “Such a good girl…” She cooed, running her hand down your bare back.

Her words only served to fuel your ego and you preened under her praise.

“She’s a natural…” Hotch agreed and brought his free hand up to your cheek. “Think you can take it a little faster, pretty girl?” He asked, stroking your skin with his thumb.

You blinked twice.

“Good girl, remember to breathe in on every other one.” He both praised and reminded you softly as he picked up the pace. His cock was touching the back of your throat now with every inward thrust. His hand in your hair supported your head and held you completely still. You were like putty in his hands, and Hotch was reveling in it. He loved the way you completely surrendered and trusted him with something you’d never experienced before. “Fuck, Sweetheart… you’re taking me so well. I’m so proud of you.”

The tone of voice he was using—low and rough—was making your pussy throb all over again.

You moaned and he lost a little bit of his restraint, fucking into your mouth a little harder than he had been before, but not hard enough to hurt you. It was making your eyes water, however, and you had tears running down your cheeks. Hotch was enthralled by them, by the mascara tracks they were leaving and the way they changed the shade of your eyes slightly. “Such a good fucking girl, letting me fuck your mouth like this… you’re perfection, sweetheart.”

“Look at what you’re doing to him…” Emily whispered softly in your ear. “He’s barely holding on, you’re driving him crazy with those pouty, fuckable lips and pleading puppy dog eyes… you should see yourself the way he’s seeing you right now… you’re fucking beautiful baby.”

You moaned and it would’ve been loud and obscene if not for the cock in your mouth.

Hotch’s hips stuttered and he cursed, you knew that meant he was close.

“I’m about to come, pretty girl…” He gritted out, his hand in your hair tightening. “Can you take it?”

You moaned and blinked twice at him, then held eye contact. You didn’t know how you knew that would send him over the edge, you just did.

Then he was spilling himself down your throat, and you swallowed every fucking drop, then sucked him clean. He pulled his cock from your mouth and tucked it back into his briefs, then squatted down in front of you. The thumb of his free hand wiped a drop of liquid off your chin and he brought it to your lips, the look in his eyes almost challenging.

You licked his thumb from base to tip, then closed your lips around it and lightly sucked on it. He smiled at you then, pulling his thumb from your mouth and sliding that hand back to join his other in your hair. Hotch pulled you toward him gently as he started to lean in and murmured, “Such a good girl…”

The kiss he gave you was hot, sloppy and branding. He could taste himself in your mouth as his tongue invaded it and he was obsessed with the mingling of his flavor and yours. You moaned into his mouth and tried to deepen the kiss again, but he heard Spencer’s ragged breathing behind him and pulled back.

“You wanna ride Reid’s cock, Sweetheart?” He murmured loudly enough that Spencer also heard him and you both whimpered pathetically at the suggestion.

Hotch and Emily both chuckled, and then Hotch put his hands on your waist to help you stand and guided you over to the chair Spencer was in. Your legs were shaking and you were as clumsy as a baby giraffe stumbling over to him.

Spencer was looking up at you with those big amber puppy dog eyes and you felt even weaker in the knees, luckily you didn’t have to stand for much longer. Hotch steadied you on your wobbly legs until you climbed up onto Spencer’s lap, straddling him.

He was hesitant to touch you, his observation had started this whole thing and when he had suggested an experiment… he hadn’t expected it to end in sex…especially not group sex. When Hotch and Emily had started talking about consent and ground rules—lines that couldn’t be crossed— he had been sent reeling.

When he had asked if they’d noticed you acting strangely it had been out of concern for your wellbeing. When he had suggested they test the hypothesis he had merely meant to prove whether you were into men, women, or both.

He had wanted a scientific experiment, not sexual experimentation.

Not that he was complaining…

He, Emily, and Hotch were all three bisexual. Hotch didn’t really broadcast that fact, especially not in front of the others. Even though Spencer was pretty sure the only two on the team who weren’t queer were Rossi and Derek, and he wasn’t even sure about Rossi sometimes. So it wasn’t a big deal if you were or were not bisexual. He had only been curious.

Curiosity killed the cat or something like that… yet this time he had ended up with your bare pussy hovering over his cock, and he was not at all upset with this outcome. Just incredibly shocked. You were so beautiful, looking down at him with your tear stained cheeks and swollen lips. He still hesitated, however, because he wasn’t sure whether or not you really wanted him, or if he was being included simply because he was here.

You could see that hesitation, that self doubt in his eyes… you hated it.

So you leaned in and kissed him. It was a sweet kiss at first… reassuring and gentle. You were giving him plenty of time to work his nerve up. When he didn’t pull away—and even started to reciprocate—you deepened the kiss and teased at his lips with your tongue.

Requesting entry.

He parted his lips for you immediately, you smiled against him before you let your tongue caress his sinfully. His body was no longer rigid, but he was still tense. You moved to kissing his neck and nipping at his skin.

“Relax Spence…” You murmured sensually, running your hands through his hair and brushing it back from his forehead. “Let me lead, I’ll take care of you.” Pulling back and checking in to make sure, before you went too far, you looked him in the eyes, searching them intently. “Is this okay with you, Handsome?”

He nodded, biting his bottom lip in a way that made you want to bite it too.

“Yes.” He murmured, still hesitating… then whispered, “I just– I’ve only done this twice… I don’t know what to do in this position…”

Oh…

“That’s okay, I didn’t know what to do a minute ago and Hotch talked me right through it… We can do that for you, if you want?” You offered him gently. Your eyes were soft and kind, but let him see just how badly you wanted him. “Besides… I’ll enjoy being able to teach you something for once.”

He laughed softly, and some of the tension melted away from him.

“Okay.” He agreed. “Tell me what to do.”

Then in a burst of confidence, he reached up and tucked your hair behind your ear.

You hummed in approval.

“Touching me would be a great start.” You teased gently, not at all trying to bruise his ego.

“That’s true…” He joked quietly and his hands settled on your waist, then started to slowly trail up your sides. Lightly dancing over your ribs. “What if… I did this as well?”

And then his hands were reaching around to the clasp of your bra and deftly unhooking it. Which shocked you given his inexperience… you’d bet anything that he’d practiced somehow so he wouldn’t fumble when it mattered.

You reached down between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. He sucked in a sharp gasp, jumping at the contact and your soft chuckle was echoed by two more behind you.

“Then I would do this and tell you that you have great instincts if you’ll just listen to them.” You started to slowly pump your hand up and down his length and he groaned. It was an almost tortured sound, as though you were both killing him and pleasuring him at the same time.

He slid the straps of your bra down your arms and you briefly let go of him to toss it to the floor. You sat up a little straighter as he took in the sight of you, sitting astride him in nothing but a garter belt and thigh-high stockings.

“You’re so beautiful, Angel…” he murmured, then leaned forward and pressed kisses to your breasts.

You lost patience then.

“Are you ready?” You asked him as you lined him up with your entrance, barely putting the tip in.

Your hands were trembling and your breathing was rapid and shaky.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one who asks you that?” He responded, but his voice cracked and you knew he was putting on bravado. He was every bit as desperate as you, his breaths ragged and harsh.

“Spence…” You whimpered, needing his permission to sink down on it. “Please.”

He didn’t respond, instead he gripped your hips firmly and tugged you down onto his cock until you were fully seated on it. You swore you could feel every ridge, every vein, and every little twitch it made.

“Fuck!” You moaned, loudly, earning snickers and snorts from the two voyeurs sitting on the couch behind you.

“Shit, sorry! Did I hurt you?” He panicked.

“That was definitely not a sound of pain, Reid.” Hotch murmured.

Spencer looked at you closely anyway, unsure if you were alright.

“You told me to follow my instincts so I–”

You kissed him, to shut him up and stop his doubts from running away with his head. Then you started to ride him slowly. He groaned against your lips and you smiled. The feel of him—filling you up—was exquisite.

“Your instincts are perfect Spencer…” You praised him, letting your hands drift back into his hair. “That was hot.”

His beautiful eyes gazing up at you as you rode him made you feel a little dizzy, he was so fucking pretty. He was gripping your hips tightly and every time you brought them back down he whimpered. The sounds he was making were driving you insane.

“Tilt your hips forward a bit more, sweetheart.” Hotch instructed you, his voice low and raspy. “It’ll help you take him deeper, and feel twice as good for him.”

He was right, and you did know that already, but it was so fucking sexy when he started giving orders.

“And for her.” Prentiss added, you could hear the salacious smile in her tone.

“Like this?” You asked in a faux bashful tone, as if you didn’t know how to do it. Then you did it perfectly, so that you and Reid both groaned, and your ass popped back enticingly for Hotch and Emily.

They both groaned softly and you smiled, winking at Spencer. Letting him in on your antics. He smiled back at you, as amused as he could be—given the circumstances.

“What about this? Do you think this would make him feel good?” You asked, rolling and circling your hips seductively as you rode him.

Spencer hissed out a breath, his eyes rolling back briefly.

“I can confirm that it does in fact feel amazing.” He groaned, you giggled and threw a flirty glance back over your shoulder at the others. Then leaned forward and sucked Spencer’s bottom lip into your mouth, biting it. He slid his hands down to your thighs squeezing tightly, then over your thighs where he looped his fingers into your stockings and peeled them down your legs, tossing them to the floor. Then traced his fingers back up your calves and thighs, back to your hips and you noticed he was avoiding your ass… So did Prentiss.

You felt the heat of her body behind you before you heard her voice, and pulled back to look up at her.

“Don’t be shy Reid…” She purred, her hands landing on his, dragging them back till they rested fully on your ass. “Get a good handful… or two.” She made him squeeze you firmly. You moaned and Emily chuckled. “See… She loves that, don’t you babe?”

“Yes!” You moaned wantonly, and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. Hotch had moved closer and was perched on the edge of the table next to the seat you and Spencer were in. He was watching with a ravenous hunger in his eyes.

“Put her nipple in your mouth, Reid.” He said after a moment. “Suck on it while circling your tongue around it.”

Emily hummed her approval, they were giving Spencer a veritable textbook for How To Make You Come 101. Spencer listened, of course. He’d just watched Hotch and Emily tag team you into an orgasm, their words were as good as gold.

When his lips closed around your nipple you hissed and whimpered a little, picking up your pace as you bounced up and down on his cock. Hotch chuckled in lust filled amusement, reaching over and stroking your ribs with the back of his hand.

“She makes such beautiful little sounds.” He mused to Emily, who nodded and then grabbed a handful of your hair.

She used it to tip your head back then kissed you thoroughly, her tongue caressing yours and you could still taste your pussy on her lips. You moaned and ground yourself down against Spencer, his cock reaching all the way to your cervix, you felt as though you could feel him in your stomach.

Hotch’s fingers were tracing your ribs, or maybe that was Spencer? No, his hands were still on your ass so it had to be Hotch or Emily. Someone was trailing a hand down your stomach to where your body joined with Spencer’s, this hand was larger and callused while the other was soft and smaller. So Emily was tracing your ribs, while Hotch…

Hotch was on a collision course with your clit. You knew when he made impact, you’d see stars.

Spencer switched nipples, still kneading your ass with firmness and your muscles were starting to ache from pulling yourself up and down his cock at this pace. Emily was still lighting you up with her kiss, her fingers traveling down the line of your rib to the breast that Reid had started with. Hotch’s fingers were getting closer and closer, but they were moving so slowly you knew he was trying to drive you wild with anticipation.

It was working.

Your chest was heaving, you were trembling and your legs were aching deliciously from exertion. Spencer’s cock was hitting you perfectly every time you sank down on it. All the sensations combined were almost too much for your sanity. You were so close, again.

“Look at you, falling apart at the seams… you’re so close aren’t you sweetheart?” Hotch murmured, his voice a lot closer than it had last been. What was he, a mind reader? His nose skimmed your neck up to your ear, which he then bit gently. You moaned into Emily’s mouth, a pitiful little whimper, and you felt her smile softly against your lips. “Does Reid’s cock feel so good? Filling you up like that. Stretching you out. I wonder, can you still taste yourself on Emily’s lips? Do you know how good you taste, pretty girl?”

Fuck, was he trying to kill you?

It was like his voice had gained a solid form and had wrapped itself around your throat, cutting off your oxygen and leaving you completely breathless. Your senses were overwhelmed, in a state of near euphoria, and you knew that once Hotch’s fingers reached their destination—and they would in the next three seconds—that the barest graze of them was going to make you explode.

He stopped just short of his target. You whined against Emily’s lips and he laughed at you softly.

“I think she ought to earn this one… What do you think, Prentiss? Should we make her beg?” Hotch asked the other woman, he didn’t ask Reid because the poor man was barely holding it together and all of his focus was split between the nipple he was currently stimulating and not coming inside you without consent.

Emily—reluctantly—pulled her tongue out of your mouth and smirked down at you.

“Hmm, she was being a little bit of a tease a minute ago wasn’t she?” She made a show of looking very contemplative, all the while she continued toying with your other nipple. “Reid?”

She brought Spencer into the conversation—or she tried to.

“Busy.” He murmured against the skin of your breast as he continued his work there, he would not be distracted. You glanced down and saw that he had started marking your skin with hickeys.

You moaned at the sight and let your head fall back.

“You want me to beg, and I’ll beg. Just please don’t make him stop.” Your voice was heavy, rough and breathless. You were so incredibly close, your body was starting to shake, and you knew you’d come, whether they kept touching you or not.

They knew it too, but they also knew they could make it so much stronger… if you were good for them.

“It feels so good, huh, sweetheart?” Hotch asked, his tone slightly condescending. “If you ask nicely, we’ll give you what you need…”

His hand was still stalled on your lower abdomen less than an inch away from your clit. Emily was just barely teasing your nipple and while it seemed like Spencer was ignoring them, you knew he was giving you just enough to keep you on the edge. Sneaky.

However, you expected no less from him. He was a fast and visual learner, he had been watching closely when Hotch and Emily had been playing you like a fiddle. He could have had you screaming all on his own if he’d wanted to—you had no doubt about that— he’d just needed the confidence to get started.

Hotch and Emily had helped with that.

“I’ll be such a good girl if you let me come, Hotch, please…” You gave him the sexiest pout you could muster. His eyes seemed to darken—his hazel irises almost completely drowned out by his pupils—as they zoned in on your lips. “I’ll mind my manners and be so polite, I promise. Pretty please, make me come.”

Hotch was listening, and he had intended to make you beg more than this, but your lipstick smudged lips were just so alluring that he couldn’t focus on anything else at that moment. Remembering what they’d looked like wrapped around his cock several minutes earlier, he found his will rapidly dissolving, and all he really wanted was to watch the way those lips formed a perfect O when you came.

“I knew you’d sound so sweet begging…” He murmured, and his hand started to move again “Let us hear you, pretty girl. Loud and clear.”

“Yes sir.” You murmured confidently.

Emily chuckled and started sucking on your neck, you moaned… Then Hotch’s fingers—finally—found your clit.

You screamed.

Your vision went fuzzy and then white. Your head was buzzing and your body was nearly numb. You went limp and Spencer took over, fucking you through your orgasm, prolonging it. Emily’s hand had begun rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Good girl…” She cooed. “You look so pretty when you come.”

“Yes she does.” Hotch murmured, reaching over to where your head was resting on Spencer’s shoulder and brushing your hair away from your face. “So fucking pretty.”

You whimpered softly at the touch and he smiled tenderly at you. Your chest was heaving with hard-fought, ragged breaths. You were shaking, but your vision was slowly returning to normal.

“Are you alright?” Spencer whispered gently in your ear. His hands on your waist now, thumbs rubbing circles on your hips. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fucking fantastic, Spence…” You murmured in return, shifting your weight slightly to sit up and kiss him. He squeezed your hips tightly.

“Please don’t move.” He hissed, pleadingly. “I can’t… I’m gonna… If you don’t get off it, I’m going to come inside you. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

You froze, your lips just a centimeter from his.

“It’s okay… Don’t panic… They make pills for that, and I intend to take one anyway… I’m a little stuck at the moment though, my knees are too weak to get up.” You met his eyes, the panic in them was astounding. “Hotch, could you–”

The man's arms were already coming around your waist and he lifted you off of Spencer effortlessly, as the younger man bit his lip and hissed as if pained. Setting you on your feet softly, Hotch held you to his chest to keep you from falling to the floor.

“Didn’t you say you’d mind your manners and be polite if we let you come?” He asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.

You looked up at him, searching his eyes for a hint, a clue, anything to tell you what he was up to.

“Mm hmm…” You hummed in response, nodding at him.

“You made a mess Sweetheart…” He told you quietly, then took your chin in his hand and turned your face down to look at Spencer… Who was, in fact, a whimpering mess. “Clean it up.”

You licked your lips and smiled salaciously.

“Yes sir.” You murmured softly and got down on your knees at Spencer’s feet.

Reaching out and taking Spencer’s cock in your hand, you gave him a firm stroke. He moaned and his head fell back against the seat. So he didn’t see you coming when you lowered your head and took him in your mouth, all the way to the base.

“Oh fuck!” He yelped, you hummed in approval at his reaction, then you pulled back so that a manageable length was in your mouth. You put one hand on his thigh to brace yourself and create a little leverage, the other you wrapped around the rest of him. Slowly, you started to bob up and down, moving your hand in time with your head. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Spencer’s hands gripping the arms of the chair, his knuckles were white. That only spurred you on.

The taste of yourself on his cock was tantalizing, the tang of you mingling with the musk of him was something you never thought you would experience. This whole situation was something you never thought you’d experience. You’d considered it of course—more times than you could count— but it was only a fantasy, a daydream. Never had you once thought it might actually happen.

“She’s doing so well… don’t you think Hotch?” Emily’s voice purred on your right.

“Hmmm, I don’t know… she’s capable of more…” He hummed in response from the left, and a hand—that based on the size could only be his—palmed the curve of your ass. He gave it a squeeze and a playful smack and you moaned around Spence's cock. Spencer twitched in response.

