I'm an amateur fanfic writer that mainly writes for Azriel from the ACOTAR series, but also some other characters whenever inspiration strikes. Feel free to check out my works - feedback is always appreciated!
Requests are open!
(I'm a university student and have a lot on my plate atm, so I apologize if things are a little slow from time to time. I appreciate your patience!)
Cliff can't believe he didn't figure it out sooner. The strange move to Ottawa. How happy he's been. And most damming of all, "Jane", it fucking rhymes!
He watches a highlight reel of Ilya celebrating with his line and realizes he's just going to have to accept it.
Reading Troy’s inner monologue in Role Model feels like reading the inner thoughts of a feral cat who is trying to be domesticated. He doesn’t know how to socialize, he has to remind himself not to be an asshole, he prefers to be on his own, and he fucking loves salmon.
When Ilya moves to the Centaurs he doesn’t get to keep his number. Some old fuck on the team already has it and refuses to trade, no matter how much Ilya bribes him.
so, in true Ilya Rozanov fashion, he picks the number 24. People think he did it to be an asshole, which is true, but he also did it to have Shane with him all the time. Shane was both infuriated and touched by it.
but then of course, years later, SHANE transfers to Ottawa. And lo and behold, the old fuck who had number 81 retired, so when Shane has to choose a number?
81 is available.
so the first day of training, Shane walks into practice in a jersey that says Hollander, 81, with an absolutely shit-eating grin on his face.
when they come out and everyone is confused why russia's greatest love machine ilya rozanov is fucking boring shane hollander and ilya is like no no he is perverted sex freak i am the boring one honestly i can't keep up marleau
I still think it’s so funny that shane was assigned gay by rose landry and his reaction was WHEW! thank god someone else decided that for me. anyway I’m off to get my man I can sense that he’s making bad decisions in a club somewhere
rose: do you want me to set you up with my friend?
shane distractedly: what? no I’m obviously already embroiled in a years-long situationship with a disaster bisexual who is physically incapable of expressing a feeling out loud. and I’m positive he’s off being a nightmare somewhere so now that I’m gay for sure I need to track him down and greet him with such awkward but well-meaning compassion he ends up sobbing in my arms
summary: Maybe practicing to kiss your fake boyfriend on your bed isn't the best idea, because now the image of him sprawled atop your sheets is burned in your mind and your lips ache to memorize the shape of his.
contents: 2k words, FLUFF and a lil angst, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, first kiss as a fake couple!!! first accidental make out too lol, Spencer Reid gets hard bc he wants you so bad, prof!reader finally recognizes her Desires™.
a/n: to ppl who asked for their glasses to clink, next time i promiseeee. had to get this out of my system, hope you enjoy!!!
"This isn't stupid, right?"
"Is it conceited to say that the chances of two highly educated college professors doing something stupid are statistically quite low?"
You roll your eyes. Spencer can be so… Spencer-like, even in mortifying times such as this.
"That's a whole high intellect, low wisdom conversation waiting to happen that I refuse to entertain."
He grins, unrepentant. "It's not stupid."
"Like, it makes sense to get it out of the way, you know."
"Yes. Figure out what works for us, note it down so we'll remember." he replies, nodding along.
"Right. Establish boundaries. Well, make adjustments to the current ones and stuff." you glance down at the journal lying innocently beside you, opened to a new page with the word "Addendum re: Kissing" written on top.
Spencer's sat facing you, cross-legged and casual like this is no big deal, him on your bed. And maybe it's not. This isn't the first time he's sat across you after all, a spill of spindly limbs and shining amber eyes. Some traitorous part of you thinks, hopes, it won't be the last.
That might be acceptable, but the context is new.
"Okay, so how do we… you know," your hands flail uselessly.
"Kiss?" Spencer says. He tilts his head with a small, teasing smile, bares the line of his jaw and neck and oh maybe you shouldn't have suggested this in the first place. Maybe you should relocate somewhere less… personal. "Two people normally just get close enough to press their lips together."
