Heyy guys, idk if y'all remember me. I've been kinda off for a while, just reading and not writing. Anyway, I launched a shop on etsy and I've got some products related to criminal minds (actually Spencer, Derek and Hotch lol) and id be really happy if y'all could take a look, I've got free shipping for the US. There's also other stuff, including stuff from other fandoms (and by fandoms I mean men I think are hot lol, like bucky, who im working on a fanfic btw...) and just random stuff
Sorry for the rant, here is the link to my store
ALSO if y'all have ideas of what you'd like to see, I'm happy to hear
Guys, I was thinking of selling celebrity themed woven blankets in my store. Like blankets with pictures or montages of actors, stuff related to tv shows, etc, what do you think? Is it "buyable"? If so, what kind of images? I thought of pink american flags, just pictures, montages, "but daddy i love him" pictures with hearts - yk the ones -, and idk what else lol. Anyway, please help me decide (you can send your opinions in my anonymous inbox if you're shy) and if you have requests I totally accept too
Btw, the blankets I'm talking about are in this style, I could do regular fleece ones too, but I think this looks prettier
Summary: You go to a park to try to relax and you end up meeting someone who was on the same mission. Reader is a scientist. They're both workaholics. It's basically like you're Max.
Warnings: it's fluff, so there's no warnings :)
a/n: this is my first fluff, so im #nervous and will accept constructive and kindly worded critics. as always, its also on ao3. pls like and repost if you like it and i love you guys
It is the first Saturday you actually took for yourself, it is supposed to be a nice day, getting the work out of your head, all the stress, the deadlines, all the bullshit your boss has been giving you. Today you won’t think about work. At all. You promised yourself and your therapist. But now that you’re actually here at the park, it feels wrong, like you should be working, or at least doing house chores, besides, it’s so boring, you came by yourself, and there’s only so much a walk around the park can do for your boredom.
So now you found yourself sitting on a bench, debating whether you should just go home or insist on relaxing, whatever that meant. But before you get to decide what to do, some dude sits next to you, you could smell his cologne and only hope he isn’t a freak. When you actually looked up at him, you were glad you didn’t leave. He was cute, not your usual type, but he was good-looking. Even though you both were sitting, you could tell he was tall, he had a somewhat long hair, but not too long, just the perfect length, he was skinny, but not one of those guys who look like they haven’t seen food in ages, you could tell he was still a little muscular under his button up shirt. And just when you were thinking that he couldn’t get any better, he offered you his hand for a shake and opened his mouth.
“Hi, I’m Spencer” was all he said, but he sounded so sweet, and his name suited him, but it’s hard to imagine a name that wouldn’t sound beautiful coming from the mouth of such a pretty man.
But even though he was hot and all that, it was still kind of weird, like who tries to talk to strangers in parks nowadays? So you were still a little hesitant when you shook his hand and said: “Hey, Y/N”
“What brings you here today, Y/N?”
Okay, that’s weird, all the crime TV shows you’ve watched tell you he was a serial killer, or something worse, so you can’t help but looking around to see if there are some van parked nearby, but all you see is kids playing, couples having picnics and parents running after their children.
“I’ve been told I should ‘relax’, so that’s what I’m trying to do, I guess, but that’s not really my thing” you admit, not even sure why you would say that to a stranger, I mean, you could’ve just said you had a day off or something more casual, but somehow that man was facing a similar problem, I guess DC really is the land of the workaholics.
“I thought I was the only one. Actually, my therapist told me I should try to have a normal conversation, with someone normal outside of work, and you strike me as normal, so here I am” he said after a chuckle.
“So I’m your homework?” you pretend being offended, but you’re actually flattered to have been chosen, as embarrassing as it might sound.
He chuckles, seemingly nervously “No, no that’s not…” he pauses “I mean, it kind of is what this is, but it’s the kind of homework I’m enjoying doing” he smiles and you melt, that’s such a nerdy cute thing to say.
You smile too and say “I’ll take that, nerd. So, what is that you work as?”
He sighs and looks down at his hands “I work at the FBI, I’m a profiler. How about you?”