“You think she can take more?” Emily asked him, her tone was nothing short of sinful and it made you shiver. Hotch’s following chuckle, however, went straight to your pussy, making you squeeze your thighs together. Suddenly, you were completely desperate again..

“I know she can.” He answered, with a confidence that made your toes curl. His voice tended to do that to you, but when he put that cocky, self assured, arrogant rasp behind it… Goddamn. It was the voice he used when he knew he had the upper hand, when he had an unsub completely caught up in a lie, a trap of their own making. The voice that made your knees weak and your thighs tighten. It went straight to your pussy every time, making it clench around nothing. “Why don’t you help her along?”

“I’d love to.” She purred.

Then Emily’s hand was in your hair, resting firmly on the back of your head.

“You heard him, Gorgeous…” she lilted provocatively as her hand grew heavier on your head, slowly pushing you down the lengthy expanse of Spencer’s cock, until your nose was touching the neat patch of hair at his base.

“Fuck, Angel…” Spencer groaned, his voice husky and strained. “I’m so close…”

You gave him a muffled little hum of approval and that was all he needed to fall over the edge. Spilling down your throat as he moaned loudly, his hands joined Emily’s in your hair and he held you there firmly until he was finished.

You swallowed as much as you could and then—when they released your head—you sucked and licked him clean.

“Thank you, Angel. That was… incredible.” Spencer murmured, reaching up to stroke your cheek tenderly with the back of his forefinger. You leaned into the touch and then gave him a sensuous smile as you climbed back up into his lap. You brought your lips to his before he could say another word and kissed him deeply, letting him taste the mixture of all the flavors that had accumulated on your tongue. It was by far the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. He moaned into your mouth and you pulled back to smile at him.

“You are very. Very. Welcome.” You purred, punctuating each very with a gentle kiss and biting his bottom lip after welcome. “It was my pleasure…”

Hotch and Emily chuckled softly at your antics and you noticed that Em sounded a bit shaky. Then you realized she was the only one who hadn’t come at least once… you’d have to remedy that.

Hotch—astute as ever—immediately noticed when your eyes locked onto Emily’s form. He chuckled again, looking between you and her, then stood and helped her to her feet as well, guiding her to the space between you and the couch you both had started this whole thing on.

“You want Prentiss again, sweetheart?” He asked, his smirk letting you know he knew exactly what was on your mind. You simply nodded your head, never taking your eyes off her. “Hmm… What do you think, Emily? Has she earned the right to touch you yet?”

She smirked down at you, trying to maintain her slightly condescending attitude… but you could read her like a book, and she was so turned on she was struggling to breathe regularly. You smirked back at her and she raised a brow at you.

“I don’t know, she seems a little too cocky about it to me.” She answered him, only prolonging her own discomfort.

“Am I?” You murmured, giving her a teasing smile. “Take it from the boys, Em. I could rock your world…”

She laughed softly.

“I bet you could, but I wanna hear you beg for it…” She purred, grinning at you. “Tell me how much you want it.”

You started to get up and reach for her, to show her how much you wanted her… but she stepped back, bumping into Hotch’s chest. He steadied her without hesitation, his hands stayed planted firmly on her hips and to your surprise, Spencer gripped your own hips. Tugging you back down into his lap so that you now faced the others, he held you in place.

“She said tell her, Angel…” Spencer murmured, his breath tickling your ear. You were shocked at his sudden burst of dominance. Your eyes widened slightly and your lips parted in surprise.

Hotch chuckled and you studied the three of them carefully… they were all smiling at you, their eyes holding the same teasing light. It was as though they were waiting for you to notice something. You just didn’t know what.

“You don’t get to touch her yet, sweetheart… not until she gives you permission.” Hotch murmured teasingly. “You can look though…”

Then his hands slid around her waist to the front of her pants, and he began to unbuckle her belt.

“Oh fuck…” you whispered on a breathy sigh. This would be the death of you, you were sure. Your head tipped back as you looked to the ceiling, as though praying for patience or guidance—or perhaps salvation because you felt certifiably damned—but Spencer had other ideas.

“Don’t look away.” He instructed you, his voice low and commanding as he gripped your chin and made you look back at them. You’d never heard him speak with so much authority, and yet somehow it was still so soft that it was barely audible. “They’re doing this for you…”

Hotch continued his mission to rid Emily of her slacks by unbuttoning and then unzipping them. Then he slipped them down her legs and held her hand to steady her as she stepped out of them. She kept her heels on, now standing before you in just her button down blouse and undershirt.

Your brain was short circuiting.

“Please, Em… I need to touch you.” You murmured softly and she smirked at you, scarlet lips tipping up to one side.

“Not yet…” She taunted.

Hotch reached around her again and started to unbutton her blouse, his pace was agonizing. You noticed that he was careful not to touch her body at all, now that she was only half clothed, and his eyes were locked on you… not her.

They really were doing this just for you.

How they knew you’d find it hot to watch him undress her, you didn’t know, but it was working. They didn’t seem uncomfortable, no… they were enjoying themselves as they teased you mercilessly.

When he slid the blouse down her shoulders and it fell to the floor, you felt as though you couldn’t breathe. She was wearing that one red tank top that always made you drool.

“Emily…” you nearly whimpered. “Please…”

She looked smug as she shook her head, reveling in the shakiness of your voice. She knew what that tank top did to you…

“Do you want to see him take it off me?” She asked, sweet as sugar… in a saccharine kind of way.

“I’d rather do it myself…” you implored, giving her a pouty look.

Her breath hitched and you knew… you were going to win this one.

“But if I’m being totally honest… I have this… fantasy… of you, in this exact outfit. I want you just like this, you’ve always looked so sexy in red, Em.” You purred, and you can tell you’ve surprised her for once. She was speechless for a moment and Hotch smirked at you, his eyes showing his amusement at this little standoff between you and Emily. “You know you want me Emily… just give in.”

You licked your bottom lip subtly, then bit it, trying to tempt her by looking up at her as innocent as a lamb. She had spotted your ploy a mile away, seen it coming from the moment you said she looked sexy in red.

It still worked.

“I will.” She drawled sensually, her eyes tracing your body. “If you get on your hands and knees and crawl to me.”

She stepped away from Hotch and sat on the couch with her legs spread wide, revealing red lace panties that matched her red tank top.

“Fuck…” you breathed. “You win… you win Em… just… God, let me touch you… please.” You pleaded. “I fucking need you.”

“Crawl to me, Gorgeous.” She finally conceded, smiling at you triumphantly.

And you let her think she had the upper hand, as you slipped out of Spencer’s lap and to the floor, but you knew once you got your hands on her—your mouth on her—she’d be putty in them.

Hotch moved to Spencer’s side and leaned against the wall—to watch the show of course—and nodded at you encouragingly.

You took your time, crawling seductively across the cabin to her, using every inch of the space to taunt her. She devoured you with her eyes and when you got to her feet, picked her right one up and propped it on your shoulder. You planted soft kisses on the inside of her ankle, never breaking eye contact.

“I have dreams that start out just like this…” you murmured to her.

“So do I.” She admitted, her voice breathless and shaky.

“Mmm…” you hummed softly, then purred, “Then what happens?”

She laughed softly, trying to seem unaffected again, but it was much too late for that. You knew exactly what you were doing to her.

“What’s the matter, Em?” You teased, beginning to kiss your way up the inside of her leg. “Cat got your tongue?” She seemed to lose all semblance of composure and you giggled softly against her soft skin. “Don’t worry… I can figure it out. I’m very creative.”

The roles had been reversed, and you’d never felt more in control than in that moment, kneeling between her legs. You slid your hands up her thighs and around her hips, gripping her ass firmly and then pulled her to the edge of the couch in one smooth motion.

For better access of course.

She yelped in surprise and you chuckled against her skin, never checking up as you continued kissing your way up her leg. You’d made it to her inner thigh and she was trembling. You looked up at her from under your lashes and smirked.

“I like it when you’re vocal.” You teased her, repeating her words back to her and earning a soft laugh from Hotch in return.

Emily started to say something but you flatten your tongue against her pussy—through her panties—and she moaned instead.

You hummed at the sound, reveling in it and lapped at her clit enthusiastically. Not bothering to tease her at all, just diving right in—to shut her up and wipe the smug smile off her gorgeous lips—and showing her exactly how creative you could be with your tongue.

But that didn’t satisfy your hunger for her at all, no… you needed to taste her, without the lace that was currently barring you from doing it.

You gently moved her panties to the side and took in the sight of her, bare and wet—absolutely soaked—all for you.

“Oh Emily…” You purred. “You’re dripping for me… and such a pretty pussy too. I wonder if it tastes as delicious as it looks?”

You were dying for her to regain a little sentience.

Docile, desperately horny Em was cute… but you wanted her sassy, confident self to come back out to play. You puffed a hot, teasing breath over the supple skin of her pussy and slowly, so slowly, licked her from her slit all the way to her clit. You stopped just short of it though, teasing her entrance with your tongue instead.

“Stop teasing me before I change my mind.” She growled impatiently, her hand tangling in your hair and tipping your head back to make eye contact.

You smirked up at her, a bit defiantly, and said softly, “Ask me nicely…”

Her eyes narrowed slightly and her head tilted to the side just a fraction as she stared you down, she seemed to be contemplating her options here. She could either let you get away with that and actually say please, or she could do whatever just crossed her mind and made those beautiful onyx eyes flicker with heat.

“Please, stop teasing me.” She murmured softly, leaning down so that her lips brushed your cheek as she moved to whisper in your ear. “Or I will take care of this pretty pussy all by myself, and make you watch from Spencer’s lap.”

You chuckled, biting your bottom lip as you turned your head to look at her.

“Mmm, I love it when you’re bossy.” You murmured, your nose less than an inch from hers now.

“Do you?” She purred, leaning closer so her lips are hovering just over yours, sharing your every breath. You nodded, yes, and she grinned salaciously at you, moving closer so she could bite your bottom lip herself. “Then stop talking, and do something useful with that silver tongue instead.”

You felt your cheeks heat, whether it was embarrassment or arousal—or a mix of both—you weren’t certain. But you loved the way it felt.

“Yes ma’am.” You purred, your voice dripping with pure seduction.

You felt her hand vacate your hair and didn’t waste time. Leaning forward, you licked her cunt from bottom to top in one smooth motion. Your tongue—finally—delving in to taste her, before you buried yourself between her thighs and ate her pussy like you were starving. She was delectable. Her arousal like honey on your tongue, and she just kept getting wetter.

The more you explored and experimented with her, the more you learned.

For instance, if you suctioned your lips tightly around her clit and rolled your tongue in circles around it, she couldn’t help but squirm as she let out soft little moans. If you added two fingers, curling just slightly upwards, and used them to massage that spot—just past the ridge of her pubic bone—she bucked against you wildly. So you gripped her by her thighs and hoisted them up onto your shoulders, forcing her to lean back on the couch and spread herself wider for you. The new angle gave you more leverage with your fingers and allowed you to apply firmer pressure with your tongue.

She was putty in your hands, just as you knew she would be. Her ragged breaths and quiet whimpers were growing more and more desperate, her hands grappling for purchase on any part of you she could reach. You were unsurprised when they found your hair, threading into it and taking two fistfuls that had your scalp stinging delightfully. You moaned against her and then felt her walls start to flutter around your fingers.

“Don’t stop, don’t change anything, I’m so close!” She panted, her voice raw with desire.

You suppressed the urge to grin, needing to maintain the seal of your lips around her clit, the pressure of your tongue… but you couldn’t help feeling a little smug. Especially as she clamped down hard on your fingers, her thighs quivering and trying to close around your head. Her entire body went taunt, her back arching and her head falling back against the couch as she cried out, “Oh God!”

Only when her body fully relaxed and her grip loosened in your hair, did you allow yourself to smirk against her pussy and look up at her from under your lashes. She didn’t notice—too busy recovering from the mind blowing head you’d just given her—Hotch, however, did.

“Look at you, being all smug.” His voice ran up your spine like molten lava. You didn’t dare peek over at him, choosing instead to pepper Emily’s fevered skin with soft, barely there kisses. First over her inner thighs, then her lower stomach where her tank had ridden up nearly to her breasts. “Are you proud of yourself, Pretty Girl?”

Hotch’s hand perched softly at the nape of your neck, he squeezed gently but firmly. His hand slid down your back slowly, his finger slipping into your garter belt—the only item of clothing left on you—and snapping the elastic against your spine. You moaned softly at the sting and he chuckled softly. He began to guide the belt down your hips, over your ass and thighs, to your knees. Tapping each in silent command. You complied, lifting them one at a time so he could—finally—strip you completely bare. “Such a good girl…”

His murmured praise had you aching again as you continued your worshipful path of kisses up the plain of Emily’s belly. Not stopping when you reached her tank, instead starting to lift it over her head with her willing assistance. You tossed it to the floor and pushed her gently to her back, so that she was lying along the length of the couch. Climbing to settle between her legs again, you began to kiss her chest. Propping yourself up with one hand, you used the other to free her breasts from the cups of her bra, which—conveniently— clipped in the front. She moaned softly as your lips closed around one nipple and your free hand toyed with the other.

Warm breath on your pussy made it clench around nothing. Which made you keenly aware of the fact that you’d left your ass high in the air—and completely exposed. Strong hands gripped it firmly and tilted it up even further, positioning you exactly how their owner desired. “Stay just like this Sweetheart. I want to taste you while you take care of Emily.”

You moaned wantonly at Hotch’s order, spreading your legs a bit more for him. He smacked your ass, just hard enough to make a point. “I said stay still.”

“Yes sir.” You murmured seductively around Emily’s breast and he soothed the sting with a gentle kiss to the spot, just before he buried his face in your pussy. Groaning as he tasted you first hand, he gripped your ass with bruising strength and made you whine. “Fuck…”

He chuckled quietly to himself, his hand traveling down your ass and in between your legs. It wasted no time in finding its target. Your clit. He circled it so lightly, as though he thought it was delicate enough that any firmer touch would damage it.

The effect was maddening.

Emily’s hands found your breasts, toying with your nipples and bringing your attention partially back to her. You trailed your free hand down her stomach, finding her clit again with ease and began to move your finger over it ever so lightly. She whined quietly, and pressed up into your hand with her hips in a wordless request for more pressure.

“You need more, Em?” You asked softly, teasingly, as you kissed your way across her chest, up her neck, nipping her ear and finally hovered over her lips. “Hmm? Do you wanna taste yourself on my lips?”

“Shut up and kiss me.” She demanded, her hand wrapping around the back of your neck and tangling into your hair as she tugged you down to her lips.

The kiss was rough, frantic and heated. Emily was still grinding up into your hand—desperate for friction—so you had mercy and increased the pressure and speed of your hand.

Hotch’s tongue was still leisurely fucking into your pussy as his finger work your clit with precision. He kept making these self satisfied little groans in the back of his throat that were driving you crazy.

And then two more hands were touching you… Hotch’s hands were still on your ass and clit, Emily’s in your hair and toying with your breast…

But Spencer…

He’d been content to watch for a few minutes, but he couldn’t help himself any longer, he had to touch you.

He was tracing the lines of your ribs with one hand and your spine with the other, his touch light and inquisitive. You’d fantasized about him doing exactly this and you’d been right, it felt amazing. His hands on your skin anywhere would have been heavenly, but the way he was following each rib intentionally—reverently—reminded you of the way he traced each line when he was reading a book, the way his fingers skimmed over each vertebrae was making your back arch.

You pulled away from Emily to look up at him.

There was such adoration in his eyes as he studied the expanse of your skin. The hand at your ribs, going up to your shoulder blades and your collar bones. The one at your spine trailing down to the curve of your hip, over the rise of your ass and down the back of your thigh.

“Focus on Emily, Angel…” He murmured softly. “I just wanna touch you.”

You would do anything to have him keep touching you like that, so you redoubled your efforts on Emily. Sliding your fingers down from her clit to her cunt and slipping the middle two inside of her.

She moaned and you silenced it with a kiss, parting her lips with your tongue.

You rubbed her clit with your thumb while you worked her g-spot with the pads of your fingers and she started to squirm. She tried to close her legs but your knees were in the way and her thighs started to tremble.

“Give it to me, Emily…” You coaxed into her mouth, then bit her lip gently. “Let me have it, you can do it… come for me one more time…”

Her head fell back against the couch, so you dipped yours down and drew her nipple into your mouth, rolling it with your tongue. It was just enough to send her spiraling for the second time. A breathy cry falling from her lips as her pussy spasmed around your fingers.

All the stimulation—Hotch’s tongue and fingers, Emily’s cunt clenching around your fingers and her hands pulling your hair and squeezing your breast, and Spencer’s exploration of everywhere else—was nearly too much.

And then Hotch slipped two fingers inside of you… much thicker than Emily’s slender ones, and when he added a third… It was thicker that Spencer’s cock had been. Not as long, but with what he was doing… length didn’t matter.

You came hard. Your pussy clamping down on Hotch’s fingers so tightly you thought you could feel each knuckle and every callus. Your brain went completely offline and your thighs shook violently as your release ran down them.

Your knees gave out, and you collapsed against Emily with a moan. Your vision blurred as tears filled your eyes. You laid there unable to move for several moments. Emily wasn’t moving either–except for her chest, which was heaving as she panted for air—so you were in no hurry to go anywhere. You gently slipped your fingers out of her and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.

“Holy–” She gasped.

“--fuck!” You finished for her on a hard fought breath.

Spencer snickered softly as he stepped back to observe the mess of limbs the two of you were tangled up in.

Hotch chose that moment to pull his fingers out of you—making you flinch and whine—and then he moved to lean against the table adjacent to the couch to watch you and Emily untangle yourselves.

“You good, gorgeous?” Emily murmured after a moment, her hand running through your hair affectionately.

