18+ only / all characters are 18+. corruption kink. tummy bulge. squirting.
Simon Riley who says 'sorry' over and over while fucking innocent!reader, as though a crime were taking place as he hovers over your body. It certainly feels like one: his big, bearish hands pinning your knees open while he carves inside of you with his mean, girthy dick, and a pair of adoring, wet eyes staring back at him making his chest pinch with guilt—and yet, makes his cockhead leak precum. This is an atrocity. Milky moonlit rays cloak the bedroom in a weak glow that don't quite reach his hulking, shadowy silhouette atop of you; a beast poised to strike. I'm sorry, he says at the ladylike bashfulness written across your face, at the panic that slowly but surely descends upon it when you realize that the danger your family tells you to steer clear of has already made its way to you, your breath growing short as you tussle with him shyly. Fruitlessly. You're powerless to stop him, and you think blissfully that that absolves you of responsibility for breaking your parents' rules.
'Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn't help myself,' he breathes out shakily, hardly able to look—at the naked expanse of your skin right beneath his fingertips, far too pristine for the likes of him. But he does look. He looks, morals be damned, with the hunger of a starved man. Nothing more, nothing less, because flowery words or elaborate metaphors aren't quite apt for a feeling so simple-minded and unembellished—so base as the appetite you stir within him.
He feels the bulge rise under his palm as he bottoms out, watching the outline of his dick through your soft belly in twisted fascination. It feels like going to the moon and staking a flag. It feels like he's taken estate over you, within you, squeezing his body into the tight space. Forcing it to fit. He wants to make a home right here, where his palm presses down upon, making your shaky thighs squeeze around him. Quivers going through your legs like a bowstring—the tension snapping in a messy release that sprays the sheets under your hips, trickling down your inner thighs. The embarrassment in your cherubic face does little to deter him, his palm steady in place as you feel his shaft sawing inside you, curved and thick. It feels like he's molding you to his cock; he feels like you're milking him.
Apologizing doesn't make him a better man by any means. It speaks less of a moral man than of a sick pervert who merely can't control himself. (A victim of his own desires, that’s all. There’s even a kind of indulgence in the effort—like a masturbatory pat on the back, that he tried and failed, sadly, to stay away from the pretty little thing—her, sweet and ruinous—)
He's sorry, he says, and the wrongness of it makes his dick even harder. If he had nothing to be sorry for, perhaps it wouldn't feel quite as transfixing.
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
A part two of [this] post where reader met ghost in a chatroom and didn't expect him to have such a massive dick...
"It won't fit!!" You hiss, trying to squirm but unable to with the weight of ghosts hand pinning your hip to the bed.
"C'mon, lovie, look at it. Not that bad." Ghost coos, pressing his cock to lie against your pelvis, fhe tip practically at your belly button. Oh shit. "Bit o' work, but..."
Ghost slips his other hand down to your entrance, three fingers easily pop inside and you still know it isn't enough. Not when his cock jerks lazily and drools precum over your skin.
Some deeper part of you really wants to know what it feels like, wants to feel him in your mouth, between your hands, on your skin, inside you.
"Mh. Good choice." Ghost hums in delight when you allow your thighs to fall open that last bit, nervous but determined. He rubs his tip in circles around your entrance just to make you nervous, laughs to himself as the embarrassed whine you let out before pressing in—
"Fuckin' hell—!" Ghost groans, doubles over and only catches himself from falling on you by bracing a forearm next to your head. You can feel the huff through the fabric of his balaclava "christ— fuckin' tight—"
"Holy shit– ghost, ghost— fuck—" you toss your head back with a high keen, whole body burning from the sudden fullness. You've never used anything but your fingers before and nothing could have prepared you for this.
You grind into him as best as you can both overstimulated and still asking for more, completely lost in just how good it is—
"Fuck– you're so big—" you feel your core tighten and are unable to do anything, back arching off the bed, pulling ghost into a kiss as your orgasm crashes over you.
Only after you've caught your breath you notice ghost shaking, and slowly realize that asshole is silently laughing at you–
"Not even halfway." He snorts, presses a kiss to your jaw then sits up, still inside you, to show his still-hard cock, only a third of the way in.
You just came and ghost is only a third in.
Somehow, this makes you equally excited and terrified for the rest of the night.
Imagine joining an online chatroom because you struggle meeting people in real life, but god do you want to lose your virginity, right?
Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.
Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.
The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.
But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.
You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?
You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.
Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.
You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—
...no. no way.
The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.
You swallow thickly, glance up at him.
The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."
Once again thinking about ghost and his [zero concept of aftercare] and all his methods for helping you out afterwards...
Ghost has spent multiple instances fucking you dumb, using all your energy and then some because he's simply that obsessed with you. Yet, you still haven't seen any traditional aftercare from ghost.
His favorite method seems to be food, helping you recover physically from the exertion.
Of course there's the granola bars and electrolyte drinks, but you'll never forget the day he he dissappeared for a bit and came back with a perfectly cooked steak, still butt-naked when he handed you the plate. It even had an adorable little garnish.
Though the time he pulled you into a closet because he had to have you in his mouth, only to pop off and hand you a little fish Keychain he found at the gas station, will always be a fond memory.
Or the time where, after a shower and cuddles, you still seemed down and ghost just wouldn't let it stand. So he decided to build a blanket fort around you in bed as if it were the logical next step.
Does he still need to be reminded to help you wash up or to come for cuddles? Yes, but honestly you love whatever his mind comes up with more. You like how personalized it feels.
....you'll never stop teasing him for the time he prepped sourdough in the oven and timed it specifically for when you'd want a break and when you'd be done.
Something about price not showing up for his own kid's graduation, couldn't be bothered when "it's just uni, sport. I'll be there for something important, yeah?"
And you fully expect to find no one sitting in the seat you pre-emptively reserved, all too hopeful that your dad would finally see you. Except...it's not empty.
Ghost is sat in your dads seat.
Ghost, the man who practically saved your degree when you were on the verge of a breakdown and dad was on vacation. Found you crying in a gas station parking lot and recognized you from price's wallet.
And....it feels weird, ghost where price should be, almost like you're replacing your dad...but it's also nice?
Ghost has always been there when you needed him, more than your own dad ever was.
He drives you to get shitty fast food afterwards in celebration, hand heavy on your thigh and you don't try to stop him. Of course you've thought about it, but never acted on it...
Not until ghost pulls over on the back roads, parks his truck in the start of an empty field and lays you down in the dirty bed of it. Rough hands pulling your thighs open, a mouth leaving bites against skin. He makes you feel all the things you missed out on, too busy studying for your dads approval.
He groans "fuck, kid, can't believe i waited this long. Didn't want to distract you." When he ruts into you, thick and hot and too big for you to do anything other than gasp.
That night, you sleep in ghosts bed and not once does your dad call asking where you are. Seems like you made the right choice.
spencer has never showered with anyone before and when bau!reader suggests it, he doesn’t quite understand, “together? like at the same time? in the same shower?”
“yeah, babe, i think you’ll like it.”
she don’t know if his touchiness is because their relationship is relatively new, or if it’s because relationships as a whole are new to him, but he’s so clingy and desperate for her to be near him at all times. she ravishes in the feeling. when they're away on cases it's hard on both of them to not be able to touch each other, but it's especially hard on him. as the days progress, he cares less and less about minimizing pda for the sake of 'professionalism'.
it's not like they're hiding their relationship from anyone, it's just so new that they want to keep it to themselves for as long as possible. they're private about it, not secret. disregarding that their coworkers are some of they best profilers in the world, even a blind man could see the love that they have for each other.
they get each other coffee, sit shoulder-to-shoulder over the same case file (which is completely unnecessary, there's always enough for each of them), he drapes his cardigans over her arms during late nights in the precincts, and they help each other put on their kevlar vests (which is also unnecessary).
one glance under the table would show their pinkies and ankles linked together. sometimes it would show a mismatched pair of his socks peeking out of her shoes: bright and patterned and unmistakably his.
they gravitate towards each other without even realizing it.
they’ve just gotten back to his apartment from a case, they spent a whole week in a shitty motel with questionable bedding and an even more questionable shower situation, not to mention the dirty feeling on their skin after being on a plane for hours.
he has a thing about getting in bed or on the couch without being clean typically, but he especially does after getting back from a case. this, plus his adherence to her body has her suggesting it.
he has his arms wrapped around her from behind as they enter his apartment, both of them are giggling at the awkward walk/waddle they have to do to be able to move. she turns around in his arms and places her hands on his chest, gently caressing him with her thumbs.
“if you don’t want to then that’s okay! you can go first and i’ll go after you.” she’s so kind to him and has been so delicate when it comes to his ‘firsts’.
“no! i definitely want to, definitely.” he rushes out, the thought of getting to see her naked and soapy within his arms reach has his mind reeling.
he’s fantasized about it before, especially before they started dating and he’d be jerking himself off in the shower. he never allowed himself to picture her in the shower with him, but he’d imagine what she would look like through glass: wet hair cascading down her back, breasts and ass covered in soap bubbles, her hands traveling all over her body.
he always felt so dirty and guilty after thinking about it, despite always doing it in the shower. he rarely allowed himself the fantasy, since he could barely meet her eyes at work the next time he saw her after doing it.
he wonders if he should tell her about his steamy fantasies, or if she'd be freaked out by it.
eventually, his database of a brain locates relevant information for the situation: “did you know that the studies show that couples who shower together experience increased emotional intimacy and reduced stress? it’s because the release of oxytocin, known as the ‘love’ hormone, can be triggered by the warm water and physical touch.” his brain always does this when he’s nervous, it’s like it has a priority path to his mouth and he barely has any control over what comes out of it. he has barely realized that he said the L word when she gently giggles at him.
“aw, that’s lovely, spence.” oh my god she (sort of) said the L word back to him! he’s so giddy and his heart is pounding, if he didn’t know any better he’d be concerned that it would pump right out of his chest.
she kisses his cheek before holding his hand and gently leading him towards the bathroom. he just follows her like a lost puppy, even though this is his apartment. he realizes that he would follow her anywhere, even into a burning building, if it meant that he could be close to her.
he’s fidgeting with his fingers as she starts the water and reaches into her hair to start pulling pins out of it. all he can do is watch. he feels separate from his body, like he’s watching both her and himself exist in the confined space of the room. his nervous system is pulling in two separate directions: one that knows that she equals safety, and one that is nervous about doing something new that he has limited data for.
“babe, really, if you’re uncomfortable we don’t have to do it, no worries.” she notices how small and frightened he looks. he can't stop replaying his debauched memories of his fantasies and he's never been so relieved that true mindreading is a myth. however, he's prided himself on having decent morals, and he feels uneasy about keeping anything from her.
“i have to tell you something.” he spits out, and she tries her best to not find that sentence anxiety-inducing.
“okay, you can tell me anything.” she's looking at him through the mirror. she has a makeup cloth in one hand and she grips the edge of the counter with the other.
“i’ve thought about this before.” his eyes are round and wide and if her chest wasn't still feeling tight at his abrupt words, she'd want to coo at him and tell him how adorable he is.
“about showering together?” she slightly tilts her head in question and he finds her so painfully endearing.
he slightly shakes his head ‘no’. “i’ve thought about you in the shower before. i’ve pictured you naked. in the shower. before.” he wants to disappear, he doesn’t even know why he’s admitting this to her, anymore.