“Wow, that’s impressive, no wonder you need a break” he looks at you again, paying attention to every word. “I’m a researcher on immune cells therapy”
He chuckles and says “Well, if being a FBI agent is impressive, I don’t know what being a scientist is. Seriously, it’s so cool. If I wasn’t working for the FBI I’d definitely be doing something more ‘scientific’, probably more physics wise than immunology, you know, but it’s still really cool that you do that kind of research, it must be kind of stressful though”
Wow, you were impressed by him, and his ramblings are so cute, you smile. “Yeah, I guess you could say that, but it’s also cool to know I might be doing a difference in the world, which is a feeling you probably know all too well”
He laughs “I think so, but I guess it is nice to take a break from time to time, enjoy a Saturday afternoon with a beautiful woman in a beautiful park”
That’s all it took for your entire face to turn red, he just called you beautiful, a compliment you’ve heard from many mouths before, but coming from his made you just want to kiss him right now, right here, but I’d be inappropriate so you settle for a smile and an awkward silence. You definitely need to get laid or something, you’re way too needy, unlike your usual self. But men don’t come up to you without sounding dirty anymore and that is really your Achilles heel, so when a hot and cute man comes up to you nicely, not like he’s begging for sex, and starts talking about “nerd” topics, you melt.
You look away for a moment, suddenly very interested in a couple feeding ducks across the grass, hoping the cool park breeze will soothe the heat in your face. “Well” you finally say, clearing your throat playfully to break the sudden intensity between you two “If you keep throwing around compliments like that, agent, I’m going to think you're using advanced FBI interrogation tactics on me.”
He quickly raises his hands in mock surrender, a bright, boyish grin instantly replacing his nervous demeanor. “No tactics, I promise. Profiling is strictly against my weekend protocol. Though, if I were to make an observation” he tilts his head, his eyes tracking the slight curve of your smile “I’d say your immune cell research might be highly sophisticated, but your defense mechanisms against a simple compliment could use some work.”
You let out a genuine laugh, the last bit of your work stress completely evaporating. “Oh, shut up. I'm a scientist, we don't get praised, we get peer-reviewed. I'm not used to it.”
“Then consider this a very favorable review” he says softly. He shifts on the wooden bench, turning his whole body toward you and propping an elbow on the backrest. The sudden proximity makes your heart do a little flip, but the intense tension quickly morphs into pure, unadulterated nerd energy as a thought strikes him. “Besides, if we're talking about science, it’s a proven fact that positive reinforcement increases dopamine production. I'm just trying to help you relax. It's chemistry.”
“Is that your defense?” you tease, leaning in just a fraction “Using biochemistry to justify flirting?”
“Hey, it's better than physics” Spencer fires back, his eyes dancing. “I could have gone with a joke about momentum, but I didn't want to force the mass times acceleration of our conversation. Or worse, a joke about chemistry itself. I was going to tell you one about sodium and hydrogen, but... NaH.”
You just laugh, completely amused by this random man at the park. Who knew weekends could actually be enjoyable? Even if it still involves a little science. “Are you trying to seduce me with science, Spencer?”
He blushes a little, rubbing the back of his neck, but his smile only widens. “I mean, if chemistry doesn't work, I also have an extensive repertoire of terrible science puns and useless animal facts”
“Chemistry is working, but I do appreciate animal facts” you reply with a smile.
He laughed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. The fact that you appreciated his puns and references made him feel like he'd struck gold. Normally, people rolled their eyes at his attempts to insert science facts into conversation. You, on the other hand, were lapping it up with a smile on your face.
“Then, you're in for a treat. My brain is like a warehouse of useless facts and corny jokes, just waiting to be unleashed” he says.
“I just so happen to love corny jokes and random useless facts” is all you get out between laughs.
He smiled “Oh, perfect. Then, you and my brain will get along splendidly. Did you know that a group of flamingos is called a flamboyance?”
“Are you serious? That's a funny and weird name” you just laugh
He nodded, loving the sound of your laughter. “As ridiculous as it sounds, it's 100% true” he confirmed “And did you know that the collective noun for kangaroos is a mob or a troop?”
“Mob? Like those dangerous criminals?” you chuckle in confusion, almost certain he’s making it up at this point.
He nodded again, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yep, you can imagine a bunch of roos causing mayhem on the streets of Vegas” he quipped. “Kangaroos aren't the only ones with weird collective nouns, though. What do you think a group of owls is called?”
You laugh, completely captivated by him and his conversation full of weird facts “No idea, what?”
He loved the way your laughter sparkled in your eyes and the way you were looking at him now. “A parliament” he said with a touch of amusement “Isn't that just bizarre? A bunch of big-eyed birds in a parliament, deciding the fate of the rodent world over evening tea.”