You nuzzled into her neck, nipping at her throat playfully.

“I’m great, Em.” You purred, twirling her hair around your finger and then giggled, “Why? You wanna go again?”

“Do you?” Hotch’s voice pulled your attention from the way the overhead light caught in Emily’s hair.

You looked up at him, and found him staring down at you with heated eyes…

And a bulge in his pants.

You swallowed thickly, the amount of times you’d thought about fucking Aaron Hotchner…

Your mouth was suddenly dry and your tongue felt heavy and you didn’t think you’d be able to say anything if you tried.

So you nodded your head, yes.

“Come here.” He murmured, his voice low and rough.

You gently untangled yourself from Emily—dropping one more kiss to her lips as you went—and she propped herself up on her elbows to watch you go.

The three steps it took for you to reach him were the longest three steps of your life. When you came to stop in front of him he wasted no time.

He held the back of your neck and drew you in, gently but firmly, then kissed you.

You could feel the tension in the plain of his chest, the barely restrained strength of his grip, and the quiet urgency with which he kissed your lips.

He was desperate… but he didn’t want to be rough with you…

Which would have been sweet…

If that wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

You bit his lip, tugging it between your teeth and then licking into his mouth like you needed to taste him as much as you needed oxygen. Then you slipped your hand down and gave his cock a firm squeeze through his slacks.

He groaned and pulled you back to look at you, his eyes searching yours.

“Fuck me, like you own me.” You murmured, with much more confidence than you felt.

You saw in his eyes the exact moment his restraint snapped. It was like his whole demeanor did an about face.

The soft spoken, gentle—though slightly condescending and bossy—man that had been treating you with such tenderness and care…

He was gone.

You barely registered the movement, one moment you were standing up, asking him to fuck you…

And the next…

You were bent over the table he’d just been leaning on.

The sound of his zipper coming down made you clench around emptiness and then his hand was firmly planted in the center of your back. Holding you down on the table with an easy strength.

You felt the hard warmth of his cock at your entrance as he lined himself up, but he paused.

“You asked me to fuck you like I own you… are you sure you want that?” He asked again for consent. “I won’t be gentle.”

“I don’t want you to be gentle.” You said clearly, with a surety in your tone that he could not mistake for anything but affirmation. “I just want you to fuck me.”

He didn’t answer you verbally.

Just slid his cock inside you, all the way to the base.

You cried out—hands clutching the edges of the table—-at the shock of it. You’d thought—surely—after coming three times, that you would be good and ready for him.

But he was… thick.

You couldn’t breathe, your lungs had ceased to function the moment he slid home.

Thicker than Spencer had been by a bit—though not as long—and you’d known that since you’d had both of them in your mouth. The way he was stretching you out though, it burned, it was a good burn… but you needed a moment to adjust.

He seemed to know that instinctually, and while he said he wouldn’t be gentle, he wasn’t going to hurt you purposefully either.

So as he bottomed out inside you he gave you a moment to sit with it.

“Breathe.” His voice was commanding, but strained.

You took a deep breath and he felt his hand on your back rise as your chest filled with air.

The burning eased, and you relaxed against the table.

“Good girl…” He murmured and then he started to move.

The stretch was amazing, the way he filled you up had your back arching and your hands white knuckling the table. Then he started to pick up the pace, his thrusts long and deep. Pulling almost completely out of you and then going so deep you saw spots.

You pushed back into him, trying to take him deeper—if that was even possible—urging him to go faster, harder. You wanted to feel him in your diaphragm—you knew that wasn’t possible, but you didn’t particularly care—wanted him slamming into you. Over and over and over…

He grabbed your wrists, pulling them behind your back and holding them in one hand while the other went back to your waist, with a bruising grip. Taking away every bit of leverage you had and giving himself total control of your body.

Then he pounded into you, hard and fast until your hips were bashing up against the table.

You didn’t even notice, because his cock was hitting you so perfectly with every sharp thrust.

“Hotch!” You keened his name, the loudest sound you’d made all night.

“Mmm keep talking to me, pretty girl, I love the way your voice sounds screaming my name.” His own voice sounded different from anything you’d ever heard from him. It was carnal and lust filled, and it had you clenching around him. “Fuck, if you keep squeezing me like that this isn’t gonna last very long, sweetheart.”

You could only moan in response.

There were hands in your hair, gathering it out of your face.

You hadn’t realized you’d closed your eyes, but when you opened them, Emily and Spencer were sitting side by side at the table you were bent over.

“She’s too quiet…” Emily purred, a truly wicked gleam in her eyes. “I don’t think you’re fucking her hard enough.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound ran up your spine and down your limbs until your whole body tingled.

“You think she can take it?” He asked her in return.

But it was Spencer who leaned down, his lips skimming your cheek as he murmured, “You can take it, can’t you Angel?”

“God yes!” You panted, trying to look back at Hotch, though it was nearly impossible to move at all with the way he was pinning you to the table. “I can take it!”

He pushed you back down flat on the table.

“You want it harder, Pretty Girl?” He asked and there was something in his tone… something lethal.

“Yes! Please!” You sobbed.

“Tell me how bad you want it, make it pretty for me sweetheart… I wanna hear you beg.” His grip on your waist got impossibly tighter.

“I don’t want it, I need it! It feels so good, Hotch, please! I’ll be so good! I’ll lie here and take it like a good girl! Just fuck me harder, please!” You pleaded, your voice cracking as he continued to fuck into you. “I need to feel you deeper!”

He groaned, letting go of your arms and taking ahold of your hair instead.

“God, I love to hear you beg…” He growled, pulling your head back so he could lean forward and whisper in your ear. “Hold on to the table, pretty girl. You’re gonna need it.”

You gripped the sides of the table as hard as you could, bracing yourself against it.

He railed into you so hard you couldn’t remember your own name, your hips slamming into the table. His balls were slapping your clit loud enough to be heard over the sound of your cries, which were spilling from your lips with every thrust.

They were unintelligible.

Not even you knew what you were saying, but it was clear what you meant.

Don’t. Fucking. Stop.

“Fuck, she looks so beautiful like this…” Emily groaned to Spencer. “Look at her.”

“I see her… she’s fucking perfect.” Spencer replied. “Watch, she’s getting close… she makes that face every time, right before she comes.”

You were, you were so wrapped up in the moment you hadn’t even felt it creeping up on you until he brought it to your attention.

“I can feel her pussy fluttering… fuck, she’s getting tighter.” Hotch sounded nearly pained. “Come on, sweetheart, let me have it. I wanna feel you come on my cock.”

Emily reached under the table and pressed on your clit.

Your vision went white, a dull roar—like the ocean—filled your ears, your knees buckled and only the table and Hotch’s grip kept you from hitting the floor.

Your throat burned, and you knew you must’ve screamed, but you couldn’t hear a thing.

Both his hands were on your hips now, squeezing like his life depended on, anchoring you firmly to himself.

And it was a good thing too, because you thought that otherwise you might’ve floated away.

Your body was numb, gravity meant nothing to you, neither did time, or space.

Just his hands on your hips and his cock still slamming into your pussy as he fucked you through it.

Your hearing was the first sense to return to you, and you thanked the universe and every deity you knew of—just to cover all your bases—that it did.

Because the sound of Aaron Hotchner coming was something you wanted branded into your memory.

“Fuck! Such a good girl, just like that baby!” He moaned, “You feel like heaven pretty girl! I’m- God- I’m about to come—“

He pulled out of you so abruptly that you whined at the loss.

But then there were warm, wet ropes landing on your back.

You moaned, you wished you could see it, though feeling it was something you’d never forget.

“Fuck.” Hotch panted, then patted your ass gently. “You did so good for me sweetheart. That was…”

You couldn’t seem to speak yet, and your vision was still fuzzy. Your limbs weren’t yet back under your control either. So you just laid there, panting.

“Angel, are you okay?” You heard Spencer’s sweet voice murmur, you could feel his lips near your ear.

And Emily’s hand in your hair, nails brushing against your scalp soothingly.

Hotch was stroking your thigh tenderly.

Then the strangest thing happened… you started to giggle… you couldn’t help it… nothing was funny.

You were just… happy?

Overwhelmed?

Incandescent?

“Is she laughing?” Hotch asked, confusion evident in his tone.

“It would seem so…” Spencer murmured. “I think—you might have broken her.”

“No…” Emily murmured, stroking your cheek, wiping away an errant tear. “She just needs a minute, she’s euphoric.”

There! That was the word you’d been looking for! Thank you Emily, you beautiful, sexy, sapphic goddess!

“I’m gonna get something to clean her up,” you heard Hotch murmur, “I’ll be right back.”

His footsteps retreated toward the bathroom.

You felt so heavy…

You just wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep.

A warm cloth touched your back, stroking up and down, cleaning up after Hotch’s release.

Voices were murmuring quietly around you, and then you felt someone—probably Hotch—lift you from the table.

You barely got your eyes open, just enough to look around.

Spencer was gathering all your clothes, you were resting on Hotch’s lap, Emily was digging in your go-bag—she pulled from it a pair of sweats and a t-shirt—then she brought them over and started dressing you.

You didn’t know at what point she had put her clothes back on… just that she was dressed.

Spencer put your discarded clothes into your go-bag and then he came back over to sit next to Hotch on the couch. He helped Emily get your arms—which were too heavy to move still—into the sleeves of your shirt.

When they had finished dressing you, Emily sat on Hotch’s other side. He gently lowered your head to her lap, and Spencer pulled your legs up into his.

“Are you sure she’s alright?” Spencer asked quietly.

“Mm hmm…” Emily hummed, stroking your hair tenderly. “She’s just exhausted… four times… is a lot.”

Hotch took your hand in his and kissed the back of it.

That was the last thing you felt before you fell asleep.

*Four Days Later*

You’d thought that it would be awkward…

Coming back to work after fucking three of your coworkers—one of whom is your boss—at the same time.

But it wasn’t.

It was exciting.

The four of you were all smiles when you looked at each other, secret smiles that no one else was aware of, and knowing glances had been passed back and forth all morning.

Hotch had accidentally brushed across your hips with the back of his hand when he’d passed you in the bullpen.

There was a bruise there from the table where he’d fucked you, and he knew it. He was reminding you on purpose.

Spencer had been glancing at your lips all morning, a soft pink flush coloring his cheeks each time. Likely remember how he’d come down your throat.

Now, at the round table, Emily squeezed your thigh once under the table. There was a bite mark there that hadn’t yet faded. One that she’d given you.

All their attention was making you feel a bit overheated, so you pulled your French pin from the pocket of your slacks and pinned your hair into a twist.

You noticed, after you’d done so, that Hotch was giving you a very smug look. You felt like there was something else behind it, other than the obvious, but you couldn’t figure out what.

Everyone was distracted, just waiting on the last of the team—Derek and Garcia—to straggle into the room. They’d made it to the door, but Derek was on crutches so they were taking their time and everyone was fine with that.

But then Derek stopped—right behind you—and laughed.

“You uh— you got a little somethin’ somethin’ on the back of your neck, there Lil’ Mama…” He teased.

You reached up to touch your neck, confused, you looked up at him.

“What?” You asked.

“Looks like somebody had a little fun this weekend.” He joked. “That’s a pretty interesting place for a hickey…”

You paled, then blushed, immediately pulling the pin out of your hair and letting it fall down your back to cover the mark.

“Morgan.” Hotch said quietly—to hide the amusement in his tone—his eyes flicking to you briefly over the top of the file he’d been pretending to read. “Leave her alone.”

Derek threw his hands up in surrender and kept making his way to his seat.

One half of the room moved on, assuming that Hotch had just scolded Morgan out of a need for professionalism, and was choosing to cut you some slack over a mark you clearly hadn’t known existed.

But the other half knew better.

Rossi—who had returned from his book tour just the night before—stood to pull out Derek’s chair for him and took one elbow, while Penelope took the other.

While they helped him get settled, you threw Hotch a scathing look.

Because the only one who had left marks on your neck, had been him.

He was already smirking back at you, smug as shit.

Emily and Spencer were biting their lips to keep from laughing and they didn’t dare make eye contact with each other, or they were going to lose it.

You just stared a hole through the smirking Unit Chief, silently berating him for leaving a mark where you couldn’t see it.

And the bastard winked at you.

Then he cleared his throat and you let your expression go blank as the others all came to attention.

“Let’s get started.”

[beybuniki]

I think he liked it

[whisperedmeg]

OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: when the team realizes spencer has a secret girlfriend, garcia launches a glitter-covered investigation that’s equal parts profiling and meddling. the problem? their “mystery girl” profile is so wrong it hurts — and then the case cracks wide open, whether you’re ready or not. genre: hurt/comfort, fluff tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, accidentally suggestive comment from spencer lol, garcia being the office gossip, BAU team shenanigans, reader has insecurities over if she’s wrong for spencer/how she’s perceived/her entire personality basically, team dinner at rossi’s, reader is warm fruit’s #1 hater, kissssing, purposely suggestive comment from reader, they’re so down bad it’s gross, no use of y/n a/n: i feel like this hopefully goes without saying, but zero offense is meant to the type of girl described in this fic — i just needed a contrast to greenaway!reader! anywho, this one has been a loooong time coming so I hope you enjoy (and plz appreciate the silly goofy visual aid I made on canva that you’ll find below lol) | GIF by eva @reidgif 🫶🏼

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

Spencer’s alarm goes off at 6:15, but you’re pretty sure he’s been awake for ten minutes already and just pretending not to be so he can keep his arm around you.

“Turn it off,” you mumble into his chest.

“I got it,” he says as he reaches for the clock.

You crack an eye open. “Too early.”

He ignores your complaint in favor of dipping his head to kiss your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. You kiss him back, slow and lazy, one hand curling in the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

“If we don’t get up now, we’ll be late,” he says, very much not moving to get up.

“You say that like you didn’t design your alarm timing around a twenty-minute buffer,” you reply, sliding your leg over his.

“Sixteen-minute buffer, actually,” he corrects. “We typically spend an average of seven minutes kissing before I spend the other nine between your—”

“Spencer!” you shriek, cutting him off before he can finish a statement like that at six in the morning.

He smirks. “I was just providing data.”

You pinch his side. “Provide less.”

He laughs again, sleepy and warm, and grins like he’s proud of getting you flustered.

You kiss him again. It’s easier now that the part where you pretend not to want to stay has worn off. You just want to stay, and you let yourself.

When you finally peel out of bed, it’s with mutual groaning and the kind of reluctant separation that would be disgusting if it were anyone else. He presses a quick kiss between your shoulder blades as you swing your legs over the side of the mattress; you pretend it doesn’t make your chest do something stupid.

By the time you’re dressed and make your way out of the bedroom, Spencer’s apartment smells like coffee and toast. He’s in the kitchen in a button down and slacks, tie draped around his neck, reading something in the newspaper with a little furrow between his brows. There’s a mug waiting for you — your mug, chipped on one side, living here now without discussion.

You snag a piece of toast off his plate, bite into it, and lean your hip against the counter while he wrestles with his tie. It’s a new one — navy with small, neat polka dots.

“Come here,” you say, setting your mug down.

He steps closer automatically when you hook two fingers in his belt and tug him in. You untie the knot and redo it, straightening it with careful precision. He watches your face like you’re doing something much more interesting than fixing his tie.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just… like you here.”

You roll your eyes because the alternative is something mushy, but then you lean in anyway and let your lips find his.

The kiss is soft and familiar and still somehow manages to make your knees a little shaky. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and home, which is a terrifying thought you refuse to examine this early in the day.

He breaks away first, forehead resting against yours. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you say, not moving.

A beat passes, then another long kiss. Eventually you both laugh, step back at the same time, and pretend you’re ready for reality to hit.

You grab your jacket and badge off the hook, he grabs his satchel and keys, and you walk out the door together.

—

By the time you pull into the Quantico lot, the radio is off and his hand is resting, casual and warm, on your thigh. You let it stay there until you’re close enough to see the building, then you nudge it away and give him a look that says later.

He gives you one back that says I know.

The practiced routine kicks in — you get out and head inside first, he waits three-and-a-half minutes before doing the same.

Spencer barely makes it to his desk before Rossi appears beside him like a well-dressed shadow.

“Ready to go?” Rossi asks, coffee in hand, already halfway turned toward the bullpen doors.

They’re headed to the academy building across campus, today’s guest lecturers for a criminology training. Spencer always pretends he’s indifferent to that sort of thing, but the second he’s in front of a whiteboard, he lights up.

Spencer blinks, then nods. “Yes. I just need—”

“Your notes are in your bag,” Rossi says. “You sent me five drafts already. Come on, kid, the cadets await.”

Spencer glances in your direction automatically. You lift your eyes just long enough to catch his and tip your chin, a small, private acknowledgment no one else would notice.

He smiles — barely there, but there — and then heads out with Rossi. You watch them go, then drag your focus back to the report in front of you.

You get maybe three minutes of peace.

“Greenawaaay,” Garcia sings, appearing at the edge of your peripheral vision like a colorful mirage.

You don’t look up yet. “If this is about your whipped cream experimentation with Kevin, I already told you I’m not certified in exorcisms.”

“It’s not about the whipped cream,” she says. “It’s much more important than the whipped cream. Which should tell you the stakes here are astronomical.”

You sigh, close the file, and finally turn. JJ and Prentiss are hovering behind her with matching she-already-recruited-us-but-we-don’t-know-what-for expressions. Morgan leans against the nearest desk, arms folded, clearly already in on whatever this is.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“Me?” Garcia bats her lashes. “Nothing. But we’re about to make history. Come on.” She jerks her head toward the hallway. “Top secret meeting in my office.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m on the clock, Garcia. I have work to do.”

“As do I,” she says. “This is… related to work. Trust me.”

You should say no. You should go back to your paperwork. Instead, curiosity wins and you slide out of your chair.