“that’s okay, honey. i’ve thought about you in the same way.” he’s sure he looks like a dragonfly with how large his eyes widen, he didn’t consider this response from her.
she gently smiles at him and he allows himself to feel the comfort radiating from it. she turns around to face him and grabs his hands. “especially after i saw you naked for the first time, i wondered how you’d look in such a private space.”
her comforting glances and touches are no use against the guilt that bubbles up in his stomach. of course she only pictured it after seeing all of him for the first time, he thinks that he’s so strange for thinking about her in that way before even getting to hold her hand.
“what if… i thought about it before i saw your body for the first time.” he’s so nervous that she can almost feel it radiating from him.
“then that’s totally fine, honey. i’m not here to thought-crime you. what you think about in there is yours to keep. you can tell me any and everything, but you don’t have to, and i don’t want you to feel guilty for things that cross your mind.”
he knows this, especially after years in such a dark job, that things cross his mind at inopportune times and that he has to just redirect the thought back to the right file cabinet in his brain. everything just feels different with her. he doesn’t know the rules and he doesn’t want to break them, especially without even knowing what they are. he finds himself lacking his usual control around her, which would be terrifying if it wasn't so relieving to not have to be constantly on-guard.
he decides to leave the conversation at that, which he’s proud of himself for. she can tell that his anxiety is dwindling, so she squeezes his hands before returning to the mirror. the shower has been running for long enough to fog it up at this point, so she does her best to remove any makeup that lingers on her skin.
she then starts removing her clothes, and he takes that as a signal to remove his too. he loosens his belt and removes his pants, boxers, and tie with minimal issues. his fingers are trembling as he tries to unbutton his dress-shirt, though. he’s still working at it even as she stands completely naked before him. the sight of her does not help his struggle, so she reaches out to help him.
“sorry, i’m a little nervous, i guess.” he whispers.
“that’s okay, just tell me if you change your mind, okay?”
“i won’t.” she tilts her head at him again and his cheeks pinken as he realizes how it sounded. “i mean, i won’t change my mind.”
soon enough his dress shirt is wide open and he feels so vulnerable as she gently pushes it off his shoulders. he’s not really self-conscious about his body, but the stark lighting in the bathroom is making him feel so exposed. he realizes that his dick is soft, and he doesn’t know if she’s seen him that way before, so he brings his hands down to cover himself.
“you don’t have to do that, honey.” she wraps her soft fingers around his forearms and he's flushed down to his chest as he nods and pulls them away.
she tangles their fingers together with one hand and reaches around the shower curtain to feel the temperature of the water with the other. he feels so loved and cared for. he knows that he loves her and he’s fairly certain that she might feel the same, but he’s afraid it’s too soon to say so. regardless, he allows himself the luxury of feeling loved by her.
she’s soon stepping over the edge of the tub and he has to focus on following her without tripping. she untangles their fingers to quickly wet her hair as he stands at the edge of the tub, slowly getting cold, but not wanting to rush her.
“c’mere,” she murmurs, gently pulling him towards her and the water stream.
the warmth of the water cascading around them and the softness of her skin pressed against his is the most soothing thing he has ever felt. he wraps his arms around her waist and lowers his head to rest on her shoulder. “oh, this is really nice,” he tells her and she hums in agreement as her hands run up and down his back.
“i thought you’d enjoy it. now we can get all clean together and we’re probably saving water this way, right?” she giggles in his ear and he can feel goosebumps bloom on his neck.
he doesn’t really agree with her hypothesis, since he rarely spends this much time under the water stream without the purpose of actually showering, but he doesn’t say so. he's too captivated by this entire experience to do anything other than hum and slightly nod his head.
she slowly grazes one hand up to the back of his head, intertwining her fingers with the wet, but soft strands. she guides him back up until their foreheads are pressed together and they can feel each other's breath on their faces. the way she's looking at him is making it hard to breathe. the way he's looking at her warms her from the inside-out.
slowly, she presses her lips to his. his hands skim up the side of her torso to rest against her neck. his thumbs rub soothingly on her cheeks as she plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. her deft fingers cause his mouth to open ever so slightly, and the kiss deepens. their tongues move together, in tandem, so so slowly. the kiss is full of devotion.
eventually, she slowly rotates them so that he’s positioned directly under the shower head and she runs her fingers through his hair to help him wet it. he tips his head back to help her and she places a soft kiss on his chest. he lets his eyes flutter closed and he can’t fathom how he got here. he can feel warmth growing behind his eyelids and for the first time in his life it’s not because he’s sad. he’s so unbelievably thankful to have her in his life at all, but the fact that she’s his and he’s hers is so wonderfully overwhelming to him at this moment.
“do you want me to wash your hair for you, baby?”
oh my god he thinks his knees might give out from under him.
“that would be really nice of you, but you don’t have to.” his voice is light and airy, as it always is when he speaks to her.
the other men she's been with had booming voices that reverberated in small places like bathrooms and in her ribcage. spencer's voice is always so gentle with her, light and airy enough to intertwine with the thick steam in the room. others' voices were obtrusive enough to shatter any moment, but not his, never his. she doesn't consciously compare him to her previous partners, but the differences are so palpable that they're impossible to ignore.
“i know i don’t have to, i want to.”
“can i do yours too?”
“yeah, i would like that.”
he opens his eyes to see her lathering his shampoo in her hands. as she works it through his hair he allows himself to really take in the moment. he watches as beads of water catch in her eyelashes and trail down her skin. when she starts lightly scratching at his scalp, a small moan falls from his lips and he’s clears his throat afterward in hopes of hiding it.
“has anyone ever done this for you before?” she warmly asks, not judgmentally, just curiously.
“um, not really, except at the hairdresser i suppose.” his nose slightly scrunches as he tries to focus on responding and she’s so enamored by him. everything he does is so captivating, she hopes she can spend forever drinking in his features.
“thank you, by the way, you’re really good at it. way better than the hairdresser.”
she slightly tips his head back to rinse his hair of the shampoo and she chuckles at his admission.
“well, i would hope that you don’t find yourself in this position with your hairdresser,” she teases.
the rest of the shower goes slowly, yet purposefully. they carefully clean and take care of each other so delicately. for a while it feels like it’s just the two of them in the world. they can’t hear any of the usual city noises and nothing else is on their minds except for the other. it feels like magic: actual, true magic, not silly card tricks and disappearing coins.
she forgets to grab her toiletry bag from her duffle, so she has to use his soaps to get clean. for a brief moment he’s disappointed that she won’t smell like herself when they emerge from the shower, until he realizes that she’ll smell like him instead, and he’s fighting back a grin at the thought.
he’s never been so naked and so exposed in front of anyone before and he’s so immensely grateful for her. it feels even more intimate than their first time together, somehow. they don’t even do anything sexual, even though he slightly chubs up at the sight of her all soaped up in front of him. they’re so gentle with each other.
he’s genuinely sad when the shower is over and she turns off the water. “can we do this again?” his eyes are so round and soft as he asks.
“definitely, honey, any time you want.”
he blushes at the endearment and then even more at the promise. he briefly thinks about the other things that they can do in the shower together and is elated to do anything and everything with her.
she reaches for the towel rack and he softly holds her hip as she extends herself. she wraps one of the towels around his body for him and he just holds it there as he watches her dry off.
he wants to tell her that he loves her. the words are just about to fall out of his mouth, but he refrains.
he dries himself off too and slips out of the bathroom to retrieve clothes for them, not wanting her to have to brave the cold air that resides outside the safe haven they've created in the bathroom. he’s smiling as he grabs one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers for her to wear. he still can’t believe that this is his life.
he slips back into the bathroom, very carefully as to not let the coldness seep inside, and she kisses him as he hands her the clothes, "thank you, baby."
he combs her hair for her, so so gently, and wraps his arms around her waist from behind her after he’s done. he softly kisses at her neck without any heat behind it, it's romantic in the purest sense.
later, as they’re curled up on the sofa together, her donned in his clothes, the sunset spills in through the windows. they ordered takeout and are absentmindedly watching a documentary on his tv.
he can’t stop looking at her. she looks so beautiful in the evening light, her hair is still slightly damp, and she’s holding a box of chinese food.
“i want to tell you something,” he mildly says from beside her and turns to face her directly. the similar words are the only thing that reminds her of what he said earlier, everything else about how he says it is completely different.
“what’s that?” she turns toward him, still actively chewing her noodles.
“i love you. a lot. you don’t have to say it back because i know we haven’t been together for very long, but i really wanted you to know that, that i love you.”
her eyes are wide but still soft, always so soft for him.
“i love you too, spence. a lot.”
he grins and launches across the couch to her, wrapping her up in his arms and just holding her. she's laughing and manages to place her food on the coffee table before he lands on her. they're wrapped up in each other as a tangle of limbs. his head is completely flush with her neck, and she would be worried for his airways if he didn't soon speak.
“thank you for being here.”
“there’s nowhere else i’d rather be.”
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a/n: hi friends this is my 2nd spencer fic ever! i'm more comfortable writing things like this than i am with smut, but eventually i will def write a steamy spencer shower sex scene lolz. i hope u liked! let me know if u did! pls don't hurt my feelings if u didn't! xoxo
neighbor!simon riley and the mundane tasks he does to make things easier for you
when you first moved in, you were wary of the big, brute of a man that lived next door. you'd seen him, for the first time, taking his trash to the end of his driveway for the garbage truck to pick up while movers lugged boxes and furniture inside your house. he spared a single glance, offering a nod at your small wave before retreating into his house.
you thought that was that.
for weeks, you lived without any interaction. settling into your new home, coming back and forth between the hardware store and your house for new projects. taking out your trash before you go to work. you'd seen him take out his own trash once, but you watched from your window, so he never noticed.
you felt weird doing it. watching the thick muscles of his biceps flex against his filled out sleeve, dusting his veiny hands on his jeans before adjusting his balaclava. you wondered why he wore it, but you moved on. you'd likely never interact.
until a couple weeks later, you had arrived home with new groceries. a lot of them. it would take multiple trips that would make your arms ache.
you barely opened your trunk when a dark mass appaeared at your side. you gasp in surprise, head craning. damn, he was taller than you thought.
without a word, he reached in and grabbed at least ten grocery bags with ease. it didn't even seen to bother him as he carried it into your garage and to the door. he didn't struggle to open the door, inviting himself in and leaving you dumbfounded.
what the hell?
the next time his weird behavior manifested was when you were at work. you got a notification from your doorbell camera about some movement, expecting a salesperson or jehovah's witness. instead it was your neighbor—the one who's name you still don't have.
he carried a tackle box, and you were about to speak to ask what he was doing when something compelled you to just watch. he seemed to take apart something on your porch, taking and replacing a piece of the light before screwing it back. he left without a word.
when you got home, your porch lights shined brighter than before—they were dim and on the verge of burning out. why would he do that?
you wanted to confront him, but you appreciated these small things. he still appeared out of thing air to take your groceries in, leaving before you could thank him.
he even started pulling out your bin for you, sitting it at the end of the driveway and dragging it back to the garage when the truck came by.
it perplexed you. why was he doing this for you? did he do it for his other neighbors? he had to, you couldn't be that special.
so you continued living life, welcoming the small actions as they made everything easier. besides, you enjoyed the company, even if he never said a word to you or looked in your direction.
the first time you approached him was on the drive home when a light appeared on your car's dashboard. you had no clue what it meant, though you probably should've. when you arrived home, you debated taking it straight to the autoshop, but instead you tried your luck with your neighbor. he likes to help, so you're guessing he wouldn't mind.
with a soft knock to his front door, you stood waiting patiently, and wait you did. a few minutes later, you contemplated turning back because he wasn't answering the door despite being home (his car was in the driveway).
just as you turned, the front door creaked open, revealing your neighbor clad in nothing but a white towel around his waist, balaclava shoved on haphazardly. his chest glistened with water as it glifed down his skin. oh fuck.
you could barely keep your eyes off his toned chest, abs flexing under your gaze before they snapped back to meet his dark ones. he lifted his brow in question.