"Don't make fun of me." You grumble.
"Sorry." He doesn't sound it. You watch him scoot closer, his knee touching your thigh. "You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"Because you can, you know, back out." he gets serious quickly. His fidgeting stops and he rests a warm hand over your knee, "We don't actually have to do this, if you're not comfortable."
"I am!" you squeak, flushing at the pathetic sound. "I-I mean, I'm comfortable and I want to get it over with." you wince at how crass you make it sound, and curse the version of yourself from yesterday who came up with this idea. The one that panicked over an offhand comment from your best friend after you told her that yes I will be bringing a plus one, I'm actually dating someone right now.
Melissa had gushed on and on about how hot and steamy the honeymoon phase of a new relationship is.
You wouldn't know. This whole thing with Spencer is a farce, there's no phases to speak of. Just friendship—and lightly begrudging, on your part.
But of course, your brain had latched on to the words, spiraled at the idea that people expect a newly dating couple to act a certain way. And not that you want to bend to these arbitrary norms, but still. You don't want to be caught off guard.
So you'd suggested this. Practice, a trial, preparation.
On kissing.
And where else would be the most logical spot to practice than in your apartment? At the time, it seemed like a good idea. It's close, he's been here before, and it's private.
Now, you're starting to lose your nerve.
Spencer is still, like he's waiting for you to make the first move.
"You don't think I'm just trying to make out with you for the hell of it, do you?" you ask Spencer, teeth worrying your lower lip.
He laughs, soft and painfully endeared. "No. Although, I wouldn't be mad about that either."
You smack his hand off your knee. "Shut up."
"Okay." he's grinning. Hasn't stopped since you've started this conversation, actually. You're here, feeling raw and tender like skin on the verge of breaking, barely able to breathe, and he's grinning. Has the gall to tease you. "I get it though. It's less of a practice and more… doing it on our own terms. In a controlled environment."
You nod, deflating with relief. "Yes. And no one to witness us flounder around awkwardly."
"You really think I'm that bad at kissing?"
"I didn't say that!" You huff, then add, "Should I take my glasses off?"
"Are you planning to wear contacts to the wedding?"
"No."
"Then keep them on. You know, for realism."
You can't stop the soft giggle from escaping. "Right, yeah. Realism."
"Are you done stalling?" Spencer asks.
"I'm not stalling!" To prove your point, you shuffle even closer, the bed dipping beneath your combined weight. Immediately, it's dizzying. His scent is even more potent up close. Nutmeg and cedar and who knows what else, all you know is it's borderline intoxicating. Spencer's eyes are fixed upon you. On your lips, the pen in his hand carelessly tossed aside.
Your eyes follow the pen as it drops to the bed, but his hand curls warm and firm over your cheek and tilts your head up. He's much closer now, lashes shading his pretty brown eyes. Pupils blown wide as he holds you there and lets the moment linger.
Your nerves feel serrated, the brief spark of courage stretched torturously thin. You take the plunge before it snaps, close your eyes and bridge the gap.
It's awkward. Skin smushed against skin, clumsy and juvenile.
His lips are chapped. Even with your stiff, tight lipped peck, you can feel that, small bits of skin that tug and shift as he moves and kisses you back. Nothing more than a brush at first, a slow, warm thing that you can't help but melt into. Can't help but return, just as tender, your lips finally moving like shaping out a question. Testing waters and boundaries.
It's been years, embarrassingly, since you've kissed anyone, but muscle memory kicks in like a dying ember catching kindling. Your mouth parts and welcomes his tongue. Deepens it. Pushes into him where he's treading lightly.
A faint taste of mint clings to his lips, cool unbidden sharpness.
You hear him groan, feel slim fingers tangling into your hair as he matches your passion, and he's kissing you now, properly, deeply, the type of toe curling, movie-esque kiss you'd convinced yourself you don't want, don't need.
