May

I can’t believe I’m still alive I love Ryan Ross I play guitar sometimes

[marinurheart]

[stuck-in2008]

I’m sorry but anytime bakudeku are on screen I can’t even see them as a couple. Kiribaku is just so so so so deeply imbedded into my mind that I can’t even fathom bakugou with anyone else

[bagel00]

It took a lot of time and effort, I even thought about giving up, but nevertheless I'm happy XD Maybe after some time I'll draw Zecora and some other minor characters

[angelpawws]

Who up here regressing they age

[moderndaymystic]

I like calm men. Men who don’t shout or break things when they’re mad. Men who tell you exactly how they feel. Men who communicate. Men who talk you in a gentle, low voice telling you what made them mad or what you did wrong, but never blame you and make you feel bad about it.

[stuck-in2008]

Making a promise to myself that I’ll never let a man yell at me again… but I might not have to worry about that

[aswangpiss]

i got to ki- (remembers suicidal ideation is bad or whatever it is) *gritting teeth* kiss kiss fall in love..

[directedbygubler]

The New Professor. S.R

Pairing: Professor & BFD Spencer Reid x AFAB Fem! Reader

rating: MDNI, NSFW, Sexual Content 18+.

synopsis: You’re a criminology student at Georgetown, drawn to your new professor, Spencer Reid. What begins as subtle tension turns into a secret, intense romance. When you visit your best friend Maren’s home, you discover Spencer is her father, throwing everything into chaos.

wc: 12.3K (two tropes in one..what can i say :p)

cw: Smmut | Professor x student relationship | Age gap | Best friends dad | classroom | fingering | unprotected p in v | Oral (m) | tension | Hidden relationship | Soft dom! spencer | vocal spencer | Whimpering spencer | Nerdy rambles | Time skips (nothing drastic)

a/n: This was a request by an anon! but thank you for the idea. Hopefully this lives up to your expectations.

Masterlist Reqs open Best friends dad S.R Masterlist

gif from @reidgif 🤍

You hated this class.

Not the subject—criminology fascinated you, had fascinated you since the day you declared your major—but the professor? He made even serial killers sound like a lecture on tax law. Every Tuesday and Thursday, you dragged yourself across Georgetown’s campus, coffee in hand, bracing for ninety long minutes of monotone misery.

But today felt… different the second you walked through the door.

The plaque outside, the one with Professor Warren’s name engraved in stiff black letters, was gone. You didn’t question it. Maybe retirement had finally claimed him mid-semester. Lucky bastard.

You slipped into your usual seat halfway back, near the windows where sunlight pooled in long golden streaks. Phone out, notebook ready, barely looking toward the front. Same routine as always.

Then you heard him.

“Good morning, everyone.”

The voice didn’t belong to Professor Warren. It was younger. Warmer. Confident but just slightly awkward, like he was unused to commanding a room. Your head snapped up.

And there he was.

Messy brown curls that couldn’t be tamed even if he tried. A gray sweater vest over a pale button-down, tie knotted unevenly like he dressed in a hurry. Slacks, yes, but the hem revealed mismatched socks—one navy, one gray—peeking out above scuffed brown dress shoes.

Not exactly the polished academic look you expected.

He was handsome, though. So handsome it made your stomach do something ridiculous, tightening in a way you weren’t proud of. He looked too young to be standing at that lectern, not like any professor you’d ever had before.

When he smiled nervously at the class, you felt heat creep up your neck.

“My name is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said, voice smoothing out now that he had everyone’s attention. “I’m taking over this course for the remainder of the semester. My background is in—” he hesitated, just for a second, eyes flicking toward the rows of students before him. “—behavioral analysis. My doctorate is actually in mathematics, but I also hold multiple degrees in psychology, sociology, and… well, a few others. I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and I read at about twenty thousand words a minute.”

Some students laughed softly, thinking he was joking. You didn’t. He didn’t smile when he said it.

“Point is,” he continued, “I’m here to make sure you actually understand the psychology behind crime instead of just memorizing terminology for the final. Profiling isn’t magic, despite what TV shows tell you. It’s pattern recognition. It’s science. It’s… people.”

He wrote Behavioral Criminology on the whiteboard in quick, messy handwriting, underlining it twice.

“Let’s start simple,” he said, turning back to the room. “Who can tell me what a geographic profile is?”

No one spoke. Of course no one spoke.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, smiling again, but this time the corner of his mouth ticked upward like he found it endearing, the silence. “Geographic profiling,” he explained, “uses the locations of a connected series of crimes to determine the most probable area where an offender might live. Criminals are creatures of habit, just like the rest of us. We all have comfort zones. Even killers.”

You should have been taking notes. Instead, you were staring at the way his long fingers gripped the marker, at the quickness of his movements, at the flush rising in your own chest when his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip mid-sentence.

You were so fucked.

By the time he segued into the difference between modus operandi and signature behaviors, you had your phone out under the desk.

Think I’m down bad for my professor, you typed to Maren.