"uh, hi." you said awkwardly, rocking on your feet. you hadn't even properly introduced yourself to the man, mostly because he disappeared so quick that you didn't have the chance. "a light came on in my car, and I was wondering—"
the door shut mid-sentence. it left you dumbfounded, mouth hanging open in shock as you stare at the door like it may open again. maybe his generous actions ended at bringing the groceries in. maybe he didn't want to get dirty after just showering. you couldn't expect the man to be ready to help any time you needed it.
after a minute of contemplation, you turned to walk back down the path. you'd have to get it to the mechanics and figured out how much it'd cost you.
when you reached the last step, the door opened again. still shirtless but now looping a belt around his jeans, he walked out, bare feet padding on the concrete. he nodded to your house, signaling you to lead.
you lead him back, hand him your keys and let him do his thing because now you get a free show. his muscles flex as he works under the hood, dirtying himself in a way that's sinful. after a while working in the hot sun, you go inside and bring back a drink, which he gratefully accepts—still without saying anything.
he's a bit weird, refusing to talk to you, but he's fixing your car so you can't complain.
"is this your official uniform to fix all your single neighbor's cars?" the words slip out before you can stop them. mortification warms your face, but it forces a deep chuckle from your neighbor, whose eyes crinkle under his mask.
he glances up at you, dirt smearing his skin. "only the pret'y ones."
your heart flutters. his voice was deep, gruff, like he smoked cigarettes, but it was satisfying to hear.
"so you do talk." you tease whilst biting back a smile. you'd finally gotten words out of him. a small victory. "what's your name?"
"simon."
"really? you look like a greg."
he shakes his head with a smile and continues working, leaving the two of you in silence. what you don't know is that simon's heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. it's beating so hard, he's worried he'll break a rib.
simon has been working up the courage to say anything to you every time he helps you, nervous as hell to talk to his pretty neighbor who he likes to help. hell go home and think about that interaction for days—or until you ask for his help again.
18+ only / all characters are 18+. corruption kink. tummy bulge. squirting. previous. | masterlist.
Simon Riley who says 'sorry' over and over while fucking innocent!reader, as though a crime were taking place as he hovers over your body.
It certainly feels like one: his big, bearish hands pinning your knees open while he carves inside of you with his mean, girthy dick, and a pair of adoring, wet eyes staring back at him making his chest pinch with guilt—and yet, makes his cockhead leak precum. This is an atrocity. Milky moonlit rays cloak the bedroom in a weak glow that don't quite reach his hulking, shadowy silhouette atop of you; a beast poised to strike. I'm sorry, he says at the ladylike bashfulness written across your face, at the panic that slowly but surely descends upon it when you realize that the danger your family tells you to steer clear of has already made its way to you, your breath growing short as you tussle with him shyly. Fruitlessly. You're powerless to stop him, and you think blissfully that that absolves you of responsibility for breaking your parents' rules.
'Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn't help myself,' he breathes out shakily, hardly able to look—at the naked expanse of your skin right beneath his fingertips, far too pristine for the likes of him. But he does look. He looks, morals be damned, with the hunger of a starved man. Nothing more, nothing less, because flowery words or elaborate metaphors aren't quite apt for a feeling so simple-minded and unembellished—so base as the appetite you stir within him.
He feels the bulge rise under his palm as he bottoms out, watches the outline of his dick through your soft belly in twisted fascination. It feels like going to the moon and staking a flag. It feels like he's taken estate over you, within you, squeezing his body into the tight space. Forcing it to fit. He wants to make a home right here, where his palm presses down upon, making your shaky thighs squeeze around him. Quivers going through your legs like a bowstring—the tension snapping in a messy release that sprays the sheets under your hips, trickling down your inner thighs. The embarrassment in your cherubic face does little to deter him, his palm steady in place as you feel his shaft sawing inside you, curved and thick. It feels like he's molding you to his cock; he feels like you're milking him.
Apologizing doesn't make him a better man by any means. It speaks less of a moral man than of a sick pervert who merely can't control himself. (A victim of his own desires, that’s all. There’s even a kind of indulgence in the effort—like a masturbatory pat on the back, that he tried and failed, sadly, to stay away from the pretty little thing—her, sweet and ruinous—)
He's sorry, he says, and the wrongness of it makes his dick even harder. If he had nothing to be sorry for, perhaps it wouldn't feel quite as transfixing.
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
spencer reid x fem!bau!reader ; est. relationship , fluff , kisses! , hidden relationship???
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ w. none! wc. 361
note ; i didn't know how to end it so it just cuts off 😭😭 (also haha please leave comments i love reading them 🥹)
you'd just finished a case, and your whole body felt like that relief after a huge sigh as you strolled down the hotel hallway, spencer by your side with one hand in his pocket, the other faintly brushing yours in a way that still made your stomach flutter every single time. your heart would beat louder and faster every time you passed one of your teammates' doors, spencer's quiet ramblings echoing loudly off the walls of the empty hall.
but his ramblings slowly faded into nothing as you stopped infront of your room, much to your disappointed; it was inevitable, no matter how slowly you'd walked. you turn to face him, keeping the silence for just a while longer, exchanging small, awkward but endearing smiles.
"well, guess this is good night." you say quietly, as if him not hearing meant you could stay in the dimly lit hall a little longer. he nods, eyes flicking to the ground before looking back up at you with those soft brown puppy eyes. "yup."
you flash him another small smile, "good night, spence," before placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning forward to pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. but as you pull back, his lips hastily chase yours, hands landing on your waist to keep you from moving away. he kisses you slowly, like always, devastatingly slowly. your body instantly melts into his, but only for a moment, because the hallway all your coworkers are sleeping in isn't the most covert makeout spots. especially if you're trying to keep all this a secret.
you finally manage to push him away—though it takes a bit more effort when his lips persistently stay attached to yours. "i have to go to bed," you kiss his cheek with a little "good night, spence", which he mutters back, staring at you like a kicked puppy.
you turn to put in your key, leaving him standing there with a (definitely exaggerated) pout and restless hands, itching to reach out to you again, but as you do so you hear from a few doors down, "can i get a good night kiss too, pretty boy?"
okay unfortunately i’m a sucker for hurt comfort and would love reader coming into the ED for like semi-minor injury (maybe like a broken arm or something) and Jack+PTMC found family just being so sweet and doting (pre-est. relationship?)
i was very focused on jack and forgot the PTMC found family part, but i hope u like it anyways 😣 | 0.8k of fluff mostly and a wrist injury (no blood involved!)
Your still-damp hair drips down your back as you walk through the PTMC waiting room doors, surely leaving a damp spot on the back of the t-shirt you’d thrown on.
It’s strange to be entering this way. Like a patient.
You walk up to the check-in desk, thankful that the line is only a couple of people long. You should be thankful to be waiting in a line at all—it’s what you tell your patients, anyway. You see cases based on severity, be glad you’re able to wait a little while. But your wrist is throbbing and swollen, and your shirt is sticking to your back uncontrollably, and you should be in bed right now. You shouldn’t be back at the ED and certainly not with an injury.
And yet, you are.
You walk up to the desk when it’s your turn, smiling at the clerk on shift. She asks you your name, what happened, hands you a form to fill out, and just as you’re about to take it from her with your good hand, someone calls your name.
Someone whose voice you’d recognize anywhere, gravelly and steady. Jack Abbot walks into the reception area at the perfect time.
“What’s going on?” he asks you, jerking his head towards the doors that separate the waiting room from the ED.
He bends to tell the clerk something, but you can’t quite make it out through the screens and the noise happening in the rest of the room. Even when it's nearly midnight, the waiting room is jammed.
You meet him by the doors, and he holds out a hand to guide you through, wrapping it loosely around your arm, just above your elbow, to guide you to a room.
“I think I broke my wrist,” you tell him, holding up the hand in question.
Jack leads you to one of the empty rooms, shutting the door and then the curtains as you sit down on the bed. It’s been a little bit since you’ve been on nights with him, but he still seems to know you. To remember that you don’t like to make a fuss, to be the centre of attention.
He grabs the rolling stool and sits down, placing himself just in front of you at the foot of the bed. Your knees knock against his. Yours bouncing with worry, his warm and still.
“What happened?”
You wince at the thought of telling him. It’s embarrassing and stupid, but you know that having the full picture helps—you’ve pulled it out of patients enough times yourself—that you say it anyways.
“I was in the shower and slipped. I tried to catch myself and landed on it funny.” Before he can respond, you continue, “I know we’re not supposed to, and we tell people that, but it happened so fast and I-”
“Hey,” he stops you with a warm hand on your knee. You hadn’t even been aware it was still bouncing until then. “It’s alright, it’s our instinct. Can I take a look?”
Jack’s hands are held palm-up, and you reach out and set your wrist in them. His fingertips are calloused, a little scratchy against your skin where he touches you, but they’re just as gentle.
He prods at your skin, explaining each step and smirking a little when you finish his sentences. You know the drill, after all. And it helps to occupy your mind, helps you hold in your pained noises.
When he presses one spot, though, a hiss slips out, and Jack immediately retreats. “‘M sorry, honey.”
The pet name is a painkiller in itself.
“It’s okay,” you practically whisper.
He tests your range of motion next, apologizing softly each time he can tell you’re uncomfortable or hurting, even when you don’t say anything. He can tell how you’re feeling by the catch in your breath, by the way you hold it or scrunch your nose.
Jack doesn’t let go of your hand even when he’s finished. “I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll get you an X-ray to be sure. And some painkillers in the meantime.”
“I’m okay.”
“Advil, at least,” he encourages.
He only lets you go when you nod, leaving the room and coming back only a couple minutes later with a bottle of Advil and a cup of water. He sits down in front of you again, and you take them from him one at a time as he hands them to you.
Once you’ve taken both, you say, “You don’t have to stay with me. I’m sure you’ve got other patients. Better things to do.”
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he tells you. He says it so simply that there isn’t really any room for you to argue.
“Well, thanks, Dr. Abbot. For taking care of me.”
“Just Jack. Please.”
“Okay. Thank you, Jack.”
It comes out quiet, unsure, but his knees are brushing yours again and his head is bent close to yours so he can keep his eyes on yours. You don’t miss the way they seem to soften when you say his name, like he’s never heard it spoken like that before.
“Anytime, honey.” He knocks his knee against yours more purposefully this time. Doesn’t pull it away. “Anytime.”
♡ synopsis: due to seasonal depression, your own self-care, & accuracy at work both begin to suffer. unwilling to stand by while you're put through the wringer for the next few months until spring rolls around again, jack takes it upon himself to look after you in the meantime.
♡ content: caretaker!jack, d/s vibes (lil bit of dd/lg too), pining robby, jack braids your hair, makes you eat snacks, gives bath time, etc
♡ a/n: based on this request, ty!