You laugh louder and people around just stare at you two “That's such a funny thing to picture.”
He joined in your laughter, feeling a rush of joy at your reaction. He could listen to your laugh all day. “Isn't it? I always picture them with little top hats and monocles, pontificating about the latest events in animal kingdom politics.”
You laugh even more, as if it’s possible. “Oh my God, I can barely breathe.”
He chuckled, enjoying the fact that he could make you laugh so much. He hadn't felt this comfortable around anyone in a long time. “Breathe, breathe” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “We don't want you passing out on me before I can share all of my bird and mammal facts and you can share your phone number.”
“Smooth, I like it” you say after taking a deep breath and recovering your composure, making his cheeks blush, cause even he was surprised by how easily flirting was coming out “Wow, I think I haven't laughed so much in like a really long time.”
He smiled, his heart warming at the fact that he was the reason for your laughter, just as you were the reason for his freedom to be himself. “I'm glad I can help. It's nice to know I have a career as a standup comedian if the FBI life doesn't work out” he joked.
“I'd be the first in line to hear your funny animal facts” you smile and he feels butterflies in his stomach. It was a smile that made him want to spill all of his thoughts and feelings, along with animal facts, of course.
“Then, consider yourself a VIP. I'll give you front row seats to my future comedy gigs and exclusive backstage access to the latest animal puns.”
“Well, in that case, you probably should get my number to contact me when the day comes” you tease him and he is quick to hand you his phone for you to add your information, not allowing his eyes to leave you for one second.
As you hand him his phone back, you say “Back on the collectives facts, I think you and I should be called a dynamic”
He blinks, his thumb hovering over the screen where your newly entered contact details are displayed. A beautiful, slightly flustered pink dusts his cheeks as his brain tries to process the sudden, clever shift in the conversation.
“A dynamic?” he repeats, the word rolling slowly off his tongue as if he’s cataloging it.
“Yeah” you chuckle, leaning back against the bench and crossing your legs. “You know, like a flamboyance of flamingos or a parliament of owls. If we’re sticking to the trend of weird, oddly specific collective nouns, I think two workaholics who manage to get each other’s nerdy jokes should definitely be classified as a dynamic. Don’t you think?”
Spencer’s eyes light up, that familiar, brilliant spark returning to his gaze as he finally catches on. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh that makes your chest feel warm, sliding his phone into his pocket without taking his eyes off yours.
“You know, etymologically speaking, a group of two is technically a dyad” he says, though his wide smile completely betrays his academic tone “But I think 'a dynamic' sounds infinitely better. It implies motion. Energy. Connection.” he leans in a little, his voice dropping slightly. “And considering the statistical probability of me sitting on this exact bench, meeting a brilliant immunologist who actually appreciates my trivia? I think I’m willing to let the linguistic rules slide just this once”
Prob horrible as shit cause you can't even do grammar correctly
Oh, I'm sorry if English is not my first language, just one of the 3 that I speak. But, come on, tell us how many languages you speak other than the one you were born into, I bet you're perfect in all of them. And next time you want to send hate mail, make sure you're brave enough to actually put your name there
P.S: you can't "do" grammar, you can "use" grammar, you can "study" grammar, but you can't do it ;)
Would anyone be interested in a hotch and Reid threesome fic? Maybe they're on a case with reader, get drunk and end up confessing having the fantasy and one thing leads to another...? Reader may be in a stablished relationship with one of them
Heyy guys, idk if y'all remember me. I've been kinda off for a while, just reading and not writing. Anyway, I launched a shop on etsy and I've got some products related to criminal minds (actually Spencer, Derek and Hotch lol) and id be really happy if y'all could take a look, I've got free shipping for the US. There's also other stuff, including stuff from other fandoms (and by fandoms I mean men I think are hot lol, like bucky, who im working on a fanfic btw...) and just random stuff
Sorry for the rant, here is the link to my store
ALSO if y'all have ideas of what you'd like to see, I'm happy to hear
Content warnings: +18 MDI sex, blowjob, creampie, coworkers having sex for the first time, orgasm (f and m), drinking, nipple piercings, porn without much plot, just pure smut
Word count: 3.5k
Summary: Spencer Reid and Y/N had been working together for years now, but on a drinking night they may become more than just coworkers... (I suck at writing summaries)
a/n: this is the first fic i write in a while cause i was in the situationship trenches, now i feel like myself again tho. hope yall enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it. Btw, its also on ao3, as always. love you guys. If you enjoy it pls like and repost
You didn't know exactly how you ended up in this situation. Drunk out of your mind with your coworker Spencer Reid - who you had a little (okay, maybe not little at all) crush on ever since you joined the BAU - on your couch talking about dating experiences. Or non-experiences, on his case. Maybe it was because now all the other coworkers had families (or cats, on Penelope’s case) to come home to after a case and you two weren’t so ready to let go of the drinking after closing a case ritual, even if not at a bar. Call it a superstition, if you will. All you knew was that you were enjoying having Spencer all to yourself, especially when he was dangerously close to you on your couch. That’s why you felt the courage to ask him a simple question that you had been dying to ask for years:
“Do you date women? Or in general?” You had never seen him with anyone, it was an innocent question.