Your best friend, though you’d only known each other for a few months, answered almost immediately. You’d met her one night at a bar downtown when your roommate bailed on you. A random conversation turned into a shot contest, and by the end of the night, she was your emergency contact and the person you texted when anything remotely interesting happened.

She went to a different university across the city—one with fancier dorms and a way better dining hall—but you’d gotten close fast. She’d told you about her dad once, a single line over cocktails. He’s an FBI agent, she’d said with a shrug, like that was normal. You didn’t press for details, picturing some middle-aged guy in a suit, serious and quiet like the dads in procedural shows.

You’re so bad… is he hot?

She texted back now, pulling you out of your memory.

Your gaze flicked up just as Dr. Reid loosened his tie, rolling his sleeves to the elbow before pacing slowly in front of the board, hands moving as he spoke about the psychology of ritualistic crime scenes.

Insanely hot

You typed back, smirking faintly before shoving the phone away, heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with criminology.

Because Professor Reid was now the only thing you could focus on.

It had been a few weeks since Dr. Spencer Reid replaced Professor Warren, and you were learning approximately… nothing.

Okay, that wasn’t true. You were learning plenty about him—like the way he pushed his sleeves up when he got deep into a lecture, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the veins that stood out when he gripped a dry-erase marker like it owed him money.

But criminology? Profiling?

Nope.

Not when your brain short-circuited every time his slacks hugged his hips in ways you were ninety percent sure were illegal in at least three states. Not when he glanced at you mid-lecture with an expression you couldn’t read but felt in your chest like the drop on a rollercoaster.

And he knew. You knew he knew.

That was what made it so dangerous.

Like last week.

Most students had already filed out when you passed his desk, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Did you take notes today?” he asked casually, voice smooth but with a faint curve of amusement tucked inside it.

You froze mid-step. “I—uh, yes. I took notes.”

He nodded slowly, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Because you seemed… distracted.”

The faintest twitch of his mouth. A smirk so quick you almost doubted you’d seen it. Almost.

You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of yourself under his gaze. “I… um. Your tie. It’s a nice color. You suit it.”

Really? That was the best you had? Complimenting his tie? Jesus Christ.

He didn’t say anything for a beat. Just looked at you with those too-smart eyes like he was peeling back layers you didn’t even know you had. Then finally, his mouth tilted into something warmer than a smirk.

“Well… thank you,” he said softly, fingers grazing the fabric near his collar. “It’s actually burgundy. You know, historically, burgundy dye was expensive because it required a very specific blend of red and blue pigments. For centuries, it was associated with wealth and power in European courts. Interesting, right?”

You nodded mutely, praying for the floor to open and swallow you whole.

But after that? You noticed.

He wore that tie again. And again. Sometimes a burgundy sweater vest. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

And your test scores? They were tanking. Spectacularly.

Which led to today.

You walked into class, slid into your usual seat… and there it was.

A small sticky note stuck to the corner of your desk.

See me after class. — S.R.

Fuck.

The entire lecture blurred together. He was talking about behavioral patterns in spree offenders, and you were trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Was he going to call you out for blatantly ogling him? Tell you to switch sections before you failed the entire course because you were too busy thinking about his hands to study?

By the time students started packing up, your stomach was in knots.

Dr. Reid leaned against the edge of his desk, arms loosely crossed, as you made your way down the steps. His gaze followed you the entire time—steady, unreadable.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Your voice was softer than you meant it to be.

He nodded, gesturing toward the empty classroom. “Yeah. I’m… a little concerned about your last couple of quizzes.”

“Oh.” Your fingers tightened around your bag strap.

“They’re significantly below your earlier work,” he continued, studying your expression like he was reading more than words. “Which tells me you understand the material, but something’s distracting you.”

Your face burned. You were ninety-nine percent sure he knew exactly what that something was.

“I can… help,” he said finally, the words deliberate, slower than before. “If there’s a concept you’re struggling with. I hold office hours for a reason.”

You nodded quickly. “Right. Yes. Okay.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes lingering a second too long before flicking toward your bag. “Do you have time now?”

Your pulse jumped. “Now?”

“I mean…” He shifted, tone perfectly neutral but gaze anything but. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

The air between you felt heavier than it should. He was close enough now that you could smell his cologne, something subtle but warm. His tie—burgundy, of course—was loosened just slightly, the top button undone.

And you?

You were already saying yes before you even thought it through. “Y-yeah,” you said quickly, nodding before you lost the nerve. “I have time now.”

The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, not quite neutral—as he pushed off the edge of the desk. “Great,” he said, voice steady but softer than it had been in the lecture hall. “Sit. I’ll grab a chair. Just… be honest with me about what you’re struggling with, okay?”

He gestured toward his desk chair, the one tucked neatly behind the stack of papers and worn leather messenger bag. It felt strange to sit there, like you were stepping directly into his space.

He dragged over a spare chair from the corner for himself but didn’t sit right away. Instead, he stood for a moment, arms folded loosely as he watched you drop your bag to the floor and flip open your notebook.