You're not yourself today.
Well... You haven't been for awhile, truth be told. Change of the seasons, you think. Fall isn't terrible, but it nevertheless serves as the herald of the worst time of year: winter.
It brings about slick roads that you're terrified to drive on, power outages that cast people's homes into negative digits, an uptick in emergent cases because of car accidents and slipping on ice, snow that piles up on a driveway that exhausts you to shovel, everything dying or hibernating or migrating south to wait out the cold, and the Northern Hemisphere being bathed in darkness for the grand majority of each day.
Safe to say you absolutely despise it and plan to eventually marry rich so that you can one day get yourself a home in Key West that you'll winter in as soon as October rolls around every year.
A silly daydream, yes, but nevertheless a nice thought.
While Abbot gives his typical obnoxious pep talk about nightcrawlers and the wild west, you stand to the side while shifting on your feet and studying the electronic board ahead—its colorful fields filled to the brim, as always, with cases that never seem to cease in volume.
When the speech finally concludes, you jump slightly, then turn to walk away... Until Abbot calls for you.
You swing back around to him with a forced cheery smile that doesn't quite meet your eyes.
"You alright?" he asks while resting a calloused hand against your upper arm in concern.
You nod while glancing past him. "Yeah. Fine."
"Didn't join in tonight. Getting tired of your old man already?"
Your eyes flit back to his and you shake your head. "Just thinking about getting to waiting patients." Swerving around Jack—not wishing to give him an opportunity to dig any deeper than surface-level—you head in the direction of an occupied trauma bay.
In the middle of a debridement, a patient's local anesthetic wore off—something you were meant to be keeping in mind, as they were going to require further dosages as you worked to ensure that the site was kept good and numbed while you cleaned—and were made more than aware of that fact when they started howling in pain due to your negligence.
Gently pushed aside when Abbot came sprinting into the room, you stood idly by and sniffled quietly while your eyes filled with tears and apologies poured forth from your lips. "I'm so sorry," you'd whimpered while wiping at your cheeks and mentally berating yourself to get it together!
Once the patient was given a dosage of anesthesia and another resident was summoned to take over, Jack pulled you into an empty room to check in with you.
"Sweetheart, what has been going on with you?" he asks gently with crossed arms.
Wrapping your own around yourself, you shake your head in denial. "I just forgot by getting lost in what I was doing. I'm so—" you clamp a hand over your mouth. "I'm so sorry."
Jack sighs, then takes a step forward and does something unexpected: he wraps his arms around you before tucking you beneath his chin and safely against his chest. "You look exhausted. Are you not sleeping well?"
You yawn and decide to give in. You screwed up, so he deserves explanation. Plus, you're too beat to try and worm your way out of this. "I think I have SAD."
You can't help but feel the least bit pitiable for it. You're surrounded by people with broken bones, burns, lacerations, and unidentified chest pain. Meanwhile, you're in a depressive mood because it's gotten cold outside.
He hums. "You taking anything for it?"
You shake your head. "I had a script for vitamin D once, but I don't feel like it made me any happier. Or any less stressed, for that matter."
Jack runs a hand up your back. "I thought you seemed off lately. I didn't know if it was something outside of here, or work itself."
Your eyes water. "All of it."
"Startin' to worry me. You're not taking breaks, you're taking on more cases than you can handle—"
You pull away while wiping your tear-stricken cheeks with the sleeve of your undershirt. "I'll be fine."
Truth is, you had hoped that by overwhelming yourself here, your bouts of sadness would subside because you were more than occupied and didn't have time to think about anything else.
Jack makes to reach out to you, but you turn and head for the door. "I have patients to get to. I'll be more mindful from now on. I'm sorry, Dr. Abbot."
He watches with disappointment as the door clicks shut behind you.
You're standing idly by and observing Dr. Garcia perform an emergency thoracotomy on a patient with penetrating trauma when you end up having to squeeze your thighs together due to a suddenly straining bladder. Continually shifting your weight from one foot to the other in hope of relief does you little good, though.
Just another way you've been neglecting your own wellbeing lately: by not even bothering to use the restroom regularly.
Hopefully it doesn't result in a UTI. It'd just be another issue to add onto the already growing pile.
Abbot glances to you curiously and watches as you rotate your neck and squeeze your eyes shut before popping open again. Trailing his own lower, he notes the familiar little dance you seem to be doing and sighs.
This damn girl.
Discreetly, Jack silently crosses the room to reach you, then turns and leans in close. "Go to the restroom and relieve yourself."
You glance up to him and blink.
"Go potty, sweetheart," he mumbles before stepping away.
You turn and exit without anyone noticing.
The next time Jack takes note of your obvious self-neglect is when he's passing by the computer station just as you're making to stand, and you sway on your feet before thankfully catching yourself on a nearby counter.
Circling back around, he settles a hand on your hip and guides you in the direction of the employee lounge.
"What're you—"
He stops just outside the door and slides his hands into his pockets while nodding toward the room's interior. "Go get a snack. I'm not going to have you passing out from hypoglycemia."
You roll your eyes, then open your mouth to insist that you're fine and will eat a Snickers later, until he crosses his arms and steps forward with an unwavering expression painted across his features. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"
You stare blankly at him. "I'll be okay. I had a protein shake before I left the house. I'll have a granola bar later."
Jack grips your shoulders and spins you around while ushering you into the break room. "You're going to have a cup of Ramen, which you will finish every bite of, as well as a juice box, and only once both are on your stomach will I deem you fit to return to work."
A juice box? What, are you five?
"I really am fine," you insist.
He blocks the doorway. "Since you seem incapable of looking after yourself, I'm taking up the obligation instead."
You glance away in humiliation. "I'm not an invalid."
Jack sighs with remorse. "Honey, I didn't mean it like that. But you're worrying me sick. How can you expect to properly look after your patients if you're continually putting your own needs aside?"
Walking further into the room, you yank a container of Ramen off the counter. "I just have to get through to Spring. I'll be fine."
"That is months away," he counters. "So until then?"
You peel the lid off the thin cardboard bowl and toss it into the trash. "I eat my Ramen and drink my stupid juice box," you mumble while filling the container up to the designated line at the sink.
You're slurping up a mouthful of seasoned noodles when Robby waltzes into the lounge for a bottle of water before he clocks out.
Grabbing a cold one from the fridge, he looks at you with a sportive expression. "I'm sorry," he begins with a chuckle. "Are you having a snack in the middle of your shift?"
You narrow your eyes while chomping down on your noodles—sending them sliding back into the bowl. "Jack made me."
He leans back against the fridge. "Jack made you?" Robby asks incredulously before nodding toward the table. "He make you drink the juice box, too?"
You sip at it, then mumble your response. "Yes."
He softens then, with only a slight, playful grin now upon his lips. "Are you alright?"
You shrug while stirring your noodles. "Just not myself lately."
Robby's tennis shoes squeak quietly against polished tile as he heads for the table you're seated at. Pulling out a chair, he seats himself across from you before leaning back. "Something happen?"
"SAD."
He sighs. "Are you taking any—"
You hang your head. "I swear you're both two halves of a whole."
"Guessing he asked the same thing?" he inquires while unscrewing the lid on his bottle.
You return to your noodles. "Yes."
"And?" he asks while leaning forward.
"No."
Robby shakes his head while sliding his clasped hands atop the table. "Do one of us need to write you a prescription?"
Now finished with your noodles, you go in for the juice box so you can finally get back to work. "I'll be fine."
"And how many times have you fed that line to my supposed 'other half'?"
You glance to him and sip the remaining dregs with a frown. Releasing the plastic straw, you reply quietly. "Couple times."
Robby leans back with a sigh and a hand planted atop his thigh. "Well, I suggest you take Dr. Abbot's advice and do a better job of looking after yourself going forward."
He rises, then comes to your side and rests a hand between your shoulder blades while looking down at you. "Otherwise, one of us will. And speaking for myself, I already have enough patients to worry about as it is. So do you."
You crumple the juice box before standing. "I will," you supply—desperate for them both to crawl off your back. "You don't need to worry, Robby," you finish while tossing the item into the trash.
Sliding a tender hand down the side of your neck, he purses his lips. "I hope not." He heads for the door. "Need to be able to look forward to seeing my favorite girl every night before I go home."
Robby turns the handle to finally head out. "Don't know what I'd do if she wasn't here for me to set eyes on."
You watch as he leaves, completely taken aback by his comment. But it nevertheless causes you to warm all the more toward him, now knowing he's so fond of you.
When you wake the next evening, it's with a renewed vow to yourself, your patients, and coworkers: you'll be making every effort going forward to do considerably better. More bathroom breaks—including stops for water afterward—and you have a shopping bag full of nonperishable snacks you plan to lock away in a drawer at the computer station to munch on when you're charting.
Small efforts, but all good steps in the right direction.
Standing in your bathroom, cast in only the soft yellow glow of a nightlight—too early...or, rather, late for the glare of an overhead bulb—you brush your teeth while doing your best to keep your eyes open.
And then a firm, heavy knock resounds from your front door. Your plastic toothbrush clattering from your hand and landing in the sink, you quickly swipe your phone from the porcelain countertop and when you check your outside camera, your jaw falls open.
"Is—Is everything okay? Did something happen at the hospital, or with Robby, or—"
Abbot raises a brow while easing his way inside and over the threshold of your home while brushing past. "Robby always the first thing on your mind in the morning?"
You cross your arms while turning around—curious as to the bag he holds. "No. You two just seem attached at the hip."
He blows a raspberry, then hands you the bag—which seems to have some heft to it—before bending at the waist with a groan to untie his shoes.
"What is this?" you ask while gently lifting the item.
"Breakfast," he replies. Tossing his shoes to the side, Jack stands upright while settling his hands against his back and lightly stretching.
"W-Why?"
He takes the bag again, then plants a palm against the small of your back. "Kitchen?"
You pad in that direction.
Once you've reached it, Jack reaches up and switches on the hood light atop the stove—you're thankful that he didn't go for the ugly hanging chandelier overhead instead, which you plan to replace when you finally have the funds—before opening and closing cabinets in search of a plate.
"I can just eat it with my hands," you say while peeling the brown paper bag open—not that you even have an idea as to what's inside.
You assume some sort of sandwich or biscuit.
You've only just removed plastic utensils when he slides a plate in front of you and snatches the bag away. As he's pouring the contents of a steaming breakfast bowl onto it, you look at him. "How...How did you know where I live?"
He smirks, then steps away to throw away the now empty plastic container and bag.
"Wait," you blurt. "Did you look in my employee file?"
"Took down your cell, email, and home address," he retorts before glancing toward the hallway you emerged from but a few minutes earlier. "Bathroom this way?" he asks while pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
"Yes..." you reply with furrowed brows while watching him disappear around a corner.
Talk about making one's self at home...
Jack is satisfied to see you cleaning the plate in front of you while also sipping on the bottle of orange juice he purchased.
You bristle at the sound of his heavy, ambling footfalls, and open your mouth to begin hounding him with questions until you feel a brush suddenly being run through your hair.
You jerk in your seat and a forkful of scrambled eggs plop back onto the plate in front of you. "What're you doing?"
"Your hair. What's it feel like?"
You toss down the fork before spinning around. "Why're you doing this? The—The breakfast, and you having my information, and now trying to—"
"I told you," he says while settling his hands on his hips. "I am taking up the mantle of your personal babysitter. At least until the seasons change." He shrugs. "Probably until well after, if I'm being honest." He circles his finger. "Turn back around."