He took a small sip of his beer before setting it down at the side table next to the couch, a smirk appearing on his face as he answered your question. “Yes, I date. Women, if we wanna be specific.”
Wow, sober Spencer would have blushed until his cheeks burned and then his whole body was on fire. You liked drunk Spencer.
“I do too. Men, I date men.” He hadn’t asked, but you felt by the look on his eyes that he was curious too, because as much as Spencer was secretive about his love life, so were you. JJ had tried to hide her relationship with Will for nearly a year, but the team knew. But you and Spencer? You were the most discrete ones on the team.
That made his smirk only grow more.
“Yeah? Is that right?” He raised his eyebrows. He took a moment to look you up and down again, his gaze lingering on you slightly longer this time.
“Yeah, I mean there was this one time in college.” You joke as you tilt your head to the side, resting it on the couch as you fully face him now, taking a sip from your beer.
He noticed you tilt your head and couldn't help but find it cute. “One time?” He smirked as he looked at you, his gaze stuck on your pretty face and slightly swaying body. He was feeling the alcohol in his system, but he still felt sober enough to know what’s what and make rational decisions. Well, mostly rational, at least. “Tell me about it.” He had an idea where this was going, but still wanted to hear you say it.
“Oh, nothing much, just a crazy party that ended up with me and a sorority girl hooking up in front of everyone. I was hammered as shit, though, so I barely remember it, just what people said for the next weeks.” You laugh as you relive those times in your mind.
His smirk quickly became a surprised, but amused smile. He widened his eyes as he looked at you, his head slightly turning to the side to match yours, his hand moving to rest on your knee. “You did what?”
“I mean, not like sex, just a kiss and funny hands.” You say, still kind of laughing a little bit at the memories.
“Oh, so just an innocent, little kiss, huh?” He chuckled and raised his eyebrows, letting his hand rest on your knee as his thumb absent-mindedly started moving in a circular motion.
“Oh, the kiss wasn't innocent at all.” You say as you settle your beer on the table before taking up the courage to do something you had been dying to do for ages. “It was something like this." You finally grab his face and don’t wait another second to start a passionate kiss. The unexpected move caught him off guard at first, but soon enough he fell into the kiss. His hand moved up to rest on your hip, holding you there as he deepened the kiss. He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the feeling he had also craved for so long.
You get on top of him, resting each one of your thighs on each side of his closed legs. He let out a soft groan into the kiss as he felt you on top of him, his hands reaching to hold your waist. His grip was tight, trying to hold you there as his kiss got more intense.
Something in your mind tells you to stop it, so you do. “Is this ok with you?” You ask, really hoping the answer is yes. His chest is rising and falling a bit faster than before as he looks at you, his hands still planted firmly on your waist, as if he’s afraid you’ll change your mind and leave. His head felt a bit too fuzzy and light because of the alcohol, but he was still somewhat clear-headed.
“Yeah, this is more than okay with me.” He managed to say, his grip on your waist went down a little until he reached and squeezed your ass, trying to show you how okay he was with this.
You breath in relieve, glad you didn’t fuck up your friendship with him. “Okay, good, just checking” You say with a smirk before pulling him in for another kiss and this time it was more firm, more sure. His hands got back to your waist as you pulled him in, another groan leaving his mouth and getting lost in the kiss. He tugged at your waist, wanting as much contact as he could get between your bodies as your tongues clashed together.
You start grind on his lap as you take one hand to the back of his head, gripping onto his hair as if your life depended on it, and at that moment, you felt like it did, like you couldn’t live without having him.