“I won’t judge your notes,” he teased lightly, the faintest hint of humor threading through his voice.

It earned a small smile from you, which seemed to relax him just a fraction. He cleared his throat, leaning one hand on the desk as his eyes flicked over your messy scrawl of handwriting.

“So,” he said, “what aren’t you understanding? Because before I got here, your record was… impressive. Top of the class.”

Your stomach twisted. That shouldn’t mean anything. He probably looked at everyone’s records. It was his job.

But the way he said it—like he’d actually read them, like he knew exactly what your grades had been—it made you feel… seen. Too seen.

“Is it me?” he asked suddenly, glancing at you. “I mean—do I talk too fast? I know I have a tendency to, um… accelerate when I get on a tangent.”

You shook your head quickly. “No. You’re… you’re a really good professor.”

God, that even sounded wrong. Too soft, too earnest.

“Okay.” He dragged the word out a little, then tilted his head, studying you. “So I’m not the problem. But something changed. Why the sudden drop?”

He finally sat beside you. Close. Too close. His knee brushed yours under the desk—barely, maybe even accidental, but it sent heat crawling up your spine like a lit fuse.

“I’ve been… distracted,” you said finally, voice small.

He nodded slowly, like he was turning that over in his head. “Distracted,” he repeated. “By something outside of class? Something at home?”

He sounded like he genuinely wanted to help, like maybe he didn’t want to assume the thing you both knew deep down.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. “No,” you said softly.

That held him still. His eyes stayed on yours for a moment longer than they should have, unreadable but heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Right,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “Would it… be easier to get help from someone else? Another TA, maybe? Someone you’d feel more comfortable with?”

You didn’t even hesitate. “No,” you said quickly, too quickly. “God, no. I’m—I’m sorry. This is ridiculous.”

Your fingers pushed through your hair, nerves burning through you in waves. “I’ve always been a top student,” you rushed out. “And then I get—” You swallowed hard. “I get distracted by you, and it’s not fair, and this is your job, and I just—”

“Hey,” he said softly, cutting you off.

You stopped, breath caught in your chest.

“Look at me.”

You did. Slowly.

His voice was even, calm, like he was defusing a situation, but his eyes… they didn’t waver. “You’re not making me uncomfortable,” he said, low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “If I were uncomfortable, you’d know.”

Something in your stomach dropped at the way he said it. Measured. Certain.

“But this… whatever’s distracting you,” he continued, voice still quiet, “it doesn’t have to get in the way of you passing this class. We can figure it out. I can help you, if you let me.”

He was too close now. His knee still brushed yours. His eyes lingered like he was reading more than your words, like he was peeling away excuses you didn’t even realize you were giving him.

You nodded, trying to find your voice. “Okay,” you managed.

But the air between you felt heavier than it should. Like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying.

“Can you try to tell me?” he asked softly, careful like he was handling something fragile. His voice dropped a little lower, steady but coaxing. “I promise I won’t… make fun of you.”

He said it like he meant it. Like there wasn’t a single atom in him capable of cruelty.

But still…this was embarrassing.

“I don’t want to make you… uncomfortable,” you mumbled, eyes darting away.

“Uncomfortable?” he repeated, quiet but firm enough to pull your gaze back. His head tilted slightly, curls falling forward as he studied you. “I wouldn’t be. I insist on that.”

And you believed him. God help you, you did.

So you forced yourself to look at him again, at the warm brown of his eyes, at the faint crease between his brows that said he was listening. Really listening.

“I… uh…” Your throat felt dry. “I’m distracted by you.”

It came out small, frayed at the edges.

His expression didn’t change. No shock, no disbelief. He just nodded once, slow, like this was exactly what he expected you to say.

You rushed to fill the silence. “I’m sorry,” you blurted, heat crawling up your neck.

“Don’t apologize,” he said softly.

And then he looked at you. Really looked at you. Not just the student with dropping test scores, but you. Like he was cataloguing details the way he probably did everything—methodically, thoroughly, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice thoughtful in that way of his, “psychology studies show that younger women often find themselves… attracted to older men in positions of authority. It’s fairly common.” He said it clinically, like it was just another statistic, but there was something under the words. Something warmer.

You nodded faintly, not trusting yourself to speak.

His eyes softened, but his voice did something strange then—turned quieter, almost careful. “I have a daughter your age,” he said finally.

It hit harder than it should’ve. You hadn’t even thought about it.

Your stomach flipped. Oh God. He had a family. Maybe a wife. And here you were, sitting in his office chair like some cliché, practically confessing you wanted your professor to rail you six ways to Sunday.

“You’re… married,” you said before you could stop yourself, nodding like it was obvious, because of course he was. Men like him didn’t stay single.

But he shook his head immediately. “No,” he said softly. “Single dad.” He paused then, voice dipping lower. “But I’m telling you that because… while you’re beautiful, and smart, and more than capable… there are a lot of reasons this isn’t a good idea.”