"But—"
He leans in close while gripping the back of your chair. "Finish your breakfast, young lady. Now."
You gulp at his demanding tone, and ultimately do as you're told.
You raise a brow at the feel of him parting your hair before consistently running a finger through it and tightening as he goes. "Are you braiding my hair?" you ask between chews.
He hums in response.
"How do you know how?"
He snorts. "These hands can do more than just hold a scalpel." He happens to slide a finger down the back of your neck. "And braid hair, but that's a conversation for another time."
You remain silent while sipping at tangy OJ.
"There was a woman I served with. Hurlston was her name. Her daughter was only a few months old when she got deployed. Got into her mind that she needed to know how to do all these fancy hairstyles for whenever she got older. So, she ordered one of those big fuckin' Barbie doll heads and practiced on it constantly. Complicated shit.
"When there's down time in the Army, there's a few things you can do: read, write letters, watch movies, some plays games... She did hair. Sometimes, I watched when I got bored with a Tom Clancy novel. Learned how to do just a basic braid that way. French? Had her teach me that."
Your plate now being clean, you swirl your juice around to occupy your hands. "Why? Just...boredom?"
Jack shrugs while tying a band he found in your medicine cabinet around the end. "That. And...if I ever got married again, or had a daughter of my own, I figured it'd be something worth knowing how to do."
He squeezes your shoulders while taking the plate to slip into the dishwasher. "Finish your juice and then we're going once you're dressed."
Jack seems to be set on going the extra mile with this. Such as him not allowing you to so much as carry your own bag, and when you slide into the passenger seat...
"Ok, I can get my own seatbelt—" you sigh with irritation as he clasps it into place anyway.
Placing one hand on your seat's headrest and his other forearm across your lap, Jack remains close while speaking. "I am only gonna say this once, so you need to listen."
You draw your knees inward and keep your eyes on his arm before finally meeting his gaze again.
"You need someone to look after you for the next few months. Sweetheart, I refuse to turn a blind eye when someone that I care deeply, deeply for is suffering in silence. All your 'I'm fines' are bull, and you know it. So, until the change in seasons—hell, probably even past that, given where we stand, like I said earlier—you can consider me glued to your side. That means giving you designated break times at work, ensuring you're eating three square meals a day, as well as snacks, bath time here at your home or mine, bedtime—whatever I need to do to ensure that you're being looked after the way you not only need to be, but deserve."
Your chin wobbles. "I'm not a child, Jack. I can—"
"No, but if you need someone to father you—or...or just act like a surrogate husband when things get dark, then baby, that's what I'm here for. Alright? All the shit you're having trouble carrying right now? Put it on me. I can handle it. Okay? I am not losing you to depression—seasonal or otherwise. Because, sure, right now maybe it's forgetting to eat or use the restroom, but what about when you don't have the energy to bathe, or the mental fortitude to get out of bed every evening?"
You sniffle while settling a palm atop the back of his hand. "Are you sure?"
He slides his hand out from beneath your own, and cups your cheek. "My purpose at work is obvious. Outside of it?" he swipes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Honey, you're it. And I couldn't be more thrilled."
Jack sort of moves you into his home in the middle of the fall season. Nothing drastic like furniture, but he does have you pack up the basics: clothes, toiletries, hobbyist materials like your laptop, some books, a journal, and so on. And as your newly designated caretaker, he only thinks it fair that he pay your rent and utilities while you're away, since he's the reason for your sudden absence from your domicile.
He once makes a joke while giving you a bath—yes, something which most certainly sent you reeling the first time he drew one for you—that if you give up your lease, then he won't have to worry about checking on dripping faucets once snow starts to fall.
In way of repayment, whenever you're both off, you try doing chores and general tidying up around his house while he watches TV or works on bullet reloading. Until your pacing and utterly inane babbling finally does Jack's nerves in...
After yanking you into his lap one afternoon in the living room and practically cradling you in his arms while threatening to shove his thumb in your mouth if you didn't calm the hell down, you finally got the message that you needed to sit and shut up for awhile.
Now, he gives you designated chores on a chart on the fridge for you to do a few times a week, so as to occupy you, and time set aside for you to talk your little heart out where he listens until you've run out of words. He adores talking with you, but God if you can't be a chatterbox at times when you get excited.
It honestly gets to a point that, when you're outside of the ED—which you're once again flourishing in because of Jack's consistent, precise direction—you almost wholly turn your mind off and otherwise leave it in more capable, trusted hands because you feel so safe and taken care of with him.
Jack drives you home, bathes you, puts you in clean PJs, makes you dinner, and even tucks you in right next to him every morning.
He'd initially tried out the arrangement of giving you his bed—he refused to listen to your protestations when you insisted it be the other way around—while he would sleep on the pullout couch, but it didn't last long because of his back.
Turned onto your side with Jack behind you, he runs a calloused palm beneath your camisole and up your back, trying to coax you to sleep. "Do you need a cup of warm milk?" he whispers.
You pop open a curious eye. "That actually sort of sounds disgusting."
He smirks. "I thought so, too, but figured it worth offering if you thought it'd help."
He tugs the hem of your camisole up to just below your breasts, then returns to massaging your back. "There's another tried and true method that usually helps get me to sleep."
You close your eyes again. "Hm?"
He grows quiet for a moment. "Be easier to get started on if you took your clothes off."
You sigh in irritation. "I don't think my attending is supposed to say things like that to me."
He chuckles. "I think that ship sailed when I appointed myself your caregiver, sweetheart."
Rolling onto your other side, you drag yourself closer, then burrow into the warmth his bare chest provides. "Goodnight."
Cupping the base of your skull, he tilts your head back and brushes a kiss over your lips. "Good morning."
You tangle your limbs around him before making to count up to a hundred in an attempt to finally drift off.
"Maybe we should move to Alaska," he mumbles. "Then there'd be no reason for this to ever end."
You shake your head while giggling. "Go to sleep."
Jack wraps his arms around you. "Sooner I get to see you again, the better."
"Let's see it!" Jack Abbot clasps his hands together.
You chuckle. Dramatically, you open your eyes wide, blinking rapidly to show off your mascara-covered eyelashes. You must admit that the mascara is much nicer than the one you were going to pick up at CVS. Hell, it might just be the nicest mascara you've ever had the luxury of putting on.
"Thank you again, Dr. Abbot," you say. "Really, you did not need to do this."
"Ah, don't mention it." He furrows his brows, "But, ah, what else did you get?"
"Oh!" You chuckle softly, "I got a perfume! Just a travel-sized one. Well, actually, it's technically a mini size. I'm, uh, actually wearing it right now if you want to… to smell it."
You ought to slap yourself as soon as the offer comes out of your mouth. What else are you supposed to do, though? The man paid for the goddamn perfume. It's only right that you at least offer… right?
Jack's eyebrows shoot up. He takes a look around, and you're struck by the realization that you're still at work, offering to have your boss smell you. You should turn and run, but then you consider the fact that just yesterday in the very same ED, Jack did give you a hundred bucks to spend on yourself. Sugar daddy shit, you think. This could get complicated, more so than it already is. But, honestly? A little mid-shift sniff might not be the worst thing in the world.
Jack seems to think so too, because he nods. His eyes scan the surrounding area. He must deem it safe, because wordlessly, he leans in. You bare your neck, the spot where you had rubbed your perfume-covered wrists. Wait, your wrists! Why aren't you offering up your wrists?
It's too late to ask that question, because Jack inhales, long and slow. You hold your breath, eyes fluttering as you attempt to ignore the pounding of your heart.
"Smells– Smells great," Jack pulls away, clearing his throat. You try not to look too disappointed when he smiles tightly at you, "What else?"
You blink, "Uh… nothing. That's it."
Jack scowls, "Seriously? I gave you a hundred bucks. Why didn't you spend it all?"
"I did."
"On two things?"
"Dr. Abbot, that's just how expensive this stuff is. Why do you think I was going to just buy the drugstore one?"
Shit, now you feel bad. You should have just lied, told Jack that you cleared out the store. It would make him so happy, but the idea of lying to Jack after you're already indebted to him makes you feel ill.
"I told you to let me know if you needed more. Why didn't you?"
"Because I don't!" Jack shakes his head in disappointment. You press, "Jack, you gave me a hundred bucks. One hundred bucks that you didn't need to!"
Jack nods, chewing the inside of his lip. He sighs, and when you think he's done with this matter, Jack says, "Why don't we go together?"
"Huh?"
"We'll go together, you just pick out what you want and I'll use my card."
The offer before you is tempting, incredibly so. A blank check. You've never had one of those before, and at Sephora? It's almost too good, but you can't let your fucking boss become your sugar daddy. No way.
"That is an incredibly kind gesture, Jack, but I… I can't say yes."
Jack shrugs, "Okay. Well, we're still going."
"Jack–"
He raises his hand, "Not up for debate, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. He has got to stop calling you that.
"No, it's not. Because I can't let you do that, Dr. Abbot."
"Look, you can't afford the things you like, and I'm offering to foot the bill," Jack puts a hand on your shoulder. He leans in. "So do you want nice make-up for free or no?"
*****
"It's not gonna break back here?" You say, shutting the trunk of Jack's car. You offered to put his wheelchair in the back. It's the least you can do, considering that for the last hour and a half, Jack followed you through Sephora, taking every product you merely tested on your hand and dropping it in the basket that sat on his lap.
When all was said and done, Jack paid five hundred and eighty-three dollars. You could have dropped dead right at the cash register.
"What is?" Jack asks, sticking his head out of the window.
"The chair?"
Jack scoffs, "No. She's fine."
"It doesn't need to be—?"
He hits the side of the car twice, "She's fine. Get in."
Jack doesn't have to tell you again. You round the car and hop into the passenger seat, where your (heart-stoppingly large) bag of makeup sits on the floor.
Jack waits until you buckle to start the car. He drives carefully, eyes glued to the road. You, however, keep yours on him.
You decide to break the silence, "So, are you like a pay pig or something?"
Jack blinks, "A what?"
So… not a pay pig. Good to know.
"Are you… are you trying to be my sugar daddy?"
Jack pulls a hand from the steering wheel, swiping it down his face, "No, Jesus, sweetheart. No. I… I like to help. I have a lot of money, and you don't."
"Lots of people don't have money."
Jack puts the hand back on the wheel, "Listen, do you want it or not? Because I can drive back and return it all."
Your eyes widen, "No, no! I'm not saying not to do this, just…" You bite your lip, debating whether or not you actually want to do this. Fuck it. "Usually when a man spends a shit ton of money on a woman, they expect…" Sex. Okay, maybe you don't want to bring that up with your boss, even if this situation is weird as anything. "They expect something in return."
"No, sweetheart, no. Shit, I'm sorry. I– I don't expect anything from you."
You ignore the way your heart sinks. Jack is your boss, you tell yourself. Your boss. Your boss. Your boss.
"Nothing? Jack, you just spent six hundred dollars on me. On top of the hundred dollars from yesterday."
Jack grows quiet. He pouts before nodding, "I did. And I'd do it again and still not expect anything from you. Got it?"
You bite your lip, "Got it."
From then on, it's nothing but silence in the car. He keeps the windows down. It doesn't do much. You wonder what it would be like to drive with him outside of the city, where Jack can really drive. Windows down, high speed, the wind in your hair.