He moaned into the kiss as he felt you grind down on him, his hands that were on your waist were now helping you move. And you could feel the temperature in the room raise as the heat built between you.
You gently take one of his hands to your boob, where you need it. He let his hand be guided by yours, feeling one breast under his hand and the piercing that was on it. He let out a low moan at the feeling, his fingers giving your nipple a small pinch as his chest rose and fell rapidly, starting to get overheated.
“Damn… A piercing, huh? ”He murmured into the kiss as he pulled away for a moment to get a quick breath of air.
“Take my shirt off so you can see it.” You say with a smirk.
His eyes widened and locked with yours for a moment, not expecting you to tell him what to do. But still his fingers gripped the edge of your shirt for a second before he started to pull it up. “Yeah? You sure you want that off?” His voice was low, and his hazel eyes never left yours as he pulled up your shirt.
“Don't tease me.” You answer with a husky voice.
He chuckled as he finally pulled your shirt entirely off over your head and tossed it somewhere on the floor, his hands immediately going to your bare abdomen, appreciating the view of your nippled piercings way more than he ever thought he want. Piercings weren’t his thing, or so he thought. He ran his hands up your stomach until they reached your chest. His fingers brushed over your piercings again, and the smirk was back on his face.
"You look perfect." He murmured huskily as he ran his hands down your torso, his fingers grazing your heated skin. He leaned back in for another kiss, a hand coming up to tangle in the base of your neck, tilting your head down as he deepened the kiss until you pull away and straighten your back so that your chest is on his face, slightly brushing your boobs on his lips.
His mouth opened almost automatically when your chest was right in front of his face, his lips meeting your left nipple immediately. He suckled on it, his mouth putting pressure as he did. He moaned out at the feeling.
“Oh, shit.” You moan when you feel the heat of his mouth along with the vibration of his moan on your sensitive spot.
“Do you wanna fuck me on this couch?” You say before you get the chance to think of a more subtle way to ask this. Your hand is now traveling down his body and working on his belt. You can’t wait, you need his dick somewhere in you.
He lets out a scoff at your direct question, his hands gripping your waist again almost immediately. “Yes, I do wanna fuck you on your couch, Y/N.” He was trying hard to keep his eyes open as your hands unbuckle his belt.
“Good, I need to feel you.” You say as you throw his belt on the floor somewhere to be found later. He lifts his hips to help you pull down his pants and boxers, leaving them on his knees, releasing his cock from the fabric. You didn’t expect this. You knew he was big, I mean he had big feet and you can always tell by the feet, but, shit, you had no idea how big he was. He probably had a good 9 inches there.
Now you have your hands trying to unbutton his shirt as fast as you can and his eyelids fluttered shut for a moment as he tried to hold himself back to not get over-excited and ruin this as he helps you to take off his shirt, tossing it away next to you. “You have no idea how badly I need to feel you.” He moaned out, letting go of your waist and moving his hands to the zipper of your pants.
“Get up.” He asks. When you do it, he pulls down your pants and helps you take it off your feet, leaving you only on a black lacy thong.
“Thanks.” You say, as he's left butt naked on the couch and the only thing keeping your flesh away from his legs and his dick is your thong, which he soon pulls to the side so he can see your pussy. His gaze went again to your bare body as you straddled his lap, this time completely naked and exposed. He took his time admiring you before finally speaking. “God, you look incredible.”
His hand moved up to take your chin in his hands, his thumb running over your bottom lip. You take his thumb into your mouth and suck on it, slightly moaning, looking into his eyes. That made his grip on your chin tighten as his eyes kept locked on yours.
“That’s the hottest thing I’ve seen a woman do, you know that?” He murmured, his voice a lot huskier this time. He was unable to keep his thoughts inside his head.
You let go of his thumb with a pop and say “Just wait until it's your dick in my mouth.”
His gaze darkened and he bit his lip as he imagined that, another moan escaping his mouth at the thought. “Yeah? That can be arranged.” He smirked at you.
“Way ahead of you.” You say in a whisper before you kneel in front of his now open legs and take his dick in one hand and start teasingly licking the pink tip.
His hand went to the back of your head, grabbing your hair so it was out of the way his eyes shut, his head thrown back. He had to grip the couch with one hand to try and keep himself from completely losing himself in this moment. Your tongue against his tip felt heavenly.