Your stomach sank, embarrassment rising like bile.

“I’m your professor,” he said first, tone calm but firm. “That alone makes this complicated. And…” He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his jaw like he was trying to find the right words. “I’m too old for you.”

It should’ve felt like rejection. Like the end of whatever this was.

But it didn’t.

Not with the way he was looking at you.

Because his words said no, but his eyes… they stayed on you too long, flicking from your mouth to the way you gripped the edge of the desk like it was keeping you grounded.

Like he was imagining something he shouldn’t be.

Like maybe he was just as distracted as you were.

The silence between you both stretched like something about to snap.

You sat there with your notebook half in your hands, his gaze pinned on you, that sharp, analytic focus that felt like it could see through you.

“I—uh…” Your voice cracked slightly. “I should go.”

You grabbed for your bag, stacking the notebook on top like you were really about to stand up and leave. Like you could. Like your legs would even cooperate right now.

But when you reached for the notebook, his hand closed around your wrist.

“You don’t have to—”

He stopped himself when you froze under his touch. His hand left you immediately, as though the contact had burned him. He cleared his throat, flustered in a way you’d never seen before. “I just meant… you’re here for help. I can still help.”

His voice had gone softer on the second help, and you weren’t sure what he meant anymore.

Still, you slowly sat back down, setting your things aside again. “Okay.”

“Right,” he murmured, almost to himself. He picked up his pen and flipped to the right page in your notebook. “So… the topics we’ve covered. Let’s run through them again.”

He was talking too quickly — you knew his tells now. He was off-balance.

You nodded like you were following along. You weren’t. Not even close.

He launched into it anyway, voice steady even if his eyes kept flicking toward you between sentences. “Okay… so, criminal profiling. It’s essentially behavioral analysis — the systematic study of someone’s choices to predict patterns. For example, when we look at an offender’s… location preference, we can infer—”

He paused long enough to underline something in your notes, then continued, “—that the closer they stick to their home base, the less organized they might be. Comfort zones shrink when the stressors rise.”

His pen scratched across your notebook as he added bullet points. “Victimology tells us just as much about the unsub as the crime scene itself. It’s about… human behavior, about what drives a person to act outside social norms…”

He trailed off for a moment, then shook his head like he was pulling himself back on track.

“And body language,” he went on, “nonverbal cues make up over sixty percent of interpersonal communication. Microexpressions, proxemics… even eye contact length can—”

He stopped again, this time because your eyes met his and held for too long.

He cleared his throat and kept going, quieter now. “Proxemics, uh… personal space. How close someone lets you stand tells you almost everything about intimacy, comfort levels…”

Your pulse jumped.

His words slowed, grew softer as he leaned over to grab a stack of sticky notes, reaching past you. His other hand came down on your thigh—not hard, just steady, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Your whole body went tight, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

His hand didn’t move.

He kept talking, the rhythm breaking as he wrote on the sticky pad, his thumb pressed against the inside of your thigh like it belonged there. “Personal space is… uh… an unspoken language. Inside eighteen inches is considered, um… intimate distance.” He faltered, the pen pausing halfway through a word.

You looked at him.

He was still holding the pen like he might keep talking, but his eyes had dropped to your mouth.

And then the words stopped altogether. The pen clattered softly on the desk as his other hand lifted, brushing against your jaw. Light. Testing.

“Spencer…” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t clumsy. It was slow and deep, the kind of kiss that made your heart stutter painfully against your ribs because you could feel every ounce of restraint he was breaking.

His hand on your thigh gripped tighter.

You kissed him back because there was no way you couldn’t, because the heat that had been simmering under your skin for weeks finally had somewhere to go.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

His eyes stayed closed for a second like he was searching for control. Then he shook his head, almost like he hated himself.

“This is wrong,” he whispered, voice low and wrecked. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re my student. I shouldn’t—”

You didn’t even get the chance to reply before he kissed you again.

Harder this time.

Like the second he’d tasted you, there was no putting this back in the box.

The second kiss was different. Gone was the hesitation of the first — this one was heavier, hungrier, like weeks of quiet looks across the classroom had finally snapped into something you couldn’t take back. His mouth moved against yours like he was afraid you’d disappear if he stopped.

His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and firm, while his other hand dragged your chair closer until your knees knocked into his. The room felt too small, too quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing above like they might give you away.

He broke the kiss long enough to press his forehead to yours. His voice was wrecked.

“This is… unprofessional,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” you whispered, just as unsteady.

His eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting himself. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low and rough. “Say the word and we forget this ever happened… because I can’t—I don’t want to stop.”

Your answer was immediate. “I don’t want you to stop.”

A sharp exhale left him, relief and frustration tangled in one sound, and then he was kissing you again, harder this time, his words breaking against your mouth between hurried kisses.

“God… I need you,” he murmured, and it sounded like a confession he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You stood when he did, the chair scraping back, both of you half-laughing against each other’s mouths when you stumbled into the edge of the desk. His hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, the curve of your hips — pulling you closer like he couldn’t get you close enough.