Garcia herds the four of you down to her lair like a cheerful, bedazzled sheepdog. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, the lights of her monitors bathing the room in neon. On the far wall, there’s a corkboard you don’t remember seeing before.

At the top, in big, bold letters outlined with glittery tape, it says:

OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL - O.M.G.

Garcia plants herself in front of the board, hands on hips. “Welcome, my beloved profilers and communications liaison, to the inaugural briefing of O.M.G.!”

JJ presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Morgan isn’t even pretending to not be thrilled. Prentiss looks like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck.

“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you say.

“This,” Garcia announces, pointing dramatically at the corkboard, “is a fully serious, very important investigation into the case of Dr. Spencer Reid’s mysterious secret girlfriend.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She gestures dramatically to the board again. It’s already populated with printed photos, sticky notes, and colored yarn connecting pins like you’re standing in front of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

At the bottom is a sheet of paper featuring a stick figure of a woman with a giant question mark over her face. Around it: headings that read EVIDENCE SO FAR, POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS, and VIBES in Garcia’s handwriting.

You step closer despite yourself.

Under EVIDENCE:

Suspiciously happy like all the time

Volunteering for less overtime than usual

New clothes??!!

His aura just screams I’M IN LURVVV

“Some of this is actually pretty accurate,” Prentiss says, leaning in.

“I’ve been monitoring his behavior for weeks,” Garcia says proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. Our boy genius is smitten, and he is hiding her from us.”

Morgan shakes his head. “He’s definitely hiding something. We’ve been saying that for a while. And at O’Keefe’s the other week, he didn’t exactly deny it. He just said ‘no comment,’ which means there’s definitely a girl.”

“He has a right to privacy,” you point out, mostly because you’re trying not to gnaw through your own tongue.

“Absolutely,” Garcia says. “He has the right to privacy, and I have the right to gossip with my friends about our other friend. Both things can be true.”

Prentiss snorts.

Garcia taps the POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS column, where there are several options listed already:

Kindergarten teacher

Librarian

Baker

Social worker

“Seriously? You think he’s dating a kindergarten teacher? A librarian?” you ask.

JJ lifts a shoulder. “He does like to read.”

“And he’s good with kids,” Morgan adds. “Makes sense he’d go for someone sweet and gentle like that."

“It’s probably someone outside the FBI,” Prentiss proposes. “Normal job. Normal hours. No guns.”

“She definitely wears super cute colorful cardigans,” Garcia adds, already scribbling it down under VIBES. “And I’d venture to guess that she bakes cupcakes when she’s stressed. Smells like vanilla!”

“Vanilla,” you echo, deadpan.

JJ tilts her head. “You don’t think he’d be into someone like that?”

You shrug like it’s theoretical, like your heart isn’t doing something unpleasant in your chest. “He might be, I don’t know. But I think he needs someone who can actually handle the job. The hours. The… everything. This kind of life isn’t exactly gentle.”

“Exactly,” Garcia says. “Which is why she’s gotta be gentle. She provides a counterbalance. Yin and yang, crime and cupcakes. It’s poetic.”

She writes CUPCAKES under VIBES.

Morgan points his pen at the pinned drawing of the stick figure woman. “Come on, Greenaway. You spend a lot of time with him. Help us out.”

“I do not spend a lot of time with him,” you deny automatically.

Four pairs of eyes look at you.

You lift your hands. “Fine. I spend an appropriate amount of professional time with him. Not my fault Hotch pairs us together a lot.”

“Point is, you know him. So, from a purely hypothetical standpoint,” JJ says, “what kind of person do you think he’d be happy with?”

You stare at the board for a moment, at the fake girl they’ve built out of cardigans and vanilla extract. Then you pick up a pen.

“Someone smart,” you say. “He’d need that. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a walking encyclopedia but also doesn’t get lost or zone out when he goes off on a tangent. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly,” you continue. “You all know what this job does. You don’t get to just… opt out of the darkness. If you’re with him, you’re in all of it.”

You tap the pen against the board, then force your tone lighter. “And yeah, okay, probably someone nice.”

Garcia grins, scribbling down NICE under VIBES and functionally ignoring the rest of what you said. “See? This is why I invited you. You have insight!”

Morgan grins. “So we’re in agreement. She’s smart, sweet, likes kids, bakes.”

“And probably has no idea how lucky she is,” JJ adds.

You swallow back the instinctive no, she definitely knows she’s lucky and say instead, “Can I go back to work now, or are we building a composite sketch?”

Garcia swats the air. “This is just Phase One, my fine furry friend. We will reconvene later. In the meantime, I expect you all to investigate.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Great. Can’t wait to see what Phase Two has in store.”

As you step back, your gaze catches on the stick figure again. On the glitter, the stickers, the ridiculous heading — O.M.G.

According to the board, Reid’s mystery girl should be someone who wears cardigans. Smells like sugar. Teaches kindergarten.

Definitely not someone like you.

You shove that thought down where it belongs, under seven layers of scar tissue and denial, and head back to the bullpen like nothing in here touched you at all.

—

The rest of the morning unfolds like any other day at the BAU, if you ignore the fact that one of your coworkers has unknowingly built a conspiracy wall about you.

You try to ignore it.

You work a consult. You write up a report on last week’s case. You argue with a detective over the phone until he backs down, and when you hang up, Morgan’s watching you like: damn, remind me to never piss you off.

“You good?” he asks.

“Peachy,” you say, tossing the file onto your desk. “Please tell me Garcia found a new hobby in the last hour.”

He grins. “Not a chance. She’s real committed to this one.”

You roll your eyes and open your email.

There’s a subject line from Garcia that reads: “O.M.G. – Phase Two Meeting Tomorrow - Agenda Enclosed!” with three heart emojis.

You don’t open it. You’re not that masochistic.

Around noon, your phone buzzes against your desk. You assume it’s another follow-up from Garcia and flip it over, already cringing. Instead, it’s Spencer.

Spencer: Cadets have already asked 3 questions that make me concerned for the future of law enforcement.

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it, shoulders loosening.

You type back under the desk.

You: important news from the home front: i am currently the unsub in an unsanctioned profiling experiment being conducted out of garcia’s lair

There’s a long enough pause that you can imagine him reading it twice, brow furrowed.

Spencer: …What?

You: penelope has formed a task force

You: codename: operation mystery girl

You: acronym: O.M.G.

You: there’s glitter. so much glitter

You: and specific instructions not to tell you about it. oops

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

Spencer: Why can’t I know?

You: because you’ve been “suspiciously happy” so they’ve decided that gives them grounds to reverse-engineer your love life

You: they’re profiling your “type.” your mystery girl.

Another beat. You can practically feel him flushing through the screen.

Spencer: What have they concluded so far?

You: that you’re dating a bubbly, perfect kindergarten teacher who smells like vanilla

There’s a full minute of silence this time. You picture him in some Academy auditorium, phone in his hand under the desk while Rossi lectures about offender typologies.

Finally:

Spencer: I don’t even like vanilla that much.

You laugh under your breath and stare at that for a second, heat curling low in your stomach for absolutely no good reason as his second text comes through.

Spencer: I prefer more complex flavors.

You roll your eyes at your phone, because of course he somehow made that sound unintentionally sweet and slightly filthy without even trying.

You: stop flirting with me during class

You: you’re supposed to be educating the next generation of the fbi

As if on cue, Hotch’s door opens and he steps out into the bullpen, scanning the room. You turn your phone face-down on your desk.

By late afternoon, O.M.G. has evolved. Every so often you catch someone making a note — Garcia walking by while scribbling on a sticky, JJ whispering something in her ear, Prentiss and Morgan analyzing Spencer’s desk from a distance.

It’s fine. It’s all stupid and harmless and fine.

Your phone buzzes again around four while you’re in the hall heading back from the bathroom.

Spencer: Wrapping up here, should be back soon. Any further developments on the O.M.G. front?

You glance down the hall towards Garcia’s office. The door is closed, a faint glow spilling out from beneath it like a witch’s cave.

You: more of the same

You: i’ll fill you in tonight

You hesitate, then tack on one more message before you can talk yourself out of it:

You: miss you

It’s reckless and feels entirely too honest, but your thumb hits send anyway.

The reply comes before you’ve even locked your phone.

Spencer: I miss you too. See you soon.

You swallow, looking around like the words might be visible in the air, but no one’s looking at you. No one has a clue.

Yet.

—

By the time you make it to Spencer’s apartment after work, your brain feels like it’s humming inside your skull.

You kick the door shut with your heel, toe your shoes off in the entryway, shrug out of your jacket and scarf and hang them on the hook you’ve claimed as your own. Spencer drops his satchel by the couch and heads for the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he calls, opening the fridge. “Option A: leftover lo mein. Option B: grilled cheese. Option C: both.”

“C,” you pick.

He smiles faintly and pulls out the takeout container. It’s all so normal — him moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, you leaning your hip against the cabinets as you watch him. This is your life now: FBI agent by day, domestic lovergirl by night.

You watch him butter bread and portion out noodles like he’s solving a complex equation. He glances up.

“You said you’d fill me in,” he reminds you. “On O.M.G.”

You snort. “Right. Your fan club.”

He raises his eyebrows. You sigh and attempt to pick the least sharp version of the recap you’ve been brewing in your head all day.

“Garcia built a case board,” you say. “There are doodles and glitter tape and stickers. She has lists pinned to it for ‘Evidence So Far,’ ‘Potential Occupations,’ and ‘Vibes.’”

He blinks once. “…Vibes.”

“Vibes,” you confirm. “And according to our coworkers, apparently the ‘vibe’ is that you’re secretly dating a kindergarten teacher slash librarian slash cupcake baker who smells like vanilla and wears colorful cardigans and definitely doesn’t carry a gun or have years of trauma to work through in therapy.”

He pauses in the act of flipping a sandwich. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” You pick at a chip in the countertop.

“And what did you contribute to the investigation?” he asks.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “That whoever you’re with would have to be smart. And able to handle the job. And not treat you like you’re made of glass. Clearly, my influence was minimal.”

The grilled cheese sizzles. The lo mein goes in the microwave. Silence fills in around it, heavy and familiar.

You eat on the couch, plate balanced on your knees, a National Geographic documentary playing low on the TV.

You make jokes at first. You tell him about Prentiss and Morgan’s intense study of his desk for “data collection” and Garcia’s email subject lines. Spencer laughs in all the right places. He looks at you more than he looks at the screen.

But by the time the plates are empty, the jokes have dried up.

You stack the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them off like the hot water might scald the thoughts out of your head. When you look up, he’s still on the couch, watching you with that careful focus of his.

“What?” you ask.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“Please specify which thing,” you say. “I have a lot of things.”

“The thing where you brush something hurtful off like it’s funny but then go really quiet and your shoulders get all tense.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

“I never said you weren’t.” His voice stays soft, but there’s a thread of seriousness underneath it. “I said to come here.”

You sigh and drop onto the couch beside him with more force than necessary. He shifts closer, thigh warm against yours. His hand finds the back of the couch behind your shoulders, not quite touching you yet.

“So,” he says. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because we both know that’s not true.”

“It’s stupid,” you grumble, staring at the coffee table.

He gently lifts your chin with his finger. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, throat tight. You’ve been replaying it all day — the board, the stick figure, the list of traits that are a complete juxtaposition to your entire personality.

“I…” You trail off and try another angle. “The team loves you. They just want you to be happy. It’s sweet, honestly. A massive overstep and an insane invasion of privacy, but still sweet. I understand their curiosity.”

“But,” he prompts gently.

You exhale, sharp. “But… they built you a perfect imaginary ideal girlfriend, and she’s nothing like me.”

He’s quiet. You push on before you can lose your nerve.

“Like, not even a little bit,” you say. “She’s soft and gentle and bakes when she’s stressed and doesn’t know what a glock looks like. She smells like vanilla.” The word tastes bitter on your tongue. “And the thing is, Morgan and Garcia and JJ and Prentiss know you. Like, really well. They’re your best friends. So if that’s the woman who pops into their heads when they think about who’d be good for you—” You break off.

When you look up, his eyes are still on you, open and steady.

“When they eventually find out it’s me,” you go on, forcing the words out, “they’re going to look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you traded in a cupcake for… I don’t know. A Molotov cocktail or something.”

“You don’t honestly think,” he says, “that they sat there and consciously decided, ‘Reid should be with someone who is the total opposite of Greenaway.’”

“No,” you say. “I think they didn’t think of me at all.”

The words hang there, more naked than you meant them to be.

He goes very still.

“Not that I wanted them to think of me and figure it out, but still.” You stare resolutely at the coffee table. “And, like, I get it. I’ve spent a long time cultivating a vibe that says ‘do not perceive me unless you want to get bit.’ I don’t exactly radiate ‘nurturing life partner’ energy. It would almost be funny if it didn’t feel like—” You motion helplessly at some vague point in front of you. “Like confirmation,” you say. “That I’m wrong for you. That when they do eventually find out, they’re going to wonder how badly you hit your head.”

There’s a prickling behind your eyes. You blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t help much.

“And I hate that it’s getting to me,” you say. “I don’t care what people think. That’s, like, my whole thing. I have built an entire personality around not giving a shit. But I…” You flex your hands, fingers curling against your knees. “I care what they think of you. And of you with me. And apparently that’s enough to scramble my brain, because now I’m sitting here wishing I could be some fucking vanilla-cupcake-librarian for you because you deserve someone that sweet and soft and kind, but that’s— that’s not who I am. I don’t know how to be that girl. And I am so fucking tired of being the wrong kind of girl in every room.”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is the TV and your own breathing, too loud in your ears.

Then Spencer moves.

He reaches over, gently pries your hand away from your knee, and laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm. His grip is firm without being possessive.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. It feels like standing on the edge of a roof and choosing, deliberately, not to step back.

“You’re right, they do know me,” he says. “But they don’t know what it feels like to be in my apartment at three in the morning when my brain won’t shut off and you stay up with me just so I’m not alone. They don’t know what it’s like to sit in a car with you at a crime scene and have you make the darkest possible joke at exactly the right moment. They don’t know how it feels when I start spiraling and you say, very firmly, ‘Reid, eat something,’ and shove a granola bar into my hand.”

You start to object. “That happened, like, one time.”

“It was three times,” he says. His thumb strokes along the side of your hand absentmindedly.

“They’re still a bit stuck on the version of me that existed before… a lot of things. Before Tobias Hankel. Before Gideon left. Before losing people changed the way I look at everything. They still see the kid who needed to be protected from himself.”

“Sometimes you still are that kid,” you say softly.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I’m also a man who knows what he wants. Who he wants.” His eyes are steady on yours. “And it’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”

Your throat tightens.

“They want me to have someone gentle,” he says. “And I get why. But gentle doesn’t necessarily have to mean cupcakes and vanilla and kindergarten.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re gentle with me in all the ways that matter. You know when to challenge me and when to just… be here.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want a cupcake,” you say slowly.

“I’m saying I don’t want to be handled,” he corrects. “I don’t want to be someone’s fragile project. I don’t need to be saved from my own life by a nice woman in a cardigan.”

He leans in a little, eyes not leaving yours.

“I chose you,” he says. “Not because I’m convinced you’re secretly soft underneath it all and one day you’ll transform into their idea of what my life should look like. I chose you, completely as you are. Sharp and stubborn and infuriating and the only person who’s ever told me to shut up not because you didn’t care what I had to say, but because you wanted to kiss me so badly you couldn’t wait."

Heat flickers under your skin at that memory. Your eyes sting again. You blink hard.

“They love me,” he says with a nod. “You’re right. But they also love you. They trust you with their lives. They’ve seen you bleed for this team. Do you really think that when they find out I’m with someone who understands all of that, who gets it down to the bone, they’re going to… what? Stage an intervention? Tell me I should hold out for someone better?”

You look away, jaw tight.

“If I didn’t want you,” he says, voice even, “I wouldn’t be with you. If I thought you were wrong for me, I wouldn’t let you into this part of my life.” He squeezes your hand. It’s grounding, the pressure. “I’m not going to look at Garcia’s corkboard and suddenly decide I made a mistake. I’m in this because I want to be.”

You swallow, hard. A traitorous tear finally escapes despite your best efforts; you swipe it away with the heel of your hand before it can go rogue.

“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter. “I’m mad at a fucking bulletin board.”

He smiles, small and fond. “You’re not mad at the board.”

He shifts closer, finally letting his arm drop around your shoulders, pulling you in until you’re halfway in his lap.

“I just don’t want to be the wrong choice,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re the right one. And if that conflicts with our friends’ wild imaginations, then that’s their problem to solve. Not ours.”

You swallow, breathing uneven. He’s so close you can count his eyelashes. You let your head tip against his shoulder as his thumb draws idle circles on the back of your hand.

“Okay,” you say eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “But if they look at me like I’m a bad idea when they eventually find out, you’re in charge of reminding them I’m not.”

“I can do that,” he promises.

You stay like that for a while — documentary murmuring in the background, the universe shrunk down to the circumference of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At some point, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair.

“You know Garcia’s going to put glittery heart stickers around my face if she ever adds me to that board,” you mumble against him.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m so keeping it if she does.”

You pinch his side. He yelps, then laughs, then presses another kiss into your hair.

Let them have their glitter for now, you think to yourself. Let them build their wrong profile. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re choosing each other.

—

Rossi’s email hits your inbox on Thursday morning, wedged between a case update and a training memo.

BAU Pasta Night at Villa Rossi: Saturday. 6pm. Mandatory attendance.

You read it twice. There’s something about dinner at Rossi’s that feels less like an invitation and more like a command.

Your phone buzzes with a text five minutes later.

Spencer: Did you see Rossi’s email?

You stare at the screen longer than you need to, then type back:

You: yep

You: guess we’re having pasta this weekend

Once Saturday night hits, Garcia is on Spencer before he can even take his coat off in Rossi’s foyer.