You bite the inside of your cheek, heat rising to your face. Just because Jack decided that you're his charity case of the month doesn't mean that you should be fantasizing about road tripping with him.
You try your best to wipe that image from your mind until, finally, Jack is pulling over in front of the familiar exterior of your apartment building.
"This is me," you try to joke. "Uh, thank you, Dr. Abbot."
You get out of the car, your bag of splendors in your hands. You close the car door, but the car doesn't move.
Jack wrings his hands together in his lap, "Could we talk more?"
"Oh," your heart begins to pound. You step closer to the car. "Yeah, of course."
"Great, um, over dinner maybe? I think there's some things we should talk about."
"Dinner?" You echo.
Jack's neck flushes, "Or now, if—"
"No, no! Dinner's fine, Dr. Abbot." Trying to remain casual, you tack on, "Maybe I can finally pay."
Jack's lips curl, "Eh, maybe. I'll text you?"
You nod. "Sounds good." With one last smile, you turn, making your way to your place.
"Oh, wait," Jack's voice has your legs frozen on the sidewalk. You turn, glancing at him over your shoulder. He smiles, easy an warm. "Call me Jack, sweetheart."
“You know, if you’re going to be on your phone at work, it better be for something more important than… ‘best drugstore mascara’?”
Jack Abbot frowns as he plucks your phone from your hand. You spin around to look at him, “I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot! I’ll get back to—“
“What does that mean?” He asks, squinting at your still-unlocked phone.
You close your mouth, “Um… that I’m apologizing? For being on my—“
“No, no.” Jack shakes his head, “Drugstore mascara. What the hell is that?”
“Do you not know what mascara is?”
“No— yes. I had a wife, of course I know what—“ Jack shuts his eye, pinching the bridge of the nose. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes again, “I’m asking about the drugstore part.”
“You don’t know what a drugstore is.”
“No— Jesus, you’re killing me here. Drugstore mascara. What is drugstore mascara?”
“Oh,” you cock your head, crossing your arms in front of you. “Uh, it’s just cheaper. You can find it at like, you know, the drugstore.”
“Cheaper?” Jack echoes. “Is it good?”
You shrug, “Not as good as the real deal, but I’m not about to drop thirty bucks for, like, a better formula.” You look to Jack, whose face indicates absolutely zero understanding of what you’re talking about.
“Just buy the better one.”
You blink, “Did you forget the thirty dollars part or…?” Maybe you ask that question with a little more attitude than is appropriate, but it’s not like talking to your boss at work about mascara is the most professional conversation. “I’m a resident, Dr. Abbot. I’m not making the kind of cheese where I can just splurge on makeup.”
Jack nods as though he understands, but his eyes are distant. You smile at him awkwardly. Just as the sense to return to charting hits you, Jack asks, “What’s your venmo?”
“Huh?”
Jack reaches into the back pocket of his camo cargo pants. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through it casually, “Give me your venmo account.”
“Why?” You ask, not because you actually don’t know, but to beg for an out. You don’t think your heart can handle the thought of your hot attending giving you money for makeup. Just the thought makes your skin feel tight.
“Thirty bucks is nothing for me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Your knees buckle.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Jack turns back to your phone, still in his grip. He searches for the venmo app, an act that should feel invasive, but you’re too flustered to think like that. He finds your account, then returns to tap at his own device.
“It was your birthday last month, right?” Jack asks. He does one final
“Uh… four months ago.” You look down at your phone, where a notification comes through, lighting up your screen.
Jack Abbot paid you $100.00 - Make-up - Your Venmo balance is now $100.00.
“Happy birthday.”
“Oh my— Dr. Abbot, this is—“
“Nope,” Jack puts his hand up, shaking his head. “Don’t want to hear it. Let me know if you need more, okay? I mean it.”
“Uh, okay, thank you,” your words come out like a question.
“Don’t mention it.”
With that, Jack is gone. You stare at the phone screen, only one thought swirling in your head.
Is Jack Abbot auditioning to be your fucking sugar daddy?
Synopsis — Spencer's favourite meal (aka dr reid eats pussy)
Who? — Dr. Spencer Reid x Fem!reader
18+ content — MDNI
small drabble post bcs pussy drunk Spencer is on the brain <3
"Spencer," you whine, "no more, please,"
"C'mon, baby," his voice is desperate and pained, as if he's the one who's been mercilessly toyed with this past hour or so. "One for more for me, sweetheart," he licks a long strip along your cunt, "one more."
But it was one more an orgasm ago. In fact, it was one more three, four, five orgasms ago.
Distantly, somewhere in the back of your frazzled and half-mush brain, you wonder if his jaw is sore – if he's really enjoying it as much as his humping and moaning seem to be giving away. Does he really get this much pleasure out of something as simple as eating you out?
But it's not that simple, no– not to Spencer.
For Spencer, it's the concept of your pleasure, the show you unawaredly put on: the hitches in your breath each time he puts his tongue on your clit again, the low moan when he sucks, the breathy please as you beg him to go faster. The way your hips circle and stutter beneath the hold his arms have on them, it's the way you sigh his name – low and dreamy as your back arches of the sheets when he makes you cum.
Spencer enjoys it all – craves it all, always. He's barely even lucid at this point. Your slick a most sweet elixir, throwing him deeper and deeper into a lust-filled haze till he's mindlessly rutting into the mattress and moaning into your core.
He wants to taste you again, taste your sweet liquor as you cum for him, again.
How can he not when your so pretty like this? taste as addictive as you do? make him feel half-insane as you moan out his name and grind your hips down onto his tongue – greedily asking for more, always wanting more, just as he so desperately does. You're the same as him, you want more, more, more – and he'll always so oh, so eagerly provide.
Your thighs are wet and sticky and Spencer seems to revel gleefully in the fact – he's made them like this, he's why your cunt is wet with slick, why your face is covered in tears and few smudges of mascara.
Spencer's mouth is hot on your pussy as he continues his work. He plunges two long and slender fingers inside of your, hooking them up as he moves them in-and-out, all the while sucking on your swollen clit.
"fuck," your back bows off the mattress. You're already so close – was close the moment he put his tongue on you again not even a second after your last orgasm.
"Spencer, please–" you don't know what you plea for – don't know if it's for mercy or for damnation. You're not sure if you should pull his head closer by the hand in his hair, or move away to stave off your orgasm. You're not sure you can handle more, even if you want it, you can't guarantee that another orgasm won't break you. But it doesn't matter, Spencer's movements are relentless, and either way he'll get you there – he needs to make you cum. Your hand in his hair remains neutral.
The coil in your stomach tightens, and you can already feel the familiar sweet, honeyed sensation fill you up. Warmth moving through your nerves and seeping deep into your bones. Your eyes are already closed, eyes sightlessly moving around beneath your lids as if caught in a restless dream — and you almost feel like you are in one: some feverish, psychosomatic sex dream.
Spencer efforts double, almost like he can notice the proximity of your orgasm, telepathically able to predict when the sensation is about to flood you even before you've been made aware yourself. His hips grind down harder against the mattress as he, seemingly unaware, tries to make himself cum to the sweet sounds of your pleasure.
His fingers move deeper, motions precise. The pads of his fingers nudge that soft spot deep in your cervix, and your legs are clamping closed, only held open by his bobbing head.
"Spencer!" you moan, "too much, fuck– please, honey, please," soft words bubble from your lips, your brain too pleasure-frazzled to form any other, more coherent requests.
Spencer's fingers continue their movements, his tongue moves up and down your cunt, before he rips out his fingers to stuff his face right in the centre of you to get a good taste, his nose brushing against your clit as he does so. You reward him with a cry, and he gifts you back his own moans. His sounds pressed deep into your cunt, making vibrations reverberate from your core to your chest, wrecking your body tremors as they flow through you.
He sucks and sucks, drinking your juices like a man depraved and dying of thirst. Spencer's always been an eager lover.
The coil begs to snap, stretched far too taught. His tongue plunges deep inside you, tasting along the spongy walls of your cunt.
All it takes is one simple movement from Spencer. His thumb circles your clit once, twice, his nose nudges your clit closer to his thumb – and you're screaming.
"Spencer!" you cry out as your back arches off the mattress completely. Your hips still held down by Spencer's strong arms intertwined around them, holding you hostage to his pleasure.
Moan after moan releases from your throat, mindlessly spoken words mixing in the middle: some please, some Spencers, a few cuss words in the bundle.
Despite the intensity you feel, the electricity that increases second by second, your hips act on a mind of their own. As every alarm in your friend brain goes off, telling you to stop the stimulation before you go insane, your hips yet continue to move, jerky circles following Spencer's still ongoing torment.
And Spencer's doesn't deprive you of any pleasure – his tongue still rapidly laps at your juices. The movements of his thumb on your clit are gentle, however. Slow, deliberate and soft circles.
Spencer doesn't fully slow down though, and before you can consider pulling him away with your weakened grip on his hair, Spencer's movements stutter. His body wracks with tremors, the movements of his mouth on you spasmodic. His hips thrash against the sheets. Spencer's movements are sporadic and shaky as his own cum erupts through his aching, hard cock.
Spencer's eyes roll far back into his skull, and you lean your head down to watch as his back bows while he whimpers and mewls against your pussy as he ruins the fabric of his boxers.
His hips continue to jerk, and he lays some soft, open-mouthed kisses on you as he rides out the high of a most divine feeling.
When his hips still, and sounds come back into focus, Spencer's hands loosen on you as he begins his ascent up your body, too eager to share the sweet taste of you on your tongue.
"mhmm," he hums against your pubic mound, laying a wet kiss as his handa move up to caress your body.
"you made me cum, pretty girl," he whispers against your stomach, you feel the curve of his lips around every word. "fuck, your sweet cunt and pretty sounds made me cum," another kiss laid higher up, "made me feel so good,"
You hum back in reply, unable to fully form a sentence yet.
"Didn't even need to try," he murmurs, and it's true. Spencer can cum from just looking at you, from your soft sounds and breathy whimpers. It's happened before, and it almost happened tonight when you moaned out his name all dreamy and dainty as he made you cum that first time.
"You sounded so pretty, too," his words carry on as his kisses move higher. He lays a wet kiss on your sternum, quickly darting out his tongue to lick a drop of sweat of your skin.
His big hands move all over you, from your hip to around your waist, then up to caress your chest, thumbs running over your nipples, before Spencer decides to taste them instead.
His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he settles himself between your legs.
His takes one breast into his mouth, sucking at the plump skin, head bobbing as he kisses and licks at your chest. His tongue swipes over your nipple, once, twice, three, five times till your hoarse voice whimpers out your pleasure – much to his satisfaction. He moves to repeat the same movements on the other breast.
Once he's satisfied, he releases you with a pop, the sound obscene and loud, contrasting your soft pants.
"Did you feel good, baby?" he speaks the words now against the side of your neck. You nod in response, your jaw softly meeting the side of his face as you do. Spencer chuckles at the contact, and moves out of the cervix of your neck to properly look at you instead.
His brown eyes meet yours. This close, you can make each individual flick of gold in his eyes, each green strand the decorates the brown.
"Tell me," he requests, soft and gentle. He kisses you tenderly on the lips. "tell me how good it felt,"
"So good, Spence," you reply, voice rough with use, whilst you wrap your hands around his neck, one burrowing into his soft curls. His eyes flutter as your nails lightly scrape his skull, and he feels a low buzz at the contact.