The moment shifted when his fingers hooked into the hem of your sweater, pausing just long enough for you to nod before he pulled it over your head.

“Jesus…” His voice was soft, almost reverent when his eyes dragged down your body, taking in the lace you’d chosen this morning without realizing you’d secretly hoped this would happen.

Your shaking hands found his buttons, fumbling them open one by one until his shirt fell loose over his shoulders. He wasn’t rushing you, but there was an urgency in the way his mouth kept finding yours like he’d lose his nerve if he stopped too long.

When your skirt hit the floor, he let out a sound low in his throat, hands spanning the backs of your thighs before turning you so your ass pressed against him.

You felt him. God, did you feel him.

He swore under his breath, his palm sliding over the lace of your thong, fingers tracing the edge slowly like he was memorizing it.

“Fuck…” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t have—”

You turned your head, breathless. “I’m clean. I—I’m on birth control.”

His eyes locked on yours, something dark flickering there.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth even as his voice dropped lower.

The lace slipped down your legs in one slow drag, his fingers deliberately teasing against bare skin until it hit the floor.

He bent you gently over the desk, his hand firm between your shoulder blades but not forcing — guiding.

“Stay like that for me,” he said softly, voice rough at the edges.

You felt the heat of his palm slide over the curve of your ass before one hand gripped at your hip, the other moving lower, fingertips brushing between your thighs until he felt how ready you were for him.

“Jesus, you’re—” He cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose before sinking his fingers into you slow, testing, like he was mapping out every reaction.

You gasped, knuckles white where you gripped the desk edge.

“Relax,” he murmured behind you, his free hand smoothing up your back before returning to your hip. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers moved deeper, curling just right, the sound of your breathing loud in the quiet classroom. He was slow at first — too slow — like he wanted to drag this out, the heel of his palm brushing you with each movement until your legs trembled.

“Spencer—”

The way you said his name made his pace change, faster now, but never sloppy. Always in control.

He leaned over you slightly, mouth close to your ear. “You feel so good,” he whispered, and the softness of his tone made it worse somehow, more intimate than you were ready for.

You barely registered him undoing his belt one-handed until you heard the quiet clink of metal.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice low but steady.

You nodded fast. “I want this. Please.”

The small groan he let out went straight through you.

“Good,” he murmured, guiding you forward so your hips met the desk edge. “Because I can’t stop now.”

His fingers slid in deep, curling perfectly until your legs threatened to give out, his palm rocking against you in slow, deliberate circles.

“God, you’re soaked,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he couldn’t believe it. His voice was rougher than you’d ever heard it, control cracking around the edges. “So gorgeous like this…”

The noises spilling out of you had him groaning low in his throat, like he was taking them in, storing them somewhere he’d never forget.

But he didn’t last long.

He pulled his hand back suddenly, unbuckling his belt with shaking fingers. The quiet clink of metal was almost as loud as your pulse in your ears.

You turned your head just enough to catch him licking his fingers clean, eyes locked on yours as he did it like he wanted you to see.

“You want this?” His voice was low, steady, but the way he nudged his cock against your entrance betrayed him — the hesitation, the barely-there tremor in his tone.

“Y-yes…” You barely got the word out.

His mouth twitched into something between a smile and a groan. “Good girl,” he breathed, dragging his tip through the slick heat of you, gathering it before slowly, so slowly, sinking in.

The stretch had you bracing hard against the desk, your body tightening around him on instinct.

“Shit—” he gritted out, his forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder like the feeling hit him too hard. A strained laugh broke out of him, breathless, helpless. “God, you’re… so tight. Tight little thing—f-fuck.”

The first few thrusts were slow, dragging, like he wanted to feel every inch of it. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to leave marks, holding you still while he moved carefully, shallow at first.

And then he groaned.

It was soft, wrecked, spilling out like he couldn’t hold it back.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself, half into the warm space between your shoulder blades. “You feel like you were made for me.”

Your head tipped forward against the desk when he pushed in deeper, his pace finding a rhythm that was unhurried but relentless.

One hand left your waist to slide up your spine, pressing gently between your shoulder blades until your back arched just right for him.

“Yeah… just like that,” he murmured, voice breaking slightly. “Let me see you. God, look at you… taking me so well.”

You could hear him breathing hard behind you, little groans spilling out between his words.

Nothing was hotter than a man who moaned.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he admitted in a rough whisper, hips snapping forward a little harder. “Weeks of you in my class looking at me like that—” His laugh was low, sharp, breaking off when you clenched around him. “Fuck, and now you’re—shit, you’re perfect.”

His words were falling apart as fast as his control was.

The slap of skin and the scrape of the desk legs on the floor filled the empty classroom, each thrust harder than the last but never rushed, like he was savoring it even as he fell apart.

“Spencer—”

He groaned at the way you said his name, hips stuttering like he might lose it right there.

“Say it again,” he rasped, his mouth close to your ear now as he leaned over you, thrusts hitting deeper. “Say my name.”