“REID,” she announces, planting herself in front of him with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for hacking and cross-referencing. “You came alone.”

Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. “Hi, Garcia.”

Morgan appears behind her with a glass of wine, already grinning. “No plus-one, man? C’mon.”

Emily lifts her eyebrows in amusement. JJ’s smile is softer, more sympathetic than nosy.

You keep your face blank and slip past them toward the kitchen, waving awkwardly to Hotch as you pass by the living room, because if you have to stand there and listen to this, you will commit a felony.

Rossi intercepts you with a dish towel over his shoulder and a look that says I got you, kid.

“If you’re looking for a way to escape Penelope’s witch hunt, go ahead into the cellar downstairs and pick out another bottle of red,” he says mercifully. “Barolo or Chianti preferably, but it’s your choice."

“Yes, sir,” you say sarcastically, and take the out.

The basement is cooler, quieter. You let yourself breathe for a minute, fingers trailing over labels, pretending you’re here for the tannins.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Spencer is doing his best impression of a man who is not currently being cornered by three BAU agents and one extremely glitter-motivated tech analyst.

Garcia doesn’t even bother easing in.

“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands. “We have respected your privacy for—”

Morgan coughs. “We have attempted to respect your privacy.”

Garcia glares at him, then refocuses on Spencer. “—for a completely appropriate amount of time. But I simply cannot wait any longer. In my heart of hearts I know you’re seeing someone, and I’m DYING to know who she is.”

Spencer rubs the back of his neck. “This is, uh… really none of your business.”

Emily leans against the counter, entertained. “You’re surrounded by profilers, Reid. Being in other people’s business is kind of what we do best.”

JJ steps in a little. “Look, Spence, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” she says, and she means it even though Garcia’s threatening her with dagger eyes. “But we’re your friends. We notice when something changes, and we just want the chance to be happy for you.”

Spencer’s ears go pink. “I—I know. It’s just— It’s private.”

Garcia’s eyes widen theatrically. “So she IS real! Private means real!”

Morgan tilts his head. “C’mon, fess up. You seeing someone, pretty boy?”

Spencer hesitates for an awkward beat, running through the options in his head. He supposes that confirming the existence of a significant other isn’t the worst idea in the world, considering they’ve already pretty much figured it out, and it’s not like he has to tell them who the “mystery girl” is. That’s a boundary line he can draw and stick to. Plus, maybe they’ll chill out on O.M.G. and leave you some room to breathe if they at least have a few nuggets of information to hold them over for a bit.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “I’m…seeing someone.”

Garcia makes a sound like she’s about to ascend. “OHHH MY GOD. I KNEW IT.”

“So,” Emily says. “How long has it been?”

Spencer exhales. “A… while. Things started slow, so it’s somewhat hard to quantify.”

As if he doesn’t know the exact amount of time down to the minute that’s passed since you first kissed him in Ohio.

Morgan’s cheeky grin softens as he claps Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says.

Spencer nods and looks down, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. JJ’s expression brightens in a way that’s genuinely excited for him.

“Well,” Garcia says, leaning in like she’s about to jump into full-on detective mode. “Tell us about her! I want to know everything.”

Spencer’s eyes flick up. “I—”

“Not actually everything. We’re not asking for her social security number,” JJ clarifies. “Not even her name. Just…are you happy? Is it going well?”

Spencer nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s…good. Really, really good.”

Garcia’s voice turns unexpectedly soft. “Is she good to you?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Emily taps her fingernail against the counter. “What sorts of things do you two do? Do you go out? Stay in?”

“Both,” Spencer says. “We do, uh, normal things.”

Garcia squints. “Define ‘normal,’ because your normal includes reading hundred-year-old Russian novels for fun.”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “We… we go on walks. Run errands. Go out to eat. There’s this little Italian restaurant in Georgetown she really likes. But… we also stay in a lot. We cook together sometimes. Talk. Read. Watch movies.”

“What kind of movies?” JJ probes.

Spencer thinks of you engrossed by a classic horror film or picking apart some terrible romcom with surgical cruelty, pointing out every dumb decision while somehow still being fully invested. He does not say that out loud.

“Uh, anything, really,” he says instead. “She made me watch Pulp Fiction recently, and I showed her a documentary about black holes last weekend. She… likes indulging my interests.”

Emily’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that. JJ files it away. Garcia is practically vibrating.

Morgan jumps in next. “So, you planning on bringing her to one of these things eventually?”

Spencer’s throat bobs. “…Eventually.”

“In the meantime, I need more. What does she like?” Garcia presses. “What’s her favorite—food, music, whatever. Give us something, Reid! One harmless little detail.”

Spencer’s brain scrambles for something that feels safe. Something that won’t point to you. Something small.

“She… she has a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “Brownies, cake, cookies… you know. But she hates warm fruit. Something to do with the texture. We went to a diner once where the waitress gave us free slices of pie, and she picked out all the fruit and just ate the crust and ice cream.”

Emily laughs. “That’s unhinged.”

Garcia clutches her heart. “Oh, a woman with a quirk! I just know I'm going to adore her already.”

Spencer’s eyes flick toward the cellar door for the briefest of seconds — instinctively, as if his gaze is trained on you like a magnet — before looking back at his nosy friends with his signature awkward, tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have a feeling you will.”

—

When you come back upstairs with a bottle of Barolo, the evening has already moved into that easy, warm groove: plates clinking, voices overlapping, Rossi refilling wine glasses.

You laugh at something JJ says. You argue with Emily about her taste in horror movies. Spencer watches you like he’s trying to memorize your face. As if he hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.

By the time the pasta plates are cleared and Rossi heads into the kitchen to grab dessert, you’ve almost forgotten about O.M.G. entirely. The team has, mercifully, taken it easier on Spencer after the conversation you missed while seeking refuge in the wine cellar.

Whatever he said to shut them up, it must’ve worked, you think to yourself.

Rossi returns to the dining room and sets a slice of apple pie in front of you. “Made from scratch,” he boasts.

You eye it. The apples are glossy and soft. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. But the crust looks deliciously sugary and flaky and you’re not about to insult Rossi in his own home mansion, so you manage a polite “Thank you” and pick up your fork.

Across the table, Spencer freezes.

Not a subtle freeze — no. It’s a full, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights freeze.

He clears his throat too loud. Knocks his fork against his plate. His foot finds your ankle under the table with a series of frantic little nudges.

You glance up, confused, eyes clearly asking what the heck is your problem.

He’s staring at your plate like it’s an unpinned grenade.

His mouth opens. Closes. He tries again, smaller, more desperate: “Uh—”

What? you mouth, eyebrows raised.

His eyes flick back and forth — pie, you, pie, you — like he’s trying to telepathically beam a message directly into your skull. But there is, unfortunately, no universal signal for if you eat your pie like a feral raccoon our coworkers are 100% going to figure out our secret so please just be normal this one time, so you just stare at him blankly.

Weirdo.

You gently kick his foot away — more confused than annoyed — and turn back to your plate.

And then you do what you always do.

You begin to push the warm apples to one side of the dish with the edge of your fork, methodically separating fruit from crust like you’re field-stripping a firearm.

Spencer’s face goes beet red in anxious anticipation, but the room doesn’t go silent all at once.

It’s staggered. Like a line of well-spaced dominos, toppling one after another in perfect succession.

Garcia notices first. Her whole face lights up, brows practically shooting up to her hairline. A strangled noise catches in her throat, and her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s trying to keep herself from screaming.

JJ freezes mid-bite, fork suspended, eyes wide and snapping to Spencer.

Morgan’s grin falters into disbelief. “No way,” he says, like he’s arguing with reality.

Emily’s jaw goes slack. “Oh,” she breathes. Then her eyes sharpen, bright with dawning glee. “Ohhh.”

You look up at the sudden weirdness and find four faces locked on your plate like you’ve just confessed to arson.

“What,” you ask carefully, “is happening. Why are you all staring at my pie.”

Morgan points his fork at your dish and turns to Spencer. “Reid,” he says, voice pitched with amusement, “didn’t you literally just tell us your girl does that? That she won’t eat warm fruit?”

Spencer shuts his eyes for a second — brief, pained — like he’s watching himself die in third person. When he opens them, he looks straight at you.

Pure apology. Pure guilt.

He winces. “I… I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

Something in you goes cold and then hot at the exact same moment you catch up to what’s going on.

For half a second, your brain offers you the classic Greenaway solution: vanish. Run and never look back. You can practically feel the panic trying to crawl up your throat, because this is what you were dreading — the second everyone knows, they get to have opinions. They get to look at you and Spencer like a math problem and decide you don’t add up.

Except… they’re not at all looking at you like you’re wrong for him.

You scan the room. Garcia’s smiling so big it looks painful. JJ’s gaze is warm, not sharp. Emily looks like she just won a bet she never told anyone she made. And Morgan is staring like he can’t believe you got one over on him, but there’s no anger in it — just that big-brother okay, show me you’re serious energy. The only person in the room who looks horrified is Spencer, who’s clearly just trying to cope with the fact he accidentally revealed your relationship in maybe the stupidest way possible.

You take a breath, feel your pulse in your throat, and then — because you’re not going to let all of your control over this situation be ripped out of your hands — you say:

“Congrats everyone, you cracked the code. Yes. Reid and I are together.”

Garcia explodes.

“MYSTERY GIRL IS YOU,” she shrieks, half out of her chair. “It’s been you this ENTIRE time. Oh my GOD. I made a board! I made assumptions! I said cupcakes and cardigans when in reality, Mystery Girl was right in front of me in boots and a leather jacket and—”

“Garcia,” Hotch warns.

JJ’s earnest expression is the first thing that cuts through the chaos. “This makes so much sense,” she says.

“Yeah,” Emily agrees. “The second you say it out loud, it’s like— of course. How did we miss that?”

Morgan sits back, still staring between you and Spencer like he’s recalibrating. Then he lets out a laugh — half disbelief, half delight. “Man,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I thought you were cuddled up with a librarian or something. Meanwhile you’re out here dating the most terrifying Greenaway sister,” he says, then winks at you like he’s trying to make sure you know he means it as a compliment.

You lift your chin. “Say that again and I’ll throw this pie at you.”

Morgan grins, hands up. “See? Exactly what I mean.”

Rossi sips his wine with a chuckle. “About time you bozos figured it out.”

Garcia whirls on him. “You KNEW?!”

Rossi’s mouth quirks. “What can I say, I’m good at my job.”

Hotch sets his fork down with the resigned patience of a man who has filled out a lot of paperwork on this exact subject already. “I’ve also been aware for some time,” he says evenly.

Garcia makes a noise that sounds like she’s dying. “BOTH of you knew?!”

Spencer clears his throat, still pink, still looking like he wants to apologize to you in six different languages. His eyes don’t leave your face.

Garcia’s hands clap together like she’s calling court to order. “O.M.G. never stood for Operation Mystery Girl,” she announces, breathless with triumph. “It stood for OH MY GREENAWAY all along.”

JJ’s gaze meets yours. “For what it’s worth,” she says, "I'm really happy that Mystery Girl is you.”

Emily lifts her glass in a small toast. “Me as well,” she adds. “This is good. This is really, really good.”

Morgan’s grin softens into something fond and protective. “As long as you’re both happy and nobody’s getting hurt,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”

Garcia’s voice goes thick, emotional, and she tries to bulldoze right through it with dramatics. “I’m so happy,” she declares. “I’m also a bit devastated I wasn’t included in the secret circle of knowing earlier, but mostly I’m happy because you two are…” She gestures wildly. “You’re you. And it’s perfect.”

Something in your chest steadies instead of cracks.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling. “Cool. Great. Everybody get it out of their system?”

Garcia points at your pie plate, still half-disassembled. “Not even close. I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but I can’t get over that THIS is what did it.”

You deadpan. “My beef with pie is never-ending.”

Rossi claps once, satisfied. “Alright. Now that the children have finished screaming, eat your dang dessert.”

Laughter rolls around the room again, warmer now, less sharp.

Under the table, Spencer’s shoe nudges yours.

You nudge back.

And when you finally escape an hour later, the night air is cold and quiet, and Spencer grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to drive his guilt into the pavement.

You watch him from the passenger seat, heart weirdly calm.

He doesn’t say much on the drive. Neither do you. The secret is out, the world didn’t end, and for now, that’s enough.

—

Back at Spencer’s apartment, the quiet hits you like a soft wall.

No Garcia shrieking. No Morgan cackling. Just the click of the lock, the hush of the hallway outside, and Spencer standing there with his keys still in his hand.

“You okay?” you ask, toeing your shoes off.

Spencer exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding it since the pie incident — and sets his keys down with exaggerated care. Then he turns to you, eyes wide in that way they get when he’s trying not to catastrophize and failing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “You don’t need to be.”

He shakes his head. “But I am. I’m so sorry. For all of it. For telling them the fruit thing. I didn’t realize I was outing us. I—I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

“I gathered that,” you say.

He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to touch you but doesn’t want to assume it’d be welcome.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he continues, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “It was stupid. I thought giving them a hyper-specific detail would give them something to fixate on and shut them up, and that one seemed harmless enough, but then I saw the pie and I—” He swallows. “I really did try to warn you.”

“You did,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You were practically doing Morse code against my ankle.”

“I panicked,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “And then it all happened so fast and you looked—” He stops, eyes flicking over your face like he’s searching for hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you hate being… perceived.”

He takes one more step. You can feel his warmth now, close enough that it seeps into you.

“I keep thinking about the other day,” he says quietly. “How scared you were for them to find out.” His throat bobs. “And then I was the one who—who basically handed them our secret on a silver platter.”

You tilt your head. “On a pie platter, actually.”

He looks pained. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”

“Spencer,” you say seriously. “I’m not mad at you.”

He lets out a breath, but it’s not quite relief yet. He’s still braced for impact.

“And I’m not mad that they know,” you add, watching him closely. “I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that my downfall was pie of all things, but—”

His mouth finally lifts, small and uncertain.

“But,” you repeat, “it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

You push off the wall and close the space remaining between you, because you’re tired of him hovering at the edge of you and want him to feel how not-mad you are.

His hands find your waist the second you’re close enough, careful at first, then firmer when you lean in like you belong there.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

“Because you could—” He swallows. “You could decide this is too much. Too exposed. And I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d miss you.”

Something in your chest goes tight and hot.

You slide your hands up his arms, feel the muscle under his sleeves, the faint tremor he’s trying his best to hide. You clasp your fingers behind his neck and pull him down until his forehead nearly brushes yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the words physically steady him.

“You’re not?”

“No,” you say, and you let yourself mean it. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m not running. The worst thing that happened tonight is that our coworkers found out I have psychopathic dessert habits.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Besides,” you add, because you can’t help it, “you looked kinda hot when you were trying to telepathically get me to eat my pie like a normal person.”

His eyes open, startled. “I— what?”

“You did,” you insist, deadly serious. “Somehow, panic is a good look on you. Big fan.”

His cheeks go pink, but now it’s in a good way.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“And you,” you say, sliding your thumbs along his jaw, “are catastrophizing.”

“I know,” he admits. “I just… I care about you.”

The words hang there, heavy and honest and dangerously close to a bigger truth, but you don’t let it scare you. Not tonight.

You kiss him instead.

It’s slow at first — soft, testing — like you’re proving something to him with your mouth: I’m here. I’m fine. Then it deepens, because Spencer never stays soft for long once you give him permission. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to misunderstand.

His mouth is warm, familiar, and still somehow new every time. You feel him exhale against you, a quiet sound that sinks into your skin.

When you pull back, he looks at you again and cups your cheek like you’re something precious.

“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m… actually kind of relieved.”

His brow furrows. “Relieved?”

You roll your eyes, because you refuse to be poetic about it. “Yeah. It’s out, and they didn’t—” You falter, just a flicker. “They didn’t look at you like you were making a mistake.”

His expression softens.

“No,” he agrees. “They didn’t. I told you they wouldn’t.”

You nod once. “And you were right. So, I’m good.”

“Good,” he echoes, but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.

Your gaze drops to his mouth again. His eyes follow it, and his breathing changes — subtle, but you know him by heart now.

You smirk and lean in closer until your lips are brushing with every breath. “And hey, now that the team knows, we don’t have to pretend we’re not together every second of the day anymore,” you tease.

His voice goes a little rough. “We still shouldn’t, uh, do anything at work, you know.”

“Obviously,” you say, like you’re offended he even suggested it. “But we’re not at work right now, are we?”

He shudders softly as his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, drawing you closer like he’s been waiting all night to do this without consequence.

“No,” he murmurs. “We’re not.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time. He gives in completely, following your lead with that sweet, earnest hunger that always makes you feel a little wicked and a little adored at the same time.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing differently. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m still sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” you say. “It’ll make a good story someday.”

His throat works. His hands tighten on you like he needs the confirmation in his bones.

You press your mouth to his once more, slow and sure, just to make the point stick.

“Case closed,” you murmur against his lips.

Spencer’s smile turns soft and helpless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Mystery solved.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

→ next part

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[mr-skinman]

big things happening in the brain factory

[eonslice]

[stardustcas]

Dean wrapping Cas in a blanket (◕‿◕✿)

[piedpip3rrr]

Criminal minds but it’s an adult swim show no one can remember

[yorqia]

“Without a gun, I look like a teacher’s assistant.”

[hiddinginmyroom]

the hottest thing a man can do is be a weird little nerd

[mcrdvcks]

an unhealthy obsession

summary: You try running away from the house but Henry catches you before you enter the cave. Now he has to punish you. word count: 3.0k+ pairing: henry creel x fem!reader notes: i do have to give inspo credit to @wireddless and this drabble she did. because of that drabble i realized i needed more and this happened, lol. hope it's okay! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, slight dub-con, smut, manipulation, guilt tripping, edging, orgasm denial, fingering, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare?