“Oh, fuck, Y/N.” He murmured, breathing through his mouth.
You put the tip in your mouth and keep looking over at him. His grip on your hair only grew firmer, his head still leaned back on the couch as he tried to keep his eyes open and locked on yours as he watched you take his tip in your mouth. He let out a long and low moan at the feeling. And at that cue you finally slip the whole length into your mouth, you weren’t even sure it was going to fit, but with a little help from a hand to jerk him off as you went, it did.
His mouth was slightly agape from the feeling, his eyes shutting again and his grip on your hair so tight it almost hurt.
After a few minutes, you take the dick off your mouth as you lick all the way up and say “Now I have to feel you inside of me, I can’t wait anymore.” His hand moved from your hair to your hand, trying to guide you onto his lap.
“Get up here.” He practically demanded, his breath coming out harsh and quick.
“Is that how you’re going to talk to me? Do you know I’m the one in charge here?” you tease, liking the taste of power, and the taste of his cock mixed with precum, of course.
He leaned down to try and capture your lips again, but you escaped his touch on purpose, just to tease him, so he was missing his mark a couple of times and accidentally leaving open-mouthed kisses on your neck and jaw. He continued trying to get you on his lap again, groans escaping his mouth between each missed kiss. Then he finally gives in and asks politely. “Please…” He murmured in between kissing your neck.
“Please what?” You smirk, enjoying the game of power.
He groaned against your neck again. “Please get on my lap.” He repeated again, his head finally coming to look at you, his eyes darkening at the sight of your smug smirk. He watched as you got in his lap. He moaned against your neck again as he felt you right where he wanted you, his hips immediately bucking up to get some friction.
“You're making me lose my mind, Y/N.” His hands held on to your waist as he continued to move his hips up to grind against your wet pussy.
And now you’re the one moaning as his dick brushes against your clit. His hips continued bucking up, trying desperately to create more friction, his head falling to rest on your shoulder as he whispered “So perfect.” His hands moved around your back, trying to pull you.
“Just dry humping, huh? Afraid I can't take all of you?” You pant, trying to keep teasing him, but barely okay enough to breathe.
His hands immediately moved back to your hip when you said that and he moaned out as you moved against him, his hips still bucking up with each movement. “Don’t tempt me.” He murmured as he tried to regain control of his hips.
“I don't need to.” You say as you grab his dick, keeping it straight and up aligned with your pussy as you slowly start getting down on it.
His head shot up from your shoulder and his mouth opened in a silent moan as he felt you take him into you, his grip on your waist tightening as he shoot his head back down to watch you taking him in your pussy as a louder moan left his mouth once again. “Oh, fuuuck…”
“I intend to.” You moan when it's all in.
His head fell back again, his head hitting the back of the couch, his fingers biting into flesh as he held your by the waist. His eyes shut again as he bit his bottom lip, his hips still slightly moving against yours. “God damn, so tight…” He moaned out. He was not even sure if he was making sense at this point.
You start riding him in a nice rhythm, his hands were helping you more. His head was still leaned back as he continued to just let you move over him. “You feel so good.” He moaned out, still trying hard to hold himself back, but it had been so long he had been with a woman that he wasn’t sure how long he was capable of lasting, especially given how tight your pussy felt around him.
And the sight of your pierced boobs bouncing up and down right on his face wasn’t helping him keep it together. He had to hold himself back, still trying desperately to get some control so that he doesn't start doing anything stupid. Even in his half-drunk state, he knew that he was probably gripping your waist too tightly and was probably leaving a mark. Not that he was really thinking about that right now.
“God damn it, Y/N.” He whimpered again.
“Slap my ass.” You pant, riding him slower now, trying to keep yourself from coming.
His hand left your waist, moving to one of your ass cheeks. He wasted no time slapping it, still holding onto the other while keeping you in place on top of him. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?” He asked as he slapped your ass again, this time stronger. It’ll probably leave red marks and maybe even a bruise by tomorrow, but he could care less at the moment.
He was letting you keep moving and control whatever you wanted to do. His grip on your one cheek got a little tighter again as he felt you move around him now in a circular motion. But he still keeping you pressed down against him.
“You know I do, that's why you'll be coming whenever I tell you to, now suck my tits.” You say and moan as his dick hits a good spot.