“Spencer—”

He let out a sharp, wrecked sound, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip tight enough to burn.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he panted, teeth dragging lightly against your shoulder before he forced himself upright again, pace faltering for just a moment like he was trying to hold on.

But you could feel it — he was losing the control he always lived in, piece by piece, with every sound you made for him.

“Ffffuck—”

The sound tore out of him like he didn’t even mean to let it slip. His pace picked up, hips snapping forward harder, faster, like he was finally letting himself take what he wanted.

You hadn’t expected him to be this vocal. Sure, he rambled in lectures, always had too many words — but this? These broken groans spilling out of him, the soft curses and sharp breaths against your skin?

It made your head spin.

“Christ, you feel—God, you feel unreal,” he choked out, thrusts rougher now, less careful. His voice cracked on the last word like it was physically wrecking him.

You felt his fingers dig into your waist hard, pulling you back onto him as he drove forward, the desk jerking under both your weight.

“Spencer—”

He groaned deep, sharp, forehead falling briefly against your shoulder before he forced himself upright again.

“Keep—” He cut himself off with a ragged sound when you clenched around him, hips stuttering. “Keep saying my name like that… fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

The words tumbled out of him in half-broken fragments, the usual precision in his speech gone.

One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck to hold you there, bent over the desk for him.

“Look at you,” he breathed, hips driving harder now, the edge of the desk biting into your stomach with every thrust. “Taking me like this—like you were made for me.”

His pace snapped forward faster, rougher, his groans climbing higher each time he bottomed out.

“I’m—shit—I’m supposed to be your professor,” he rasped, almost like he was talking to himself, his voice low and wrecked. “Weeks of you sitting there in my class looking at me with those eyes—how the fuck was I supposed to concentrate?”

Another thrust punctuated the words, the sound of skin on skin loud in the empty room.

“You have no idea,” he groaned, breath ragged, “how many nights I’ve thought about this. About you bent over like this—God, and now you’re so… tight around me I can barely think.”

The desk squealed against the floor as his thrusts grew harsher, his control hanging by threads now.

He let out a low, desperate moan, hips grinding deep before snapping forward again, faster, harder.

“Spencer,” you gasped again, and he swore under his breath, rough and messy.

“Say it again,” he demanded softly, almost pleading. “Say my name when I fuck you.”

“Spencer—”

A sharp groan ripped out of him, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he slammed back in harder, like he was losing himself completely.

“Good girl,” he panted, hand sliding into your hair, tugging just enough to arch your back. “God, you feel so good… so fucking good.”

He was almost whimpering now, broken sounds spilling out between his words as his thrusts turned relentless, hips driving into you over and over.

You could feel how tightly he gripped your hip, how every muscle in him was tense like he was holding on by the thinnest thread of control.

“Look at you,” he groaned again, voice lower now, filthy words spilling out like he couldn’t stop them. “Letting me fuck you like this… my smart girl, huh? Taking me so well while I lose my fucking mind over you.”

Each thrust got rougher, dirtier, his breath harsh in your ear when he leaned over you again, the length of him pressing deep inside.

“God, you’re perfect,” he muttered, voice cracking. “So fucking perfect—”

His rhythm was falling apart now, all that control Spencer Reid carried in every aspect of his life crumbling as he slammed into you, groaning against your shoulder, hand fisted in your hair.

Like he couldn’t stop.

Like he wouldn’t even if he could. He wasn’t stopping.

If anything, Spencer was fucking you harder now, thrusts snapping into you with an edge that hadn’t been there before. He was too far gone for restraint.

“God—” he groaned, voice cracking when you clenched around him again. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you back onto him like he couldn’t get deep enough, like he wanted to carve himself into your memory.

You couldn’t hold back the noises you were making—sharp, broken sounds that only seemed to drive him wilder.

“Yeah,” he breathed, almost a whimper, the word punched out of him with the force of his thrusts. “That’s it… let me hear you. You gonna come for me?”

You nodded desperately, forehead pressed to the desk, every muscle tight as the coil inside you snapped tighter and tighter.

“Say it,” he demanded, breath harsh in your ear now as he leaned over you, hips relentless. “Say you’re gonna come.”

“Gonna… gonna come—Spencer, oh my God—”

“Yeah?” His voice broke, groaning into your neck. “Fuck, good girl. Come for me. Right now. I wanna feel you.”

That did it.

You shattered around him with a cry, your body clenching tight as waves of pleasure ripped through you.

Spencer moaned so loudly when he felt it, this raw, unrestrained sound that almost didn’t sound like him. He kept fucking you through it, hips snapping hard and fast, his own voice falling apart in your ear.

“Jesus Christ—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—” His words were almost frantic now, rough against your skin. “I can’t—I can’t hold it, you feel too good—”

You felt him slip—completely lose himself—like he was right on the edge and fighting a losing battle.

“Spencer—” you breathed, and that was it.