The screen door slapped hard against its frame as Henry’s hand yanked you backwards through it, your heels scraping desperately over the warped floorboards. His grip was absolute—each finger a vice around your wrist, indifferent to your pleas and squirming, nails digging crescent-moons into your skin when you twisted in one last, futile bid to wrench free.

He didn’t look at you. His eyes were set straight ahead, face carved with anger, jaw sharp and silent. You tried to plant your feet—he barely slowed, just lifted you off-balance and hauled you up the staircase, your shoulder slamming the wall as you tried, half-panicked, to find purchase on the banister. The house rang with the noise, an ugly, echoing thud. He still didn’t pause. “Henry—please—” It was a gasp, half-sob, breathless from the run and the terror.

He cut you off with a hard shake. “You almost made it to the cave,” he muttered, voice dark, almost impressed in its coldness. “Almost.” He shouldered open the bedroom door and flung you inside, letting you stumble and sprawl across the thick rug. As you scrambled to your knees, breath rattling in your chest, you didn’t look back at him—you didn’t dare.

The door boomed closed. Henry was on you before you could stand, grabbing your upper arm, forcing you around to face him. You tried to twist away, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. The movement only seemed to amuse him, the corners of his lips curling in something dangerously close to a smirk.

“Fighting me?” he asked, voice soft and curious as if he were observing a wild animal, not a person. His hand slid up to your jaw, thumb digging into your cheek until your eyes watered. “You think that’s going to save you?”

You couldn’t help the shake in your voice. “Let me go. Please, I wasn’t—I was just—”

“Just what?” He pushed you gently backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you collapsed onto it. His body loomed over you, all broad shoulders and cold, blue eyes. “You weren’t thinking. You don’t think. You react. You run.”

His hands were hot on your skin, one at your throat, not squeezing, just holding you down—reminding you how easy it would be if he decided to. The other traced your hairline, almost tender, fingers grabbing onto the back of your neck. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?” His voice dropped, suddenly rough. “You could have tripped in the dark, broken your neck. Or maybe someone else would have found you—someone who doesn’t care what happens to you at all. Not like I do.”

You closed your eyes, blinking back tears, trying to turn away. He tsked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “No. Look at me. You need to understand this. I am the only reason you’re alive. The only reason you haven’t been hurt. I protect you—every day. And this is how you thank me?”

You squirmed again, pulling at his wrist, but he held you fast, his strength unyielding. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying, but your eyes burned, vision blurring.

He leaned closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm and steady, a sick intimacy in the way he hovered just above your lips. “You’re lucky I found you first,” he murmured, his voice suddenly honey-sweet, full of dangerous, false comfort. “You don’t realize how cruel the world can be. I do. I see what you’re too naïve to understand. You’d be dead without me.”

A tremor shook through you. You hated how your body reacted to his touch—how heat bloomed low in your belly even as your mind screamed to get away. Henry’s hand slid from your chin down to your throat, his thumb stroking over your pulse. “Do you want to be safe?” he whispered, tone coaxing, seductive. “Or do you want to risk everything, again and again, just to spite me?”

“I—I don’t—” Your voice failed you. The humiliation of being caught, the ache of his grip, the fear—it all twisted inside, making you dizzy.

Henry’s expression softened, but it wasn’t kind; it was predatory, almost pleased. “You can’t help yourself, can you?” He brushed his lips against your ear, voice barely more than a breath. “You need me. You don’t even know how much yet.”

Your body shivered beneath him, thighs pressed together, trying to make yourself smaller. He pressed you flat against the bed, his thigh between yours, forcing you open. “You’re so stubborn,” he said, almost fondly. “Always testing me. I have to teach you. Again and again. And you never learn.”

He paused, taking in the tears slipping down your cheeks, the defiance still burning in your gaze. His eyes flashed, something wicked behind the icy calm. “Maybe I haven’t been strict enough,” he murmured, thumb smearing a tear away with agonizing slowness. “Maybe you need to be reminded what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

You shook your head, words caught behind your teeth, but he only laughed, soft and cruel. “You want to run? Go ahead. See how far you get next time. But for now—” He shifted, pinning you harder, his weight a promise. “I guess I’ll just have to teach you properly.”

His voice was low, menacing, yet almost gentle. His grip never loosened, even as you writhed—just enough to show you still had some fire left. You tried to twist out from beneath him, but he used his weight, his presence, to force you down, breath coming fast and shallow against your ear.

He smiled, slow and cold. “Keep fighting, if you want. See how far it gets you. All you do is prove how much you need me.”

The mattress dipped under his knees, the world narrowed to his hands on your body, the sick pulse of arousal and dread mixing in your veins, his breath hot at your jaw, teeth grazing skin, voice a velvet threat:

“Let’s see if you learn this time.”

Henry’s hands moved with an infuriating slowness, heavy palms skating down your trembling body, mapping every inch as if memorizing the contours of your fear and stubbornness. His fingertips hooked under the elastic of your panties, dragging the thin fabric down your thighs. The backs of his knuckles grazed your skin, a touch both deliberate and dismissive—he wasn’t in a hurry, he wanted you to feel how casual this was for him, how completely in control.

The air was thick, hot with anticipation and the humiliation of being laid bare under his gaze. You tried to close your legs, but his knee wedged itself between them, forcing you open, exposing you to the cool air and his hungry, assessing stare. He sat back just enough to admire his handiwork, one hand braced by your hip, the other lazy and taunting, cupping the heat between your legs. He brushed his thumb idly over your clit, featherlight, barely there, making your whole body jerk involuntarily, a choked gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

“Oh, look at you,” Henry murmured, voice syrupy with condescension. “Always so defiant until I’ve got you like this. You don’t even know what you want, do you?” He circled your clit again, almost a tease, watching the flush creep up your chest, the way your hips tried to arch up for more, desperate for any real friction.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, nails digging in, breath coming in tiny, ragged shivers. “Stop—please, Henry, just—”

He cut you off with a tut, bending over to press his mouth hot and close against your ear. “You want me to stop?” His fingers slid down, parting your folds, slicking themselves with your arousal as if to prove a point. “That’s not what your body says.” He rubbed slow, lazy circles over your clit, two fingers dipping down to tease your entrance, pressing in just enough to make your muscles clench around nothing. Every movement was calculated, designed to drive you mad with need while keeping you just out of reach.

He pressed a little harder, making you whimper, your hips rolling in spite of yourself, seeking more, begging for it. He grinned, voice low and pleased. “Look at you. I barely touch you and you’re already soaking. That’s what happens when you disobey—you make a mess and I have to clean it up.”

You tried to turn away, mortified, but he caught your chin, forcing you to face him, eyes sharp and demanding. “You want to come, don’t you?” His fingers stilled, just barely inside you, refusing to move until you answered.

You hesitated, shame warring with need, but your body answered for you—a needy buck of your hips, a strangled whine in your throat. Henry laughed, the sound dark and knowing. “I knew it. But you don’t get to come yet. Not until you mean it. Not until you’re sorry. Not until I believe you.”

He dragged his fingers back up, circling your clit with maddening patience, teasing but never giving enough. You squirmed beneath him, the pleasure too much and not enough, a sharp ache building inside you, heat pooling deep and urgent in your belly.

“Say it,” he commanded, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Tell me you’re sorry. Like you mean it.”

You shook your head, biting your lip, the words stuck in your throat. He pressed a little harder, the pads of his fingers slipping over your clit in slow, lazy circles that made your thighs tremble. He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, breath hot and ragged. “Don’t make me wait all night,” he warned, a mock patience in his voice that sent a cold thrill down your spine.

He pressed two fingers inside you without warning, knuckles deep, stretching you slow and deliberate, curling up to stroke that sensitive spot that made your whole body arch off the bed. Your mouth dropped open, a helpless moan pouring out, raw and desperate, your hips bucking up to meet his hand.

“Say it,” he repeated, thrusting his fingers slowly, almost carelessly, as if he could do this forever, as if your pleasure—or your torment—meant nothing to him except as a lesson. “Or I’ll stop. Right now. I’ll leave you like this, aching, desperate, until you learn to be good for me.”

Your pride fought back, stubborn, tears prickling at your eyes, but the pleasure was overwhelming, impossible to ignore. He shifted, pressing his thumb against your clit while his fingers fucked you slow and deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge but never letting you fall.

“Please,” you gasped, voice breaking, body shaking with the effort to hold back, to not give him the satisfaction.

He tsked, shaking his head. “Not good enough. I want to hear you beg. I want to hear you mean it.”

You broke, the shame and need twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart. “I’m sorry,” you choked out, voice raw, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, Henry, please, I’m sorry—”

He smiled, wicked and triumphant, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “That’s my girl.” His fingers sped up, thumb circling your clit with perfect pressure, drawing desperate, needy sounds from your lips. “Now come for me. Show me how sorry you are.”

The orgasm crashed over you, violent and overwhelming, your whole body seizing beneath him, cries echoing in the room, every nerve ending aflame with relief and humiliation. He held you through it, fingers milking every last tremor from your body, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as you fell apart for him.

He didn’t stop until you were boneless and gasping, the lesson burned into your skin. His hand finally left you, sliding up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing away the tears, his voice low and almost gentle.

“Maybe now you’ll think twice before running,” he murmured, a threat and a promise tangled together, as he leaned in to claim your mouth with his.

Henry’s hands slid from your jaw down to your collarbone, rough and unhurried, fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin as he pushed the straps of your dress from your shoulders. The fabric slipped down your arms, pooling at your waist, exposing trembling skin to the dim light. He caught your gaze, the ice in his blue eyes thawing into something heavier, more wounded than angry.

His palm flattened over your heart, thumb tracing a circle just above your breast. “You really wanted to leave me that badly?” he murmured, voice low, not harsh but laden with an ache that twisted in your gut. “You were going to run from me? After everything I do for you?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled with a shaky breath. Henry’s fingers found the clasp of your bra and undid it with a deft flick, letting the final scrap of modesty fall away. He nudged the dress the rest of the way off, his knuckles grazing your thighs, making your breath stutter.

He held you there, stripped bare and shivering, under the weight of his stare. “I’m not angry, darling. Not really.” He dipped his head, brushing his lips over the line of your jaw, warm breath feathering down your neck. “But it hurts. It hurts, knowing you’d rather risk yourself out there than stay with me. Am I really that awful?”

His question crawled beneath your skin. Tears welled up, blurring the world around his face, your throat tight. “No, Henry—no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just—” Your voice cracked, and you buried your face in the hard muscle of his shoulder, shame burning your cheeks.

He shushed you softly, hands soothing over your ribs. His body pressed into yours, heat and need and ownership all wrapped up in the way he handled you—unyielding, but never hurried. He sat back just enough to undo his own pants, pushing them down over his hips, cock heavy and flushed, the sight of it making your insides twist with nervous anticipation. He didn’t bother to take his shirt off, just let it hang open as he guided your legs apart, body slotted perfectly between them.

He leaned over you, chest brushing your nipples, the scratch of fabric against your bare skin sending a shiver up your spine. His hands framed your face, forcing you to look up at him. “You’re mine,” he said, soft and final, a statement of fact that demanded no answer. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, tears spilling over, voice small and raw. “I’m yours, Henry. I’m sorry. I’m yours.”

He kissed you, slow and punishing, teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hips pressed forward. The thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance, slick and aching, your body already yielding from the rough tease he’d given you before. He slid into you in one long, deliberate thrust, filling you completely, stretching you open until your mouth dropped open on a shuddering gasp.

Henry’s breath was hot against your ear as he bottomed out, holding himself deep inside. “You feel that?” he whispered, moving his hips just enough to make you clench helplessly around him. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one else gets to see you fall apart. You’re mine, and you’ll never run from me again.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, shame and relief warring inside you, body clinging to him as he started to move—slow, possessive thrusts, each one claiming you again and again. His hands roamed everywhere: cupping your breasts, gripping your waist, pinning your wrists above your head only to let go and cradle your face while he fucked you.

He kissed along your jaw, and you pressed your lips to his skin in a desperate apology, peppering kisses along his neck, across his throat, up to his cheek, whispering broken pleas between every gasp. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it, please don’t let me go, please—” Your words were muffled against his throat, voice shaking with every thrust, every wet, needy moan.

He grunted softly, thrusts deepening, fucking you harder but never rough—just insistent, relentless, coaxing you toward the edge again. “That’s it,” he murmured, letting you sob into his neck, “say it again.”

Your lips brushed his jaw, his mouth, salty with your tears. “I’m sorry, Henry, I’m yours, I promise, I’m yours—” The words spilled out between kisses, each one more desperate as your body tightened around him, every muscle trembling, the pressure building again, impossibly sharp.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice ragged. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes searching your face, needing to see every quiver, every tear. “Come for me. Show me you mean it.”

You shattered for him, your whole body arching up, walls clenching tight around him as you cried out his name, sobbing into his mouth, legs trembling as the orgasm tore through you. Henry groaned, hips snapping forward, thrusts growing frantic as he spilled inside you, holding you so tight you couldn’t have run even if you wanted to.

He stayed like that, locked together, letting your bodies ride out every aftershock, his lips gentle on your damp cheeks. His hands softened, stroking your sides and kissing away the tears.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you and gathered you up, pulling you onto his lap, your face pressed into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you secure and safe, rocking you gently while your breathing evened out. He pressed soft kisses onto your temple, voice a low rumble against your skin.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, thumb wiping the last tears from your cheeks. “I forgive you. You’re safe with me, always. I’m not letting you go. Never again.” He held you close, bodies tangled, the sharp edge of the lesson fading into a quiet, possessive warmth, his forgiveness settling over you as heavy and inescapable as his love.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

extra notes: i am going to be making an actual fic with henry - technically i'm gonna make it a two parter, the first one being henry x reader and the second being a steve x reader. if you're interested/want to be tagged, let me know!

[pbeeanjay]

stop thinking so loud

[olli093]

something something something hilson yaoi

[elegantpaperoperatormaker]

Motormouth

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Thinking about breeding kink and Eddie 'Motormouth' Munson shooting his mouth off at the feel of your pussy clenching around his cock…Bonus points because he actually wants to be a daddy. 

A/N: The second place winner of this poll. It was a tight race—these two were tied for a bit there. Also, I’m posting this so I can work my way down the poll to get to the nosferatu inspired smut and the dark!eddie anal that isn’t really that dark (so y’all better enjoy it, smut so good it made the author wet fr)—those two are I think my favorites that I wrote during ovulation week. Pls ignore any mistakes or odd sentence structure–I wrote this very fast and in a fiery, horny passion

Word Count: 700ish

Warnings: 18+ mdni!! PiV unprotected, breeding kink, pregnancy kink?? unhinged levels of dirty talk, cream pies, dom!Eddie, daddy kink but in this way, Eddie wants you to have his babies, smidge of degradation, smidge of name calling (one ‘whore’)

Masterlist

“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re squeezin’ me so tight, you want my fucking babies that bad, huh? You wanna be a mommy so fucking bad you gonna take my cum from me?”

Unable to formulate actual words at the pounding of his hips, you simply nod your head messily, mumbling out a strained, “Uh huh.”

“Yeah, I know you fucking wan’ it. Wanna be full o’me, don’t ya, honey?” Groaning at the way his words elicit a particularly tight squeeze of your walls, he continues spewing out absolute filth through panting breaths. “Wan’ me to fuck my seed so far up your greedy little cunt you’ll get two babies for one, I know you fuckin’ do.”

“Please! Eddie, jus’ wanna feel you,” you whimper, losing all awareness of reality as he crushes your body under his weight. Desperate, rutting hips slap the back of your thighs; his cock invades your poor, tight hole with the fervor of a man possessed.

Shaking his head, Eddie grits his teeth as he leans down, pushing into your space even more at his declaration. “Nah, you’re not here to feel me, sweetheart. You’re here to gimme a baby like I asked for. You gonna give it to me? Gonna let me breed this tight little cunt?” 

The sharpness of his words matches the pang of his cock as it just barely kisses your cervix, knocking the breath from you. You don’t know whether you’re desperate to cum, for him to cum, or for your abused pussy to get a break. “I’ll give you whatever you want, please! Eddie, please, jus’ wan’ you inside me.”

He’s already inside you, that’s why you’re currently huffing out puffs of air in time with his thrusts. But he knows what you actually mean—you want his cum. Although, in the hazy heavenly feel of your walls clinging to him, he does note how you haven’t specifically agreed to his request to breed you. That only frustrates him more—you want to cum, you want something from him, but you’re offering nothing in return. If you want to feel good, he’s going to need you to give something up first—that’s how deals work. 

“I am inside you, honey. But you gotta say the magic words if you wan’ my cum, if y’wanna feel all nice and warm inside—I know you’re a whore for being stuffed.”

At your mewling response—mind too consumed by his thick length stretching you so wide to actually respond with words—he presses a large palm onto your lower stomach, reveling in the way he can feel his cockhead nudge his hand.

The new pressure elicits a pleasured scream as you throw your head back, wailing into the air, “Please! Please, please, please can I have your cum?”

Eddie bites his lip in hunger as he watches you lose your mind over a little pressure. “Nah, baby, that’s not it. Tell me what I wanna hear,” he orders; the magic words you chose are not the ones he was looking for. 

Too cock-drunk to function, you shake your head with pinched brows, trying to force any thoughts to come—scrounging up any idea of what he might be looking for. “I don’t–I don’t know. I–please!”

A wicked grin spreads across his lips as he realizes he has you right where he wants you. “I’ll give you a hint, sweet girl, would you like that?” 

Another pleading whimper and a nod. Tears well up in your eyes as his thick cock pushes you right to the precipice of heaven—or damnation, you don’t know.

“You can say something like, ‘Daddy, wan’ you to make me a mommy’ or how about, ‘Daddy, gimme your…’” His condescending, mocking tone makes you preen as he leaves the last option open for you to finish. 