His head rose again, his eyes still closed as he nodded, still unable to form a coherent sentence and at this point just responding to whatever you said. “Yesss.” He was trying to move his hips in pace with you. He tried to lean down, taking your right nipple into his mouth.
“Where do you want to cum?” You ask.
He moaned around your nipple, his brain trying to think of an answer for your question. But at the moment, it was quite difficult to form any words. He finally managed to say “Inside…” His mouth was still on it as he tried to keep the pace. He could feel himself getting close, and that seemed to be the answer he could come up with, and it was quite the honest one.
His hand let go of your hip, moving down to your clit, his fingers finding that little bud as he started to rub it with his thumb. “You're going to make me come soon.” He said between kisses and nibs on your boobs.
“Spence.” You practically scream as he starts moving his finger against your clit.
His fingers moved against your clit faster, his name moaned out like that making him buck up in an unconscious response. “Cum right after me.” He murmured, trying to keep it together.
“Uhum.” You manage to say, as you ride him ever faster now, seeking your edge.
His fingers continued to rub at your clit, trying to keep up with you as he felt himself getting closer with each second that passed. “You close, baby?” He moaned out, his mind shutting off as he felt himself about to hit the edge.
“Uhum.” You moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck” You moan loud, not even afraid your neighbors are probably listening.
His head fell back again as he groaned, feeling you clenching around him, his fingers now only focusing on just trying to rub your clit a little faster. He moaned louder when you moaned.
“Fill me up, baby.” You manage to say as you let out a big moan followed by his name.
His whole body tensed and he threw his head back again as you moaned out, feeling himself come to his edge. His finger tried to get a little more fast to help you get there, his hips bucking up a little to ride out his orgasm.
“Come for me.” He managed to say, still desperately trying to give your clit the pressure you needed. Your clenching around him sent him over the edge. He moaned out loudly as he started to come, his hips riding it out as he moaned out your name again and again. His fingers tried to keep that quickening pace while he tried to stay in control. “Oh god, you feel so good when you come.” He moaned out, still trying to catch his breath. His hands slid to your back until he was holding you by the waist, his grip a little less painful now.
You try to catch your breath as you say “You were perfect.”
He let out a soft, exhausted little laugh, trying to catch his own breath. “Me? You were perfect.” He murmured, still trying to get his breathing back under control as he still kept you up against him, not really wanting to move just yet.
“Yeah, I was, wasn’t I?” You say as you lean into his chest and let out a deeps breath. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”
“So have I, Y/N, so have I…” He says as he holds you in his arms.
Softcore
In which you provoke his jealousy, and he learns a lot more about himself.
Category: Smut (18+)
Word count: 8.3k…. yeah
Content: Jealous spencer, bratty reader, dom!spencer, fingering, edging, overstimulation, squirting again (do NOT look at me i am just a girl), and voyeurism if you squint bc someone overhears them
a/n: don't you just looove it when they match each other's freak
-
Spencer doesn’t get jealous.
Jealousy, he believes, requires a certain level of entitlement. He’s never really had that. Never let himself believe he owed anyone’s affection, let alone their attention when his romantic history is threadbare at best, sparse enough that he could count past relationships on one hand and still have fingers left untouched.
Even calling them relationships feels generous. Fleeting moment of interest sounds more accurate, a handful of clumsy encounters that never made it past the shallow end of connection. False starts, quiet exits. Nothing solid or lasting. Certainly nothing that ever made him feel like he had the right to be possessive — not since he learned, in the cruelest of ways, that love and loss could be spoken in the same breath.
So no, he doesn’t get jealous. He’s never been presumptuous enough to think that someone could be his to lose in the first place.
Yet what he feels right now is something uncomfortably close to it.
It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.
A defense mechanism.
A biochemical reaction.
But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.
And you’re not even his.
Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.
"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.
His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.
Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.
Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.
And his vision starts to blur.
“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.
“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”
“I don’t mind the travel.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”
“Stability?”
“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”
“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.
“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”
The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.
He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”
Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”
You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”
Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”
The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.
Spencer keeps his head down.
“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”
His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.
And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.
He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.
But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.
“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”
His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.
Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.
“So, do you?”
You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.
“No, I don’t.”
He quickly falls off your orbit.
“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”
Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.
“Sure. Seven it is.”
He stalks out of the room without a word.
Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.
At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.
At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.
At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.
At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.
By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.
It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.
You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.
There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.
A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”
Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”
“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”
Silence, then you square your shoulders.