All those years of repressed emotions claws back to the surface, curling hot and raw low in your belly and between your legs. Some deep instinctual part of you knows he's done irreparable damage, cracked open something you thought you had ensconced under layers of ambition and self preservation.
Each slide of his lips weakens whatever fortress you'd previously thought impenetrable.
He kisses you again, and again, and again.
It's slow. Careful, like he's mapping your mouth, testing out the perfect angle of his palm to cradle the curve of your jaw. Different from any kiss you've had before. Deeper, more sure, despite the strange ambiguity of this relationship.
Faint sounds form and ascend from the back of your throat, sounds that he swallows before they take shape beyond your lips. Your own hands reach up, clutch a handful of his sweater. Beneath fabric and skin and bone, his heart pulses like it's determined to rupture straight out his ribs.
You find yourself wanting to feel more of that. Chest to chest, just to figure out if your hearts are as in sync as your mouths are.
You've moved without realizing. Closer, and closer still, until he's toppling back from your insistence, the physical weight of you burdened tenfold by the frightening gravity of your desire.
His hands leave your face in favor of steadying your hips. Fingers dig in, clinging too tight, too honest, not enough.
You feel teeth catch on your bottom lip, and you're not sure if it's a mistake or something deliberate, something heavy with meaning. You wonder if he means to repeat it.
It isn't meant to get this far.
The break is abrupt, strident, punctuated with a heady, wet sound, and the bitter disappointment of things parting too soon. Spencer's fully supine, blinking up at you on top of him.
You're nestled snug between his legs, staring down at the blurred edges of him. Your glasses have fogged, and yet there's so much of him everywhere. Lips saturated with each other, the firm, unmistakable press of his arousal against your stomach.
Fuck.
Neither of you speak. The silence curdles into something heavy and uncomfortable.
"Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling back for space, desperate to replace the silence with anything. "Sorry, that—um, sorry."
His hands fall from your body. Prop him back up to sitting, slow and methodological. He clears his throat. You notice, for the first time, how pink he's gotten.
He shifts his hips. Adjusts his pants. You keep your gaze on the now crumpled page of your journal, and pretend not to see.
Addendum re: Kissing.
What the actual fuck are you even supposed to write there now?
"So, that probably wouldn't be appropriate to do in public." Spencer says.
Your laugh comes out shrill. When you glance at him, he's smiling back, bashful, a little tense. But smiling.
"Absolutely not," you take your glasses off, wipe the foggy residue away and welcome a sharper world, "I'm sorry, seriously. I feel like I attacked you."
"I've been attacked many times, but attack by kiss is very new to me, so thank you."
"Spencer."
The pink creeps up his ears, down his neck.He clears his throat again. "It's all right. I'm sorry too, for, you know… enjoying it too much."
"It's fine, at least I know I haven't gotten bad at it," you say, reaching for the pen which had miraculously survived the impromptu make out session and hadn't rolled off the bed, but find that you're still blanking on what to write. You look at him again, "I'm very much out of practice."
"I couldn't tell," he pats a hand over his sweater, smoothing down where you've clung as if that would somehow erase the fact that you had just been on top of him, tongue deep in his mouth. But he tries to redirect focus, perhaps for your sake, by taking the journal. "So what have we learned?"
"That we're really good at it?" That you want to do it again. That you've missed it. That your body isn't as immune to this as you had thought.
You expect a laugh, but Spencer gives you a look that suggests perhaps his thoughts aren't so far from your own.
You squirm, burning under his gaze. You roll the pen over to him, willing your heart to stop racing and your lips to stop tingling. You want to crawl under the covers and hide. You want to lean over and kiss him again.
He scribbles something on the page, and it takes you a moment to decipher as it's upside down from your perspective.
No making out in public or private.
"We already had that in the original." You point out.
"And then promptly broke it." He underlines the sentence twice. Under it, he adds, No kissing with tongue, and your gut twists sharply in disappointment. You want to throw up.
Lastly, he writes keep kisses brief.