He choked out a broken, desperate sound and slammed into you harder, faster, rough enough the desk creaked beneath you both.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh my God—” His words spilled in a mess of groans and filthy praise as he lost control completely, the careful professor gone, replaced with this man fucking you like he couldn’t stop.

He buried himself deep with one final, rough thrust, groaning your name against your shoulder as he came undone inside you, hips jerking through it like he didn’t want it to end.

After, he just stayed there, chest heaving against your back, both of you gasping for breath, sweat and heat and the faint smell of sex heavy in the air.

You felt him press his forehead between your shoulder blades, still holding your hips like he needed to.

“God,” he muttered finally, voice low, rough, wrecked. “That was so wrong.”

But he didn’t move.

And neither did you.

˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡ ˚ ˙✧˖°🎓 ༘⋆｡

A few months had slipped by like a daydream.

If anyone had told you at the start of the semester that your new criminology professor—the tall, brilliant, slightly awkward Dr. Spencer Reid—would have you bent over his desk after hours, whispering filthy things in your ear while simultaneously quoting case law and statistics in that soft, nerdy voice… well, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.

But now?

Now it was a rhythm. A secret carved into the edges of your days.

Some afternoons, he wouldn’t even take your clothes off. He’d keep you perched in his lap as he patiently explained criminal profiling methods, murmuring about victimology while his thumb absently stroked lazy circles into your thigh like he forgot his own hand was there. Other times, he’d take you apart so thoroughly that you’d leave his office with trembling knees and no memory of what he’d actually taught you, your notebook still blank.

It was chaotic, addictive, and you were drowning in it willingly.

And now, somehow, it was October already.

The last lesson before the university break found him standing at the front of the lecture hall in a black-and-orange sweater vest patterned with tiny jack-o’-lanterns. He looked… well, ridiculous, and yet, unfairly good in it. Of course he did.

He spent half the lecture not just on behavioral analysis, but rambling off little-known Halloween facts that nobody asked for—like how the original jack-o’-lanterns were carved from turnips instead of pumpkins, or how Samhain traditions influenced modern celebrations.

You sat there, chin propped on your hand, smiling like an idiot the whole time.

When the class ended and students began filing out, you waited until the room emptied. He looked up from shuffling papers just as you approached, and his expression softened immediately.

“You survived my Halloween lecture,” he said dryly, though there was the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Barely,” you teased, glancing at the sweater vest. “Very… stylish, by the way.”

He followed your gaze, lifting the hem slightly like he hadn’t realized he was even wearing it. “It’s cool, right? Kind of festive?”

You bit back a grin. “It suits you.”

“Suits me,’’he repeated with mock offense. “That sounded very… diplomatic.”

You just smirked.

He leaned against his desk, arms folding loosely over his chest, watching you in that way that made your skin heat. He did that a lot—like he was cataloging you, tucking pieces of you away in that genius mind of his.

“So,” he said casually, but there was something underneath it. “With two weeks off… what are you going to do with yourself?”

The way he said it was almost… careful. Like he didn’t want to ask the real question: Are you going to forget about me?

“Nothing super exciting,” you said, shrugging lightly. “I’m going to visit my best friend. She’s taking me back to her family’s home.”

He nodded like he wanted to seem neutral, but there was a tightness in the gesture you didn’t miss. “Sounds nice.”

It didn’t, not to him. You could read it all over his face, even as he tried to play it off.

“What about you?” you asked, tilting your head.

He sighed softly, glancing at the floor before pushing a hand through his hair. “My daughter’s coming home from her university. So… probably spending most of the break with her.”

You smiled. “That sounds fun.”

He shot you a look. One brow lifted slightly. “Don’t pretend,” he said dryly, and you laughed under your breath.

Before you could answer, he reached for you. Just a small thing—his fingers brushing your wrist before sliding to your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss your forehead. It was soft. Almost reverent.

“I have to pick her up later today,” he murmured against your skin, “so unfortunately, I don’t have time for a… lesson.”

The implication was clear, thick in the air between you.

You smiled faintly. “Well, I’ll be impatiently waiting for our first lesson back, Dr. Reid.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter. “Cheeky.”

He kissed you again—slower this time, lingering like he didn’t want to leave—and then finally picked up his satchel.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he said simply.

And he did.

Careful, always careful, keeping just enough distance so nobody would question it, but close enough that your arms brushed once or twice as you walked side by side. He opened the door for you, leaning in slightly but not close enough to kiss you again, no matter how badly you could tell he wanted to.

“Two weeks,” he murmured, giving you that small, private smile of his.

“Two weeks,” you echoed.

You slipped into your car, the ghost of his cologne clinging to your skin, and as you pulled out of the lot, your phone rang through the speakers.

“Maren,” you greeted as you drove, voice lighter than usual.

“Hello?” Her voice was bright, distracted. You could hear the shuffle of papers in the background.

“When was I supposed to come see you again?” you asked, tapping the steering wheel.

“Oh—tomorrow,” she said after a pause, like she’d just remembered.