"Good," he kisses you again, satiated and satisfied with your answer.
It seems to you like Spencer's gotten his fill, for now. He's only made you cum, what? 5 or 6 times?
He kisses you softly, and you hope that Spencer's settling to rest with you.
He kisses you slow and soft, humming gently against your lips. He lays one kiss on your temple, another on your forehead, and one on each of your closed eyelids as you begin to settle and relax against the pillows, your brain wandering off as you lose time between each kiss and the next; your brain dozes off for half-seconds as the atmosphere quiets.
so calm....so quiet
Your grip on Spencer loosens, the entrancing, post-euphoria haze thickens and stretches time as sounds around you mute and an exhausted smile settles across your face as you give into that weightless feeling and finally rest.
—
Spencer's hands wander downwards, yet again, his fingers settling on your clit as he aligs his once more hard cock with your entrance.
Liked reading this? >> Give this a go
A/N — some late night Spencer thoughts. Been wanting to right for dr. pretty boy for a while now.
+ experimenting with shorter fics now, hopefully I'll write more like this? also it's not properly edited if u can't tell ⊙﹏⊙
Spencer realizes how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. What better time is there to propose if not in the middle of making love? Based on:
Warnings: 18+ mature content but nothing too explicit, this is just sweet love making
words: 2077
A/n: I’m supposed to finish my last kinktober and update my series, but both are very heavy and I needed something sweet to defrost my writer's block. I hope you don’t mind me squeezing something else until I finish my other WIPs🥲
“…every time I look into your eyes I see it, you’re all I need…”
SPENCER KNEW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU. There wasn't a single thing he wasn't familiar with—from every mole, every scar, to every stretch mark. Any imperfection you considered of yourself he found to be perfect.
He was well aware of the small scar on your hip bone. Or the mole resting at the back of your thigh. Or the way you disliked caffeine, because every time you drank it, it increased your heart rate drastically. Which was why you always judged him every time he had a cup of coffee in his hand, especially with the amount of sugar he never seemed to stop adding.
"That is definitely not healthy," you would always say, to which he simply responded with a small peck on your lips. It was his way to shut you up without saying anything.
He also knew how soft you actually were underneath that hard exterior you always carried. You were an enigma the first time you joined the team, but Spencer always had a soft spot for mystery, and solving you became his mission even when he wasn't the best at maintaining conversations. He remembered making a fool of himself when he talked to you, stuttering about one of the random facts engraved in his brain.
But you still listened to him, and for once in his life, he finally found someone who didn't mind hearing him talk. It was nice to have somebody who found his knowledge interesting, and with that thought in mind, it didn't take long for him to take an interest in you.
Not that he wasn't interested at first, because honestly, you were a splendid sight when you first walked through the door. It was more so an interest that was considered surpassing a simple friendship. An interest that had him push his confidence into asking you out.
Spencer never pegged himself as someone who would be content having a significant other in his daily routine—his past relationships never seemed to work out, after all—but the more time he spent with you, the more he realized he was actually in pure bliss. It seemed as if you had cast a spell, drawing him deeper into your presence, a magnetic force of affection that went beyond the superficial. Every smile, every touch, seemed to emanate a radiant heat, and he couldn't help but be entranced by the sheer magnitude of your warmth.
Especially at this moment, staring into your eyes as they slowly fluttered open from a long night of slumber, he found himself leaning forward. You were so warm, so inviting. The soft light coming from the curtains cast a shadow over your curves and he couldn't help himself from trailing down your body.
You were fully awake now as he pressed his lips on every part of your skin. The slight movement of your arms wrapping around his neck had him grunting, and somehow he was suddenly positioned between your legs, pressing his hot length onto your wet folds, wanting nothing else but to push himself deep into your warmth.
As he watched you beneath him, eyes half closed, mouth open in anticipation, he couldn't help but mutter his next words because you looked breathtakingly beautiful. Heavenly gorgeous covered in a sheen of sweat, so damn pretty with eyes full of desire. You looked like a siren, an angel, and a lustful woman all rolled into one.
Everything about you was so divine, and the desire to consume every part of your existence became an insatiable hunger. It was a need, a yearning that made the idea of spending a lifetime without you seem unfathomable as if oxygen slowly drained from his world, leaving him breathless.
The words bubbled up from the depths of his heart, and before he could second-guess himself, he blurted out, "Marry me."
Your eyes snapped open as he finally sank his hips into you, and before you could even respond, before you could even register his words, his rough thrust stole the breath from your lungs. Rational thoughts shattered as he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was slightly painful yet completely pleasurable.
He slowly pulled out, then pushed back in, your back arching, legs wrapping around his waist. "Spence," you moaned as he started a steady pace, trying to gain your focus but failing miserably. You couldn't think of anything else except the sensation between your legs. "Oh, God."
Languid and smooth, his hips continued to roll into you. "This feels good, doesn't it?"
The feel of his cock sinking in and out of you had your head falling back against the mattress. Your fingernails tightened upon his back, and he drove you gently into the bed with low grunts. His voice was rough, broken by focused breaths. "We could do this every morning."
A whine broke out of you.
"I'd wake up first," he told you. "I'd make you breakfast in bed..." He slipped out again before thrusting into you slowly, dragging his cock along your inner walls that had you mewling. "...right after I wake you with my tongue between your thighs."
You let out another moan. He drank in the sound with a smile before lowering his mouth to the base of your neck. Heated kisses trailed along your skin as his fingers trailed down the outline of your body before they stopped at the warmth between your legs.
Your mouth was wide open against his shoulder, eyes watering with the force of pleasure from having his cock smacking through your wetness, his body forcefully shoving your knees apart. You felt his fingers trailing your clit in slow circles and you arched your back, each tender brush tightened that coil of heat simmering in the pit of your stomach. The simulation drove you further into a haze of pleasure that a soft yes finally escaped your lips without you realizing it.
The barely whispered word didn't go unnoticed by him.
"Yes to this," he wondered as prompted his weight on his other hand. "Or to my proposal?"
You glanced up at him, your face a mixture of pleasure and alarm as you gave him a look. "You're crazy."
He watched you closely, mesmerized by the way your hips were bucking every time his cock hit that soft spot inside you while his fingers continued their tease. "Maybe." He leaned down and softly bit your shoulder. "But I am crazy in love with you."
When you didn't respond, he slowly pulled away and fixed his gaze on you. Your reaction, or lack thereof, spoke volumes, and as his eyes met yours, he found himself captivated by the reflective pools of emotion within. There was a hint of fear and concern, shadows that danced with the flicker of uncertainty. Yet, beneath those layers, he could see the distinct longing in your eyes. It was hard not to distinguish it as it matched the same look in his. Your stare was warm and domineering.
They were so full of love.
And that moment, Spencer realized, that was what you were to him—love. You were the greatest passion he had ever known.
You felt completely in the moment with him as you let your gaze scan over his features. His eyes appeared darker in this light of the room, but you could still see the soft lightness of them. Then, you leaned up, noses brushing gently against each other before you pressed your lips onto his. His body moved again in response, hips bucking into you and you felt him pulsing inside your core as his mouth worked harmoniously along yours.
"Marry." Thrust. "Me." Thrust.
You whimpered. Everything was too much. The intensity of the pleasure was almost intoxicating, a heady concoction that wrapped around you, rendering you momentarily breathless.
"Having you for the rest of my life is a privilege." He continued, grunting as you clenched around him. He lost himself with one final, jagged plea. "Marry me and make me the happiest man alive."
His words, touch, and the stroke of him inside you—it all blurred together. It pushed you so wildly that the coil in your stomach twisted sharply through along your body. He lunged down to kiss you again, tongue pushing deep as he stole your moan before it could break into the air. He tugged you into him at the same time that you submitted to his pull.
There were times when you would appreciate this. The contact, the intimacy, the warmth of your boyfriend connected with you. Right now though, you needed release. So you buried your hand in his curls, all messy and askew.
"Spencer," you breathed out against his lips. Each of his thrusts fed the growing flame in your body as your body turned pliant for him. “Oh god, yes,” you cried, head thrashing side to side as your eyes rolled back, overwhelmed by pleasure.
He peppered kisses over your neck, your jaw, your temple, desperate to be even closer to you, to melt into you. "Yes to what?"
Your senses were heightened, every touch and every breath seemed magnified in the intensity of the moment. Your body shuddered with every vicious thrust.
"Yes, yes, yes." A desperate, needy little whine slipped past your lips and you opened your eyes wide to give him a pleading look. "Spencer, please, please."
You were panting, your breath hot and your skin even hotter, and you could barely hear him when he spoke, "Yes to what, Angel?"
Angel. The syllables carried a warmth that resonated deep within your heart. Sometimes you were his Angel. Sometimes you were his Sweetheart. While you cherished the way he expressed his affection, a yearning for more had taken root.
Marry me.
You could be more than his angel. You could be his wife. But it wasn't just about the affectionate words anymore; it was about a promise, a shared future, and you realized as he hovered above you, all sweaty and desperate, that you wanted to feel this bliss every day. How could you not when he fits so perfectly inside you that you could swear he was made for you?
And then you felt it, his hand trailing down your arm before it stopped right along your fingers, intertwining them with his. Your hand clutched onto his as his thrust sped up a fraction—but it was still deep and lazy, enough to make you squirm. His cock was achingly hard inside you and when you clenched down on him, you adored the twitch and resounding moan it drew out of him.
You wanted this for your life. You wanted him every day. You wanted to wake up each morning in his arms, him whispering sweet nothings as he buried himself inside you.
You wanted him so much you would be a fool not to accept his proposal.
"Yes," you breathed out. "I'll marry you."
He grunted against your lips. "Say that again."
His thrusts were now fast and ruthless, his groans filling the room while the sound of skin slapping together echoed with it. Every time you could feel him deep inside you, it brought you closer to that familiar coil in your stomach. It was a heady sensation, an intoxicating blend of desire that quickened your pulse and set your senses ablaze.
"I—shit," you cried out, legs shaking at the pleasure traveling along your body you were starting to wail desperately for your release. "Fuck, baby, I'll marry you."
A sound of satisfaction erupted from him as he kissed you with every ounce of power he had. He kissed you as he had never kissed anyone before. He kissed you deeply, possessively even, and it was messy and rough and probably looked horrific from different angles, but it felt perfect.
You felt perfect. Your lips. Your curves. Your scent. It was as if you were made especially for him. He was fully consumed with you, consumed by you, and yet he couldn't get enough. Though you were beneath him, he was at your mercy, and the fact that you could still have such control over him made his stomach twist even more.
He was so in love with you. He was so sure of it, so sure of this abundance of passion, for Spencer Reid could sometimes be dense when it came to sudden bursts of emotions, but he was not stupid. He wasn't oblivious, nor was he lacking in perception. It wasn't about intelligence or lack thereof, it was simply about the purity of his emotion.
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But it closes a little too firmly, a little too carefully controlled, and that’s how you know.
You look up from where you’re curled on the couch, the soft glow of the TV painting the room in low light. For a second, he just stands there with his hand still on the handle, shoulders slightly hunched like he hasn’t quite made it all the way back yet.
“Hey,” you say softly.
His head lifts at your voice. The tension in his face shifts, not gone, just… tucked away. Filed under something neater.
“Hi.”
It’s automatic, the way he crosses the room to you. Like muscle memory. Like you’re part of the routine he trusts. He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your lips—gentle, familiar—but it’s over before it can settle into anything.