“Please, daddy, gimme your babies! Wanna have your babies so fucking bad! Fill me up, please, god, I wanna feel you,” you wail, squeezing your eyes shut in ecstasy, finally letting the tears run down your temples.

“Good girl,” he coos, sliding his hand to where you need him most. All it takes is the first tight circle around your clit and you’re screaming for him. 

“D–Daddy! Daddy! Please, fuck! Oh, god!” 

“Oh, good girl, baby,” he chuckles breathily, his dark eyes alight with hunger as he watches you cum—feeling your cunt milk his cock for all its worth. “Fuck, take it, take my fucking cum,” he grits, groaning wildly, shoving himself even deeper. “Gonna knock you up, make you mine forever, honey.”

He leaves you with so much cum stuffed into your pussy, he might be right—he might’ve given you two babies in one go. 

A/N: I really want people to read the dark!Eddie fic so I’m gonna give y’all the synopsis here. The only reasons I’d label it as dark are A) there’s some manipulation about what counts as losing your virginity (it’s not losing it if it’s anal!) and B) it’s in response to someone asking for more dark!Eddie after my last one.

Overall, though, Eddie is very very sweet to the reader—he’s just obsessed with you. Basically you’re dating Jason Carver, he sends you to pick up his weed from Eddie, you think you have to pay but you don’t have money, Eddie conveniently doesn’t tell you Jason already paid, smut ensues (sex for goods yurrr) etc etc. It’s porn with very little plot, but the smut is so fucking good and I like thinking about desperate perv!eddie getting a taste of Jason’s girl and sending her on her merry way knowing he’ll be seeing her again.

Tag List: @defututus @ratsematary @american-idiot-jpg @glassbxttless @justalotoffanfiction @savybabyyy @thepinkpanther83 @sorayasworld @slaytheusurper @dangerousnbeautiful @hellmastereddie @ali-r3n @lilithera0 @tlclick73 @joonbread @jesterghuleh @bellalillyrose @bigboymoozz @am0iur @pastelpoppies @lionkingshiddenmessage @girlwedontcare @cheesesandwichsanto @avenjames-anderson

[castiwls]

I’d let Henry creel trap me in his little mind house — I’d let him do anything if he came home looking like that

[myfictionaldreams]

⁀➷ Repeat Offender // Jim Hopper x F!Reader

Summary: You're Hawkins' favourite menace, always in trouble, always pushing buttons, and always ending up in the back of Chief Hopper's squad car. Everyone thinks the two of you hate each other. But, the trust is that you're both obsessed, and he's done pretending otherwise.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dom/sub, brat!reader, grumpy!jim, age gap, squirting, size kink (!), protective/possessive Hopper, public sex, manhandling, overstimulation, handcuffs, rough sex, degratation, daddy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, spanking, aftercare, reader catches a cold, comfort

Words: 4.2k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

You’re laughing when they cuff you.  Not a subtle little giggle, but an obnoxious, head tipped back laugh that pissed people off.

Hawkin’s golden hour spills across the pavement, warm and golden and sticky sweet, and you’re belly-laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world that two deputies are dragging you, barefoot, soaked and grinning, from the edge of the public pool.

The ‘no trespassing’ sign had been more of a dare than a deterrent. And that ridiculous cannonball you’d executed straight into the deep end while the pool was closed?

That was for him. And right on cue, there he is. Chief Jim Hopper.

All over, fix feet of furious, broad-shouldered authority, talking up with that jaw set so tight you can see the muscle twitch in his cheek. The chestnut scruff framing his mouth is a little overgrown, he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, and he smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne.

You beam up at him, dripping wet and barely dressed in your clingy black tank top and cutoffs.

“Chief,” you purr, voice syrup sweet. “You came to see me swim? How lovely of you.”

His eyes darken as he takes a deep breath. “Get her in the car,” hr demands, voice thunderous.

“But I already am wet,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

The deputy behind you stifles a laugh. Hopper hears it too, as his glare could cut glass.

One, you're shoved into the back of his cruiser, and the doors slam shut. Hopper lingers outside the door for a moment, hands on his hips, breathing heavily. You can see the vein pulsing in his neck from where you sit, wrists cuffed in your lap like a smug little prize.

You lick your lips slowly. Waiting and watching.

And just like you knew he would, he opens the door again, climbs in beside you, and slams it behind him. The car rocks slightly with the force.

He locks the doors. Silence.

His thigh brushes yours, his presence fills the space completely.

You tilt your head, pretending to pout. “No thanks for the show? No good to see you again, sweetheart?”

“You think this is a fucking game, don’t you?”

There’s that voice, rough and wrapped in threat. His fingers dig into your chin, forcing your face to tilt up to meet his eyes, his blue gaze is molten.

“I missed you,” you whisper, smiling with all your teeth. “Bet you missed me, too, Daddy.”

The way his jaw clenches is pornographic. “You’re gonna get me fired,” he hisses.

“Then stop arresting me.”

"You want me to.”

You smile wider, all sugar and spite. “Of course I do.”

You don't break eye contact. Not even when he grabs your thighs or when he pushes them apart with one giant hand. Not even when his other hand drags down your chest and between your legs, hot and demanding through the soaked denim of your shorts.

“No panties again?” he growls.

“They were in the way,” you breathe.

"You’re such a fucking brat.”

You sigh dreamily. "Your brat.”

He doesn’t answer. He just undoes your shorts and takes them down, tugging them halfway off your legs and letting them dangle around your knees. The chill of the cruiser’s air conditioning ghosts over your bare pussy, making you shiver. 

Then you feel his hand. Those fingers, thick and calloused, press against your cunt. He slides them slowly through the dampness there, more slippery than the rest of your body’s wetness from the pool.

“Thought you were here to arrest me,” you tease.

“Oh, I'm doing a full search,” he rumbles. “Thorough. Internal.”

Two fingers slip inside of you. Your head falls back, thunking against the car seat as your thighs widen, giving him more room.

Hopper’s other big hand covers your mouth before you can moan. “Not here,” he whispers, looking out the window. “You keep that mouth shut, sweetheart, or you're gonna get caught.” 

You nod obediently, well, as obediently as a brat like you can manage. Because then you clench around his fingers and smile through his palm.

He growls again. “Oh, you're gonna be real sorry.”

He thrusts his fingers into you harder, two then three, thick and curling right against the spot that makes your toes curl. The angle’s perfect in the backseat, your hips arched, legs spread over the vinyl, his body looming over you like a storm.

You’re squirming, dripping, your wrists still cuffed and holding onto his forehead as your orgasm builds hard and fast.

“Fucking greedy little cunt,” Hopper whispers filth into your ear. “This hole’s mine. All mine, you understand? So tight, can’t even take my fingers without making a mess.”

Your whole body shudders violently, legs kicking, your release gushing over his hand. He watches you react, like he's starving, fascinated by the way you fall apart so easily for him.

And then he's kissing you. It's rough and messy, tasting of tobacco and rage and barely restrained obsession. He licks into your mouth like he owns it.

Eventually, you both lsumb back in the seat, breathless and fucked out.

Your hands are still cuffed as he brushes a hand down the side of your face with surprising gentleness.

You smirk, nipping the tip of his fingers. “Thought I was under arrest, Chief.”

“You are," he mutters. “House arrest. At my place, for the weekend.”

Your heart thuds. “Seriously? You mean it?”

He doesn't answer, just unlocks the cuffs and pulls out his clipboard. The arrest report in his lap, which has been filled in by his deputy, is promptly ripped in half. 

“Chief Hopper," you gasp mockingly. “Are you tampering with evidence?”

He glances over at you, his expression dry.

“I'm tampering with your entire goddamn record. All the fucking time.”

You squeal with delight and crawl into his lap, still with your shorts off, peppering kisses up his neck as he groans.

“God help me,” he groans.

"You love it.” his arms wrap around you tightly.

“I do,” he admits.

~~~~~

You weren’t trying to make him jealous… okay. Maybe just a little.

The Hawkins PD was already humming when you waltzed through the doors with a smirk painted on your face and trouble in your step. Your latest stunt? Getting caught trying to siphon gas from a patrol car outside the station. In broad daylight. Wearing short-shorts and a Hawkins High hoodie with nothing underneath.

You wanted to be seen by him.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Hopper who found you first. It was the new guy, Deputy Kyle something. Blonde, fresh-faced, eager to impress and dumb as a fuckign brick. 

He’d grabbed your arm a little too roughly when hauling you toward the desk, trying to show off.

“You think this is funny?” Kyle snapped as you leaned casually against the counter, wrists already cuffed behind your back.

“I think you’re funny, son,” you purred, batting your lashes and hoping the name pissed him off. “You know your cuffs are too loose, right?”

He huffed, yanking you forward again. “You’re gonna sit tight until the shief gets here–”

“I’ll take it from here.”

That voice. 

The temperature dropped ten degrees as Hopper stepped into the room. His towering figure filled the doorway like a freight train, eyes locked on your arm in Kyle’s grip.

“Deputy Kyle,” Hopper said calmly..

“Sir?”

“Let her go. Now.”

You didn't even look back; you knew that tone. The one that said, 'If you make the wrong move, you’ll lose the hand.'

Kyle obeyed, hands up, backing away like he’d just stepped on a bear trap.

Hopper’s gaze dragged to you next. You gave him your sweetest smile. “Hi, daddy.”

His nostrils flared. "Get in my office. Now.”

You wiggled your hips as you walked, still cuffed. You heard him growl behind you.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you.

He shoves you against the desk, both of his hands flat on the wood as he cages you in from behind. His chest pressed to your back, you feel every line of his massive body, every inch of tension radiating from him. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls in your ear.

“Getting arrested,” you breathe, looking at him over your shoulder.

“You let that little boy put his hands on you?” 

You smirk, “You weren’t there.”

“I am now,” he spins you around, grabs your face in one huge hand and tilts it up. "You’re mine, understand?”

“Then prove it.”

Oh, that did it.

Hopper grabs your hips and bends you over the desk. The cuffs dig into your back as your cheek presses to the cold surface. You feel him behind you, undoing his belt with one hand, shoving your shorts and panties down with the other.

"I should leave you like this," he says roughly. “Let the whole fuckign statin hear you beg.”

You moan at the thought, "Please do. I’d love to make you more jealous.”

He chuckles, mean and turned on. “You’re such a goddamn brat.”

“Your brat," you echo again, biting your lip.

Then he’s inside you. There’s no warning. Just a hot stretch of cock forcing its way into your dripping pussy, thick and heavy, and so deep. You cry out against the desk, but he doesn't stop. 

He grabs onto your hair, pulling your head up so you're looking straight at the blinds, open, with the squad bustling beyond.

"Think they can see?” he grunts, rocking his hips.

Your eyes flutter. “Think they’ll figure out why their chief’s obsessed with Hawkin’s biggest pain in the ass?”

His hand circles your wrist, reaching between your legs, rubbing your clit in hard, precise circles.

You’re gasping, panting, making a fucking mess all over his desk.

“I see you,” he groans. "In that hoodie with nothing underneath, showing off for every man in that damn building, but you're mine. You come when I say. You squirt only for me, you scream my name.” 

And you do. Your orgasm nearly breaks you into two, hips jerking, mouth open, eyes rolling back as you squirt hard all over his cock and desk. He doesn't stop, he fucks you through it, praising in your ear while his thrust grows sloppier. 

He cums inside you with a broken gasp, hands locked on your hips, like he's never letting go.

You’re both silent for a moment. Then he pulls out slowly, tucks himself back in and grabs a towel from the cabinet. You stay bent over the desk, still cuffed and trembling.

He wipes between your thighs with surprising gentleness. “You alright, sweetheart?”

You hum, tiredly. “Mm, jealous sex has to be my favourite.”

He laughs softly, brushing his lips over your shoulder before moving to close the blinds. “Don't test me.”

You peek up at him. “But it's so fun.”

He helps you up, uncuffs you, and then kisses your temple.

“Your record’s clean. Again.”

You giggle, leaning into his touch. “You spoil me, daddy.”

He grumbles under his breath but pulls you into his lap anyway, arms wrapped around your body like a vice. You curl into his chest and smile.

~~~~~

The Hawkins Fall Festival is always packed. Hey, beles, pumpkin carving, shitty carnival rides, screaming kids and unfortunately, you. 

You weren’t supposed to be here. Hopper had explicitly told you that your presence was banned after last year’s fireworks incident. 

So when he spots you across the crowd, spinning in circles near the ring toss, your little dress flying up just enough to make him twitch, he's already halfway to snapping.

But you? You're smiling when you spot him. That soft, evil smile that screams Catch me. 

He marches toward you, and you squeal and bolt.

You don't get far.

He grabs your wrist and yanks you off the path, so fast your shoes nearly fly off. You barely get a breath in before he’s dragging you behind a storage tent, tucked between hay stacks and the edge of a barn.

“You wanna cause a scene?” he growls. “Let’s fucking go, sweetheart.”

You're pressed against the wall, breathless, chest heaving.

“I didn't do anything,” you say, mock-innocent.y

“You showed up in that dress, no panties I've noticed, and danced around where anyone could see that tight little cunt. You did something alright.” 

You blink slowly. “So do something about it."

And then he's on you. He yanks the front of your dress down so your titsspill free, spins you to face the wall, forearm braced above your head, your body pinned beneath his bulk. 

You can feel him through his jeans, hard and heavy against your lower back.

“You wanna be a brat in public?” he asks, biting the shell of your ear. “Then you take this cock in public.”

He doesn't wait. One hand drags your dress up, the other unzips.

And then he's there, pressing into your dripping slit, brutally slow.

You gasp, eyes going wide as you try to widen your stance.

“Hop-fuck-”

“Shh", he warns, hand clamping over your mouth. "You stay quiet, sweetheart. Unless you want them to hear."

Because just on the other side of the tent wall, families laugh, parents chat, and a band is warming up for the evening.

And here you are, being split open by your very own chief of police, stuffed to the hilt and shaking like a leaf.

He’s too fucking big. He always is. You claw at the canvas as he starts to move, grinding deep, thrusts that force your body up the wall. You're helpless to do anything but take it.

“Look at you", he pants. "This tiny pussy is trying to swallow me whole. Can barely fucking take me."

You can't take him, not really, not when he's this deep, this thick, digging against spots that make your knees buckle.

His hand presses to your lower belly, only adding to the stimulation as pressure builds between your legs like you’re going to pee yourself.

"You feel that?” he whispers against your neck. "That's me in there, baby, that's how deep I am".

Your eyes roll back. His other hand slides between your thighs and circles your clit mercilessly. You’re already so close, wet, stuffed and overstimulated.

"Come on, come from me, let them all hear what a filthy little cock hungry slut you are." 

You scream just as he covers your mouth. Your body shudders, clenching down hard as you squirt against his cock and thighs, making a mess, and he just groans and fucks you harder. 

He doesn't stop because Hopper is fucking obsessed. 

You’re moaning into his hand, eyes wet, babbling nonsense as he chases his release. Then finally he presses in hard, growling your name through gritted teeth as he fills you up.

You're trembling when he pulls out. Your arousal and cum drip down your thighs and puddle into the grass as you sag against the wall.

Hopper catches you before you fall, gently lifting you into his arms. He carries you behind the barn and sets you down on a blanket in the shade. From his coat pocket, he pulls a handkerchief, wiping you down carefully.

You sigh and blink up at him. “You mad?" you whisper, a little worried.

He snorts. "You think I'd fuck you like that if I were mad?" 

You grin. "You love me, it's ok to admit it." 

He rolls his eyes. "You're lucky you're cute." 

"Lucky I've got the biggest cock in Hawkins fucking me." 

He barks a laugh and kisses your temple. "I'm gonna burn that dress by the way."

"Not if I wear it tonight when I sneak into your bed." 

He groans again, already hardening in his slacks.

~~~~~

It's too early for you to sneak out. The sun's barely up, the dew still clinging to the grass, and Hopper is half asleep, shirtless, tangled in sheets, hair messy and face relaxed for once. You passed in the doorway, admiring him. 

Your bear of a man.

He stirs. "You leavin’ already?" he rasps, voice thick with sleep as he peeks through an eye. 

You smile, pulling on your cardigan. "I don't want to miss my arrest window, Daddy." 

He snorts, stretching. "I’ll drive you."

"Nah, I’ll walk. It’s only a few blocks." 

"It's freezing, sweetheart. Take my jacket, at least." 

You glance back at the heavy sheriff’s coat slung on the back of a chair. "It weighs a ton." 

"Exactly. It’ll keep you warm."

You laugh, blowing him a kiss. "I’ll be fine, chief. Don't go soft on me now." and you're gone before he can argue. 

~~~~~

Three days later, Jim is walking through the office reception area. "Chief," one of the deputies says through a mouthful of doughnut, "your little troublemakers skipping town or something?" 

Hopper looks up from the paperwork in his hand. "What?” 

"Your girl- what's her name?" the deputy says. "Haven't seen her around. Had no calls, no petty crimes, towns had been quiet." 

Hopper freezes—no crimes, no calls for daddy, no annoying little giggles that he secretly loves. A tension coils in his chest like a noose. He moves abruptly, shair scraping behind him and grabs his keys.

"Where are you going, chief?”

But he’s already out of the door.

Twenty minutes later, he’s banging on your front door like he’s about to kick it in.

"Open the door," he snaps. "Right now."

No answer. His stomach drops.

He tries the knob and finds it unlocked. The second he steps inside, his senses flood with it: stale air, fever sweat, quiet shimpers from the bedroom. 

You're curled in bed, drenched in sweat, shaking under a pile of blankets. Your lips are chapped, your skin flushed. Your clothing is damp, clinging to you. And your voice when you finally croak, “Jim?” 

He's by your side in an instant.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he breathes, sitting on the edge of your bed and touching your forehead. “Youre fuckign burning up, baby. Why didn't you call?” 