“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”
He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.
“You barely know him.”
You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”
“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”
You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”
He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.
“Why are you doing this?”
You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”
His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.
A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.
If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.
He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.
A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.
In the careful distance between your bodies.
In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.
In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.
“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”
A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.
Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”
“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”
You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"
He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.
An audible click echoes in the room.
He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.
“He’s not good for you.”
Neither is he.
“He doesn't deserve you.”
Neither does he.
It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.
And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.
But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.
“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”
Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.
Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”
"Mhm.”
He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.
“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.
“I know.”
"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”
The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.
“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.
“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”
He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.
“Should I leave then?”
He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.
He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.
But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.
He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.
There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.
His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.
He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.
The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.
He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.
He presses his middle finger inside you.
“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.
You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.
You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.
You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.
You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.
But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.
"Don’t—"
He curls his fingers upward.
"Go—"
Then rolls his palm against your clit.
"Don't want you to see him."
Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.
Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.
But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.
“Stay.”
You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”
You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.
“Spencer…”
“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”
You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.
You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.
The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.
You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.
Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.
You shudder when a finger prods your hole.
But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.
Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.
You feel quite the opposite.
The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.
“Define purpose.”
You can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”
He hates how easily you read him.
Hates more that you’re not wrong.
“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.
He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.
“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”
Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.
But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.
His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.
“What if I am?”
Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”
The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.
Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.
He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.
“Is that what you want?”
You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”
True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.
“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”
You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”
A gentle slap falls onto your clit.
“Without the attitude.”
He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”
“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”
You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”
He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.
And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.
“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”
The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.
You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”
The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”
His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.
It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.
“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.
It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.
It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.
And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.
It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.
“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”
“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”
“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”
You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”
He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.
“Go on, answer it.”
“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”
“Do you really want me to stop?”
The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.
You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.
The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.
“…no.”
“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”
You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.
You inhale a sharp breath.
“Detective... Palmer?”
Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.
“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”
You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”
“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”
Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.
“You might want to answer him.”
You blink hard.
“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.
“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”
You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.
You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.
Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.
Spoken by someone else entirely.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”
Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.
“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”
“…yeah.”
“How about breakfast—”
The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.
“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”
You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.
But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.
00:50
00:51
00:52
By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.
And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.
Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.
The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.
And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.
You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.
“What was that?”
“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”
He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”
You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.
“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”
He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”
“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”
He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.
So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.
Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.
God forbid he stops now.
He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.
It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.
Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”
Your cunt clenches around nothing.
“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”
“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”
You slowly shake your head.
But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.
“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.
You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.
“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”
Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.
Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.
“Red?”
The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.
He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.
They’re still burning, nonetheless.
It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.
You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.
Your toes curl.
Your stomach tightens.
Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.
He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.
“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”
A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.
He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.
“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.
Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.
He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.
“I’m sorry.”
It earns him a puzzled frown.
You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.
“Where is this coming from?” You ask.
He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”
It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”
“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”
That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.
Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.
And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.
“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.
“So it was intentional.”
“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”
You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.
You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.
The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.
But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.
You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”
It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.
Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”
Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.
Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.
The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.
He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.
Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.
Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.
The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.
Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.
“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”
His throat scrapes like sandpaper.
He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.
Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.
But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.
The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.
Again, he’s selfish.
Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.
You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.
Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.
"She sought death on a queen-sized bed."
A Little Death—The Neighbourhood
This is submissive. Season 1-4 is submissive. Maybe not all the way like there's still some like, I'm not gonna do everything but I will take what you give me and i will enjoy it. He whimpers and begs, overall cew-tee-pa-too-tee🩷
RIGHT HERE, is where we get into like switch territory. Here it's a bit ambiguous, maybe in rare cases soft!dom but he can also be sub still. I feel like season 5-10 is a middle ground, but a good middle ground. Still whimpers, you will never catch him being silent !
THIS IS WHERE WE ENTER DOM TERRITORY. Soft!dom, fully dominate, i feel like this is yes yes. Prison affected him super negatively but also got him to be more dominant and assertive ? YK WHAT I MEAN ?? This is like a full dom, no submission found anywhere. Still makes noise but like groaning yk ?
Long story short, I love all the flavors of Spencer Reid.
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.
Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.
As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.
In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.
Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.
For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.
Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.
Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.
Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.
Adam
Please donate & share: Donation Link
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is faci… Adam Bin Ali needs your support for Help Mohamad reunite his family