"There," he turns the journal, "I don't think there's anything else, but tell me if you have any suggestions."
You pore over it like you haven't already decided the entire page is an insult. Your glasses slip down your nose and Spencer pushes it up like it's reflex, and it's all very distressing. The kiss, this strange robotic focus you've both decided to hide behind, and now these rules.
You shrug. "Um, maybe we should make it… nice? Enjoyable? There's no reason we should be like, weird and stiff about it."
Spencer nods and add that. His voice is low, hoarse when he says, "But not too enjoyable. Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier."
"Exactly. Of course not." You lie.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
next part
More prof!Spencer x prof!reader fics here.
Azriel has the SLUTTIEST HIPS???? The most sensual, the most biteable??? He goes around in leathers and scale-like armour, but he comes home and wears these low-slung, cotton lounging pants that just HANG off his hips like they’ll fall off any minute. Such shape, such curve. You can see the DIPS. Dark hair dusts his NAVEL and trails down beneath those pants. Sometimes, first thing in the morning, he stands shirtless at the window and his muscles RIPPLE??? He absentmindedly RUBS HIS TUMMY while thinking about what to eat??? And his hips just exist there, begging to be LICKED????!!!!
I am a fan of the dynamic where there's no leak and Shane moves to the Cens of his own accord and then Shane and Ilya never come out exactly but they just live openly and all these dumbass hockey players are just like
"Oh yeah they're just like that. They live together and room together and vacation together and get mad if they're separated on the bench. And they kiss in the locker room sometimes but it's you know. They're joking around. Good guys. Gay? Well---no I don't think so. I mean that's weird. Roz is a pussy hound. I mean I've never seen him with a woman but you know he is. Anyway Hollander had that whole thing with Rose Landry and he still talks about her, I think he's still hung up on her. Poor guy. I did walk in on Hollander sleeping on Roz's lap the other day but they were just getting in sync for power play you know? You reporters always want to make everything gay it's so weird. What do you mean 'why do they kiss so much' they're the top goal scoring duo in the league"
Ilya driving one his way too fancy cars around Ottawa and giving people a thumbs down when they fuck up while driving.
Becomes a bit of an urban myth. If you’re driving and you fuck up badly enough Ilya Rozanov of the Ottawa Centaurs will appear to you like a Roman emperor deciding your fate at the colosseum.
the heated rivalry moment that isn’t talked about enough is when Ilya asks, “what color.” because Shane’s autistic ass assumes Ilya is making fun of him, because Ilya is always making fun of him, and Shane is admitting to something he thinks is embarrassing. however. what actually happened is Ilya heard Shane has a dildo and immediately got so blindingly horny. Ilya had to know exactly what it looked like because this is the hottest thing he’s ever heard and it will be keeping him up at night imagining what Shane looks like using it
that little hotel role-playing bit with shane calling ilya sir and pretending to be the bellboy or something was soooo good, one of my fave bit of the whole episode - because they get to have fun sex, they get to be light and smiling now. they have so much fun together, they're so playful (I mean they literally play a game for a living and yes, the game they play is very intense and competitive and technical and hard but it's a game and they're the best at it so of course they're good at playing together wether it's hockey or not) - the cottage gives them time to do a lot more than sex and they're basically always playing (in the water, with the football or the video game...) and to relax and tease each other but they can also be playful while having sex now because they know and trust each other so well and it's not all intense stolen moments anymore. and seeing them fall so easily into role-playing and teasing each other (also not role-playing but them actually making a deal and then all the slaps during the hayden call was so funny lmao) was so heartwarming - especially when you think about how they have to text under false names for the outside world but when it's just the two of them they can use their real names but also play around with that and bring that into their hot sex life. and they're both very funny people and they make each other laugh so of course they'd have fun sex.
and the hotel setting is a great callback to them often having sex in hotel rooms (ilya says he knows how the staff likes to be treated after all these years) but now they're in love and they're actually at shane's private house!!!