You blink at him, dazed. “Didn't want to bother you…”

His jaw tightens. “You didn't bother me, you've terrified me. I've not heard from you for days.”

He brushes hair from your face, then scoops you up into his lap. You curl against his chest instantly, small and trembling and needy for comfort. He tucks the blankets around you and presses his mouth to your temple, not caring about the sweat.

“You should've called me. I would've come. I always come.”

You snuffled, fingers weakly fisting the front of his uniform. "I was cold".

His eyes close for a moment. "I told you to take the damn jacket,” he sighs, resting his cheek against your head. "Too fucking stubborn for your own good.”

You whimper again, nuzzling into his chest. “Feels better now, being held.”

He tightens his grip. "You're not going anywhere.”

The next few hours are spent with Hopper entirely in grumpy caretaker mode. He brings you cold cloths to put on your forehead. Makes you drink water, encourages you under his breath the whole time, even when he's affectionately calling you a reckless little gremlin.

But his hands, they're so gentle. 

When you start crying from being too hot, too cold, or too sick, he wraps you in his arms and rocks you.

When you fall asleep, he doesn't move, just watches over you, big hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking soft circles.

And when you wake up, whimpering his name, needy and half dazed? He kisses your cheeks, “I'm here, baby. I'm not going anywhere.” You curl into him like he's your whole world, and because finally, you're realising that he is. 

~~~~~

You didn’t even try to run this time. You’re seated on the hood of a squad car, licking a popsicle and grinning while the deputies mutter about you in the background. Hopper pulls up in his truck, looking like he just got out of bed, boots half tied, flannel open, hair tousled and his expression already halfway to murderous.

You’d only left him hours ago, and here you were causing havoc, feeling the itch within to be a brat.

He takes one look at you and groans. “What the fuck did you do this time?”

You smile sweetly. “I stole a balloon."

He blinks, hands on his hips. "A balloon?”

"Well, it was attached to a toddler’s stroller, so technically kidnapping? I just wanted the pretty balloon.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, counting to ten. “C’mere.”

You slide off the car and saunter over, popsicle still in hand. “What if I don't?”

He grabs the popsicle, throwing it into the dirt, grabs your wrist, spins you, pressing you into the side of the cruiser and yanking your arms behind your back.

"I will haul your ass to the station," he growls in your ear. "And I will file paperwork this time."

"You say that every time."

He cuffs you, and you're giggling the entire way back in the car.

He's fuming. White knuckling the steering wheel as his truck tears down the gravel road, spitting dirt. 

You're sitting beside him in the passenger seat, all smug grins and swingy legs and innocence.

He still hasn't said a word, but his jaws have been clenched for twenty solid minutes. And his cocks been hard since the second you smiled at him, "bet you're gonna give me the full strip search this time, huh?” 

Silence.

You shift in your seat. "You okay, chief?”

More silence. Then abruptly, he veers onto a dirty path and jerks the wheel, skidding to a stop in the middle of nowhere. You barely have time to gasp before he's unbuckled, out of the truck, and yanking your door open.

“H-Hopper?” you laugh nervously.

He grabs your thighs and pulls you out. “Shut up. For once, just shut up.”

Your breath catches because he’s not grumpy anymore. He's feral.

He spins you, shoves you over the warm hood of his truck. And his body? Scorching heat solid and massive behind you.

Your hands are still handcuffed behind you as he begins to drag your skirt up, tearing your panties clean off.

“You always want to test me,” he grunts, unzipping his slacks. “You want to act like a goddamn brat all the time, then you get treated like one.”

You whimper as he kicks your ankles to spread your legs, “I was just-”

“Begging for attention, always putting on a show. I was inside you hours ago, and you still had to go and cause issues.”

You gasp as his palm lands hard on your ass, slapping in quick succession. 

"You’re gonna take this cock like a good little whore, my whore.”

He thrusts in deep, one motion and from where you'd taken him earlier, you're so sensitive that you scream—his hand clamps over your mouth. “You need to be quiet,” he hisses, pressing into you with the full weight of his body. "You don't make a fucking sound unless you want a raccoon audience.”

Your brain melts because he's too big, he always is. Your entire body is quivering, pussy walls fluttering around his length.

"fuck, you're so tight, every goddamn time.”

He pulls back and salms in again. You nearly slide up the hood. “Little pussy just sucks me in,” he groans. “Made for me, no one else could even fit like me.”

You moan against his hand, drooling in his palm, drooling down your thighs. He doesn't let up, just brutal, punishing thrusts in the cool forest air, his grunts echoing off trees, your skin slapping the truck, sweat and juices making you filthy. 

“I should fuck you like this every time," he pants. "Out here, where no one can save you. Where I can fill you full of cum and leave you dripping." 

“Gonna breed you, sweetheart. Fill you up so good you can't act out anymore.”

You cum so hard you nearly pass out. And he keeps going with a fist around your mouth, tugging on your cuffs. Until he finally cums deep inside you with a guttural moan, pressing so deep you swear you feel it in your chest.

You're leaning against the hood, still trembling. He exhales shakily, big hands sliding down your back as he gently pulls out. You wince, still stretched and dripping.

He scoops you into his arms without a word and sets you down on a blanket in the truck bed, wrapped up in his sheriff’s coat. You curl into him instantly as he massages your wrists.

And then quietly he says, "I can't keep doing this." 

You freeze. “What?”

He shifts, looking down at you with that soft, vulnerable look that kills you. "I can't keep chasing you around, I can't keep worrying every time you vanish or stir shit up just to get my attention. I love you, and I need to know you're safe.” 

You blink up at him as his voice lowers. "Move in.”

“What?”

“Move in with me, baby. Stay, please, I'm so tired of pretending this is casual. I need you close. I need everyone to know you're mine.” 

You swallow hard. “I thought you liked arresting me.”

He huffs a laugh and kisses the back of your hand. "I like holding you more."

You smile, eyes misty. “You sure? I'm annoying.”

“You're everything.”

And when you finally curl up in his arms that night, warm and safe, you realise he was right. You both needed this. 

[spenceloria]

DRUNK IN LOVE

KINKTOBER ‘25 ❤︎ DAY SEVEN just the tip → derek morgan !

like what you see? check out my kinktober 2025 masterlist!

warnings: fem!reader, dom!derek, coercive/dubcon themes!!!, fwb w too many feelings…, drunk/intoxicated sex, pussy job(?), biting, marking, kissing, pussy pronouns (cuz we all know he would), sexually profiling (?), minor penetration, unprotected, implied second round.

wc: 2.4k

div: animatedglittergraphics-n-more, toastray

lowercase intended, no use of y/n

derek morgan tried not to overindulge. he really did. 

he rarely let himself get sloppy—except on nights like these. after cases that left everyone gutted and wrung dry, drinking was less of a choice and more of an inevitability.

sometimes the closest thing the team had to group therapy was a few too many rounds at o’keefe’s, laughter cracking over loud music, grief softened under the weight of cheap whiskey, or more expensive tastes if rossi was buying. 

though sometimes, that meant you ended up being the designated wrangler, dragging derek out before he started a fight with the man across the bar who had been a little too obvious in his staring contest with you.

you’d had a couple drinks yourself—enough to feel loose, but not enough to be reckless. good enough to drive, you told yourself as you shouldered derek’s weight, though he wasn’t exactly making it easy. 

he’d gone completely limp against you, all heavy muscle and no cooperation. hauling him to the car was like trying to lug a fallen tree.

by the time you got him into the passenger seat and buckled in, you were sweaty, exasperated, and only a little amused. the streetlights painted stripes across his skin, his head lolling back, his grin lazy and unguarded.

“god, babygirl,” 

derek slurred, turning his head toward you with glassy eyes. 

“you look so hot right now.”

you bit down a laugh, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking to brush hair from your face.

“babygirl? that one’s new. you confusing me for garcia?”

your stifled giggle filled the silence of the car as you turned onto his street.

“mmm, no,” 

he said, the word stretching slow and heavy on his tongue. 

“you just look… very babygirl right now.”

that earned a real laugh out of you, one you tried to smother as you shook your head. 

“okay, derek. we’re here.”

you parked, hopped out, and rounded to the passenger side, bracing yourself as you pulled him upright. his arm slung over your shoulders, his weight pressed against you, warm and solid and overwhelming. 

you half-carried, half-dragged him up the stairs, muttering under your breath about how much easier this would be if he wasn’t built like a damn linebacker.

after some awkward fumbling through his pockets, you found his keys and managed to get the door open. you guided him inside, already planning to tuck him onto the couch and slip out before things could get complicated.

but the moment you turned, his voice stopped you.

“wait—where are you going?”

you glanced back. he looked wrecked. pupils blown wide, eyes dark and vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to seeing. his expression was almost childlike, raw with something that tugged at the pit of your stomach.

“i’m going home, big guy. i need to sleep too, you know.”

you spoke softly, masking the edge in your voice.

his mouth twisted into a pout—an actual pout… that would’ve been comical if it hadn’t been so disarming. 

“you’re not gonna stay?”

your chest tightened.

you and derek had an agreement—a little casual fun, a distraction. he flirted shamelessly, and you pretended you weren’t starved for exactly that kind of attention. it was supposed to be transactional: no strings, no risk, no falling.

but the longer it went on, the harder it was to believe your own lie. every smile, every brush of his hand against your skin, every word whispered in that velvet smoothness chipped away at your defences. 

and god help you, you were falling—falling right into derek morgan’s orbit, into his gravity, into the kind of trap you knew better than to touch.

“derek,” 

you said firmly, hiding the wobble in your chest with a cool stare. 

“you’re drunk.”

you held his gaze, forcing steel into your tone. you couldn’t let him see how much those words had cracked you open. you couldn’t let him break you. because honestly, you weren't sure you'd recover if you did.

“stay.”

he whispered, his hand reached out for you, warm around your wrist. the request curled through you like a spark, but you shook your head quickly, tugging free.

“no, derek. you need to sleep this off, and i need to go home.”

he leaned back on the couch, smirking lazily.

“funny… you didn’t have a problem staying last time. or the time before that.”

your stomach clenched. 

“that’s different.”

he tilted his head, his voice dipped low and coaxing. he gained confidence and composure, even in his dazed, intoxicated state.

“different how?” 

your cheeks flushed hot. you hated how easily he could unravel you with just a few words, how vividly your body remembered every moment you tried to file away as casual, meaningless.

“listen. we can’t keep doing this. especially not now, when you’re like this.”

derek pushed up to his feet, swaying slightly, but he was still all heat and presence as he stepped into your space. 

“like what?” 

you pressed yourself back toward the wall, shaking your head as if you could shake the memories loose—the way his mouth had felt on your neck, the weight of his body against yours, the way you’d gasped his name like you couldn’t hold it in.

“drunk.” 

you said firmly, clinging to the only excuse you had left. 

“you don’t know what you’re saying. tomorrow you’ll regret it.”

”really? and who are you to decide how i feel?”

his hand landed on the wall beside your head, steadying himself, caging you in without quite touching. 

“i’ve never wanted you more than i do right now… i need you, please.”

his eyes were dark and stubborn, burning through every flimsy barrier you tried to hold. your breath caught, traitorously uneven. 

“derek… we can’t...”

his other hand lifted, hesitating for a heartbeat before brushing over your arm, barely there, just enough to make your skin shiver.

 “really now? because that’s not what your body is telling me.”

he leaned in close, murmuring, breath thick with whiskey and the stale musk of the bar. even like this, slurred, unsteady—he still had the audacity to size you up.

“lip between your teeth, eyes darting, pupils blown wide… you want me just as much. don’t bother denying it.”

you closed your eyes, fighting for composure, fighting for logic. 

“i can’t—this can’t keep—.”

he leaned closer, his breath ghosting against your cheek, his voice low and coaxing, damn near breaking you. 

“c’mon baby, you can handle it, just the tip? just for a minute?” 

your heart hammered so hard it almost hurt. you tried your best to look away, to not give in to the intense gravity of him, but you had already fallen. 

the second his lips grazed your neck, you were finished, your resolve shattered completely.

you should’ve been embarrassed at how quickly you melted—it was pitiful, really. but all that shame dissolved the moment derek’s big, calloused hands clamped onto your waist, hauling you down with him onto the couch in his living room.

the kiss wasn’t pretty. it was sloppy, drunk, chaotic—his mouth crashing into yours with the weight of someone who didn’t know the meaning of restraint. 

and yet, that’s what made it so addictive. the way his tongue pushed past your lips, greedy and demanding, made your pulse stutter; the heat of his breath tangled with your own as spit slicked your chin, running hot and careless.

his grip only tightened, dragging you closer until there was no space left to breathe, no room left to think. every brush of his stubble against your skin, every press of his mouth, stripped you further of reason, until all that existed was the messy, consuming blur of him. his taste, his hands, he was pulling you under.

literally.

his frame loomed above you, shadow swallowing your dazed, trembling form. a shiver tingled through you as his urgency turned reckless, as if hunger alone guided him, because honestly? it did.

fabric tore away in frantic disarray, clothes flung without care, until nothing but his impatience remained, your panties shoved aside, his need demanding the fastest way in, the easiest access.

“god. look at her. she’s soaked, needs me so badly, huh?”

your mind lagged behind his words, struggling to piece them together—until the dreadful realization struck: he wasn’t even speaking to you. not exactly.

his thick fingertip toyed with the swell of your clit, more a teasing prod than a touch, almost tickling as he savoured every flustered reaction—your hands flying to hide your burning cheeks, your thighs trembling, slick spilling down in betrayal.

“don’t worry babygirl, ‘m gonna make her feel good.” 

there it was again—that pet name, slipping from his lips like it wasn’t meant to be controlled. 

cheesy, maybe, and yet somehow it struck a chord deep inside you. in this messy, alcohol-laced haze of his, you could almost imagine getting used to it.

derek’s bare chest pressed hot and heavy against yours, every muscle taut and alive beneath your fingertips. he shifted with a deliberate, impatient grace, lifting his hips just enough to wrestle free of his jeans, as if he hadn’t a second to waste. 

the motion was clumsy, hurried, and utterly irresistible, leaving you caught somewhere between panic and anticipation, your body already betraying your mind.

every inch of you was aching as he positioned himself at your entrance. there was no hesitation, no lingering—only the urgent, impatient pull of him.

“she needs it so bad, huh?” 

he murmured, voice low and teasing.

true to his promise, he eased the mushroom tip of his length into your swollen heat, pressing back against every twitch, every whimper, every silent plea for more. 

your slickness welcomed him, and he slid in and out with a fluid, almost lazy rhythm, each thrust teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves that had you gasping and trembling beneath him.

your body arched instinctively, slick and trembling under him, desperate for every touch. and then his teeth found the soft curve of your neck, a sharp nip followed by a slow, possessive bite that sent sparks racing down your spine.

his hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, threading through your hair, tilting your head back—pulling you into him as his mouth followed a trail of hot, claiming kisses from your jaw to your collarbone. 

each press of his lips, each harsh suckling of your skin, matched the pulse of his hips, the rhythm of his thrusts, turning every motion into a delicious torment.

he alternated seamlessly between each movement like a planned routine: a hard, punishing thrust, a bite that made you shiver, a soft, teasing kiss that left you gasping. 

his mouth returned again and again to your neck, leaving marks that burned and seared like a brand, with the sting of the present, and the stain of the future. his hips rolled against you with lazy, maddening perfection, slipping in and out as though your slickness had been made for him alone.

you could feel him everywhere all at once, each sensation layered over the last until your mind was little more than a haze of need. 

every bite, every kiss, every stroke of his length drove you closer to the edge, and yet he lingered, teasing, claiming, owning, the rhythm of his body echoing your own shivering, desperate movements beneath him.

“god—derek!”

he chuckled at your words, though everything he was doing was far from holy.

maybe it was the tipsy haze from that fruity drink at the bar, but your entire body felt like it had ignited. every nerve ending screamed as his length shifted, dipping stretch, then grinding relentlessly against your clit. the sensations became impossible to contain. 

your mind was spiraling, hurling over the edge faster than ever before, and derek wasn’t far behind, his growls vibrating against your skin as he chased his own release.

“look at her,” 

he hissed, teeth grazing your shoulder as he leaned closer.

“she loves this. loves this cock, doesn’t she?”

the filth in his words made your spine arch and your head fall back. your vision blurred with pleasure, eyes rolling with every thrust, every lazy, punishing snap of his hips.

“she’s gonna let me paint her white, yeah? make a mess all over? that’s what she wants, hmm? sucking me up like that?”

you didn’t even think before nodding frantically, your neck aching from the constant snap of his hips, your jaw pressed against the curve of his shoulder as he bit and marked you in rhythm with every thrust.

the warm, slick heat spluttering between your thighs tugged you back into awareness, grounding you as your gaze drifted down your body. your eyes met the messy evidence of where you were still entwined, and then travelled upward, finally locking with Derek’s for the first time in what felt like hours. 

his eyes were as dark, magnetic, and intoxicating as ever, pulling you in even as your body trembled from overstimulation.

he lowered his lips to yours again, softer this time—gentle, almost innocent, a tender contrast to the animalistic intensity that had consumed you both only moments before. your chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, every soft brush of his lips sending a ripple through your skin.

then, that familiar, drunken smirk crawled back across his sweat-slicked, glazed features. teasing, possessive, and full of mischief.

“what d’you think, baby,” 

he murmured, voice low and husky, 

“am i too drunk for another round?”

the words were both a question and a challenge, and despite the haze of pleasure still clinging to you, you felt the old spark of anticipation ignite all over again.

first week of kinktober done! this is definitely a lot more taboo? than i'm used to writing but i thought what the hell... why not do something a little darker kinda? anyway i'm having sm fun experimenting w so many new themes/prompts! i hope you all enjoyed! (please reblog if you did!)

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