Too quick.
“Case ran long,” he adds, already pulling back, already halfway somewhere else in his head. “I’m—uh—I’m gonna shower.”
“Spence—”
But he’s already moving.
You watch him disappear down the hallway, the quiet click of the bathroom door following a second later. Then the rush of water.
And just like that, the apartment feels… off.
You frown slightly, staring at the space he left behind. The way he didn’t linger. Didn’t ramble. Didn’t even really look at you beyond that quick, checking-in glance.
Something’s wrong.
Not catastrophically wrong. You know what that looks like. You’ve seen it before.
This is quieter than that. He’s wound too tight.
You mute the TV, the silence settling in around you, filled only by the distant sound of running water. Your mind runs through possibilities—bad case, lack of sleep, something that stuck with him longer than usual.
Probably all of the above.
You push yourself off the couch, padding down the hallway. The bathroom door is still closed, steam already curling faintly from beneath it. You hover there for a second, considering knocking.
You don’t.
Instead, you lean your shoulder against the wall, arms crossing loosely as you wait.
The water runs longer than usual.
When it finally shuts off, there’s a pause. A long one. Like he’s just standing there, gathering himself, piecing something back together before he has to step out and be a person again.
Your chest tightens a little.
The door opens a minute later, and Spencer steps out, hair damp, t-shirt clinging slightly where it hasn’t fully dried him off. He looks… better, technically.
Cleaner. Still not okay.
He blinks when he sees you there. “Oh—hi. I didn’t—uh—realize you were—”
“Waiting?” you offer.
He gives a small, sheepish nod, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”
“It’s okay,” you say, but your eyes narrow just a little, studying him. “You just got back. You’re allowed to be weird for at least, like, an hour.”
That earns you the faintest hint of a smile. It flickers across his mouth, brief but real. “Only an hour?”
“Mhm. After that I start charging you for emotional distance.”
A quiet huff of laughter leaves him, softer than usual, but it’s something. Still, he shifts his weight like he doesn’t quite know where to go next. Like standing still might let something catch up to him.
You tilt your head slightly, softer now. “Hey… are you okay?”
Spencer doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze drops somewhere between you, unfocused, like he’s flipping through thoughts too fast to grab just one. You can almost see the calculations, the quiet sorting, the way he tries to find the most accurate answer instead of the easiest one.
A few seconds pass before he exhales.
“I—” He stops, presses his lips together, tries again. “I will be.”
It’s honest. Not reassuring, not entirely comforting, but real. And you’ve learned that’s what matters with him.
You nod, stepping a little closer, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Okay. ‘Will be’ is acceptable.”
His shoulders loosen a fraction at that. Not fully. Just enough to breathe a little easier.
“I think I just…” He rubs at the back of his neck again, damp curls catching between his fingers. “I should probably sleep. Reset a little.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “That sounds like a good plan.”
There’s another pause, smaller this time. Hesitant.
Then, quieter—almost careful—“Will you… come with me?”
It’s not a big question. Not really. You’ve done this countless times before. Fallen asleep together, limbs tangled, his breathing evening out beside you.
But there’s something different in the way he asks it now.
Less routine. More… needing.
Your expression softens instantly. “Of course.”
Something in him settles at that. Not all the way, but enough that the sharpest edges dull.
“Okay,” he says, almost to himself.
He shifts, gesturing faintly down the hall like he’s not entirely sure how to transition from standing here to actually moving. You don’t wait for him to figure it out. You slip past him, bumping your shoulder lightly into his as you go.
“C’mon, genius,” you tease gently. “Doctor’s orders. Bed.”
A quiet breath of amusement escapes him, and this time the smile lingers just a little longer.
He follows you.
The bedroom feels softer somehow. Dimmer. Safer.
You tug the blankets back and climb in first, settling into your usual spot without thinking. Spencer hovers for half a second before joining you, movements slower, more deliberate, like he’s still shaking off the outside world piece by piece.
The mattress dips under his weight. There’s that same brief hesitation. Then he shifts closer.
Not dramatic. Not even fully intentional, maybe. Just instinct. His arm slides around you, tucking you in against his side, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist.
You hum softly, adjusting so you fit better against him, your cheek brushing his shoulder.
For a moment, neither of you say anything.
You can feel it, though. The tension still coiled in him. Quieter now, but not gone. His fingers flex slightly against your side, like he doesn’t quite know how to let go of everything yet.
Your gaze flicks upward.
He’s staring at the ceiling. Wide awake.
Yeah. No. Not happening.
A small smile tugs at your mouth.
“You’re terrible at this,” you murmur.
Spencer blinks, glancing down at you. “At what?”
“Sleeping.”
“I just laid down,” he protests mildly.
“Mhm. And you’re already thinking too loud.”
His lips twitch faintly. “I don’t—think loudly.”
“You do when you’re trying not to.”
That earns you a slightly more real look. A little more present.
Good. But you have another idea.
You shift suddenly, twisting out of his hold just enough to grab one of the pillows from behind you.
Spencer frowns, confused. “What are you—”
You hit him.
Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to surprise.
The pillow makes a soft whump against his arm.
He stares at you. You stare back.
“…Did you just—” he starts.
You hit him again. That does it.
“Okay,” Spencer says slowly, pushing himself up onto one elbow, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “I see what’s happening.”
“Do you?” you grin, already backing up on your knees across the bed.
“I was under the impression we were going to sleep.”
“Revised plan.”
He watches you for a second longer. Then, something shifts.
It’s subtle, but you catch it. The way the tension in his shoulders loosens, replaced by something lighter. Sharper. Awake in a different way.
“You know,” he says, reaching for a pillow of his own, “there are several strategic disadvantages to your current position.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. For one—”
You don’t let him finish. You swing the pillow, aiming for his chest.
This time, he’s ready for it. And just like that, the room changes.
Laughter breaks through the quiet, sudden and bright, as Spencer catches the pillow and immediately retaliates. The first hit he lands is clumsy, glancing off your side, but the second—
“Hey!” you laugh, scrambling away as he moves forward.
The bed dips and shifts under both of you, turning the whole thing into unstable territory. You grab another pillow, swinging wildly, barely dodging his reach as he tries to corner you.
“You started this,” he reminds you, breath already a little uneven—but lighter now, threaded with something almost playful.
“And you’re losing,” you shoot back.
“I am not losing.”
“You absolutely are—”
Your sentence dissolves into laughter as he lunges, catching the edge of your pillow mid-swing and using it to yank you forward. You barely twist out of it in time, scrambling off the bed entirely with a soft thud of your feet hitting the floor.
“Oh, that’s cheating!” you accuse, already darting backward.
Spencer sits up fast, pushing his hair out of his face, eyes brighter now—really bright, the kind that only shows up when he’s fully, genuinely in something.
“That’s not cheating,” he argues, grabbing his pillow and sliding off the bed after you. “That’s adaptation.”
“You’re literally making up rules—”
“You didn’t establish any rules!”
You laugh again, breathless, backing toward the door as he advances. There’s something delightfully unfair about him like this—long limbs, quick reflexes, a surprising amount of coordination when he’s not overthinking every step.
“You’re supposed to be bad at this!” you protest.
“That seems like an assumption you made without evidence.”
“You trip over air, Spencer!”
“I trip when I’m thinking,” he corrects, already closing the distance, pillow raised like a very soft weapon. “I’m not thinking right now.”
“Oh, that’s terrifying—”
You dart sideways just as he swings, the pillow grazing your arm instead of landing square. You laugh, breathless, circling back toward the bed like it’s home base, except he’s already anticipating that, cutting you off with a step that’s just a little too quick.
Unfair.
“You’re taking this too seriously!” you accuse with a laugh, backing up until the mattress bumps into the backs of your legs.
“I take all competitive activities seriously.”
“This is not a competitive—Spencer!”
He lunges.
You try to dodge, really you do, but he catches your wrist mid-retreat, momentum carrying both of you forward. The mattress dips hard as you fall back onto it, a surprised laugh punching out of you as he follows, one knee landing on the bed beside your hip, the other sinking into the blankets for balance.
The pillows are forgotten somewhere in the chaos.
You twist beneath him, still laughing, trying to shove him off, but he’s already got you—hands catching your wrists, pinning them lightly above your head as he leans over you, hair falling into his eyes, glasses slightly crooked.
“Got you,” he says, a little breathless, a little triumphant.
“You cheated,” you counter immediately, though the words dissolve into another laugh.
“I adapted,” he corrects again, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now—real, unguarded, lingering.
You both go still for a second.
Not fully. Your chests are still rising and falling too fast, breaths mingling in the small space between you. But the movement slows. The laughter fades into something softer, quieter, like the room is catching up with you.
Spencer doesn’t let go of your wrists right away.
His gaze flickers over your face, like he’s remembering where he is. Who he’s with. The shift happens again, subtle but unmistakable, the playful edge softening into something warmer. Something heavier.
“Hi,” you murmur, softer now.
His lips twitch faintly. “Hi.”
“I missed you,” you say softly.
“I missed you too,” he says, and it lands softer than everything else—like something he didn’t realize he was holding onto until it slipped out.
Your chest tightens in that quiet, familiar way.
You don’t rush it. You just… shift.
One of your wrists twists gently in his grasp, and he lets it go immediately—of course he does, there’s no resistance, no hesitation. Spencer has never been someone who holds on when you pull away.
But you’re not pulling away.
Your freed hand slides up, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and you tug him down.
The kiss meets him halfway.
It’s warm and intentional. Your lips brushing his first, testing, and then settling when he exhales softly against you like something in him just… gives. He melts.
His grip loosens on your other wrist, not dropping it entirely at first, just easing—like he’s making sure you don’t want to move again. When you don’t, when your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt instead, he lets go completely.
His hand slides down, slow and careful, tracing the line of your arm before settling at your side.
The kiss deepens—not dramatically, not all at once. It builds. Soft turns into something warmer, something that lingers a second longer each time your lips meet. His breathing shifts, uneven at the edges, like he’s still catching up to the moment.
Like he didn’t expect this. Like he needed it anyway.
You hum faintly against him, and that does something—something visible. His hand tightens just a little at your waist, pulling you closer without thinking, pressing you more firmly into the mattress beneath him.
Grounding. Needing.
When he pulls back, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe, to look at you, curls falling messily into his eyes.
There’s still a trace of that earlier tension in him—but it’s changed now. Softer. Warmer. Redirected into something that hums low under his skin.
“Is this…” he starts, voice quieter, a little rougher now. “Is this your official treatment plan?”
Your lips curve, brushing his again, lighter this time. “Mhm. Very advanced technique.”
He huffs a small breath of laughter, forehead dipping briefly against yours. “Peer-reviewed?”
You laugh. “Extensively.”
Another kiss—shorter, but more certain.
His hand shifts at your waist, thumb brushing absent, slow circles like he’s thinking without meaning to. The rest of him follows in small ways—his weight settling more comfortably over you, one knee adjusting against the mattress, his body fitting closer instead of hovering.
Less distance. Less thinking. More here.
You slide your hand up from his shirt to his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the edge, and his eyes flicker shut for a second at the contact.
When he kisses you again, there’s less hesitation in it. Still gentle, still Spencer, but steadier now—like he’s chosen this instead of stumbled into it. He sighs when he pulls away, a deep and satisfied sound that makes you smile again.