“Tomorrow. Okay. And why am I coming to see your family, exactly?” you teased. “You taking me to meet the in-laws, honey?”

She laughed. “Obviously. Just kidding. It’s really just my dad. I said I’d visit, and I wanna see you, so… bing bang bosh, two birds, one stone. Plus,” she added, “you can hear his FBI stories. You’re a criminology student. You’ll love them.”

“Right,” you said slowly, smirking. “Okay. Text me the address tonight.”

“I won’t forget this time, promise. Love you, see you tomorrow!”

“Love you too.”

The call ended.

And tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The next day, you drove across the city with the address Maren had texted you glowing faintly on your phone screen. Her childhood neighborhood was all winding streets and tall oaks, houses tucked behind hedges and iron gates. You pulled into her driveway with a pit in your stomach you couldn’t quite explain.

Meeting her family shouldn’t have been nerve-wracking.

But you were about to spend an entire evening pretending you weren’t sneaking around with your professor—a man who, just last week, had you bent over his desk with his hand over your mouth so the night janitor wouldn’t hear you.

You killed the engine and got out before you could spiral further, climbing the porch steps and knocking lightly.

The door swung open a moment later.

“Hey!” Maren grinned, pulling you into a hug that smelled faintly of expensive perfume and vanilla body spray.

You laughed softly, hugging her back. “Hey. Hope I’m not too early.”

“Nope, perfect timing.” She stepped back to let you in, closing the door behind you. “Dad’s out right now, so we can go hang in my room before dinner.”

You glanced around as you followed her through the hall. The house was… nice. Warm light pooled across wood floors. The air smelled faintly of old books and whatever was simmering in the kitchen. But one thing you noticed almost immediately—no family photos. Not in the entryway. Not on the walls leading upstairs.

Weird.

You didn’t mention it.

“Fancy,” you murmured instead, trailing a finger along the banister.

Maren snorted. “Of course you’d say that.”

She tugged you upstairs to a room that looked like it had been frozen in time—posters on the walls, fairy lights tangled along the headboard, books spilling off shelves. She flopped onto her bed dramatically and patted the spot beside her.

“Sit, sit. I need to know everything about this mystery man you’re seeing,” she demanded, eyes glittering.

You closed the door and crossed to the bed, perching on the edge. “He’s… older,” you admitted carefully.

Maren grinned like a shark. “We love an older man. How much older?”

You hesitated, heat crawling up your neck. “…Enough.”

Her eyebrows waggled. “Is he good?”

You smacked her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She cackled. “Answer it!”

Rolling your eyes, you finally muttered, “He’s… very good.”

She grinned like Christmas came early. “I’m glad my bestie is being fulfilled. Truly. Love that for you.”

“Jesus, Maren,” you groaned, shoving her again, and she laughed harder before launching into a string of campus gossip that made you forget yourself for a while.

You were still mid-laughter when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She glanced at the screen. “Oh, Dad’s back. And… he cooked. Great.” She rolled her eyes fondly. “Just smile and nod. He tries. He’s terrible, but he tries.”

You stood as she did, nerves curling in your stomach. Meeting parents was always a little awkward.

You followed her down the stairs, the smell of something vaguely Italian filling the house.

“Hey, Dad!” she called as you trailed her into the kitchen. “My friend’s here, remember?”

He had his back to you, stirring something on the stove.

“Hi—” you started, right as he turned.

And the world dropped out from under you.

Because Dr. Spencer Reid—your professor, the man who had you shaking in his office chair less than a week ago—stood frozen by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants instead of his usual slacks and tie.

You stopped dead.

He tensed like someone had hit pause on his whole body. His eyes locked on yours, wide, unreadable.

Maren glanced between you both, confusion knitting her brow. “…Wait. You two… know each other?”

You swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat.

“No,” you blurted, right as he said, “I’m her professor.”

You both froze, then looked at each other like oh, this is bad.

Maren blinked slowly. “You’re her professor?”

You nodded way too fast. “Uh—yeah. He, um. He teaches my criminology class.”

Maren turned to you fully, arms crossing. “Why didn’t you say my dad was your professor?”

Your stomach bottomed out. You looked at Spencer automatically, panic flashing across your face because if he thought you’d known—if he thought you’d been playing some weird game—

You shook your head so fast it made you dizzy. “I didn’t know he was your dad! Your last name isn’t Reid.”

She tilted her head. “Fair. But… didn’t I tell you he was starting at your college?”

You stared at her like she’d grown three heads. “No, Maren. I definitely would’ve remembered that.”

“Right. My bad. Forgot,” she said easily, shrugging. “Well. This is… fun.”

Spencer still hadn’t moved. His jaw flexed once, like he was grinding down a dozen things he couldn’t say.

“Maren,” he said finally, voice tight, “why didn’t you mention your friend was in my class?”

She blinked innocently. “I didn’t know? There are like three criminology lectures running at the same time at Georgetown.”

She sounded so much like him—quick, logical, a little too matter-of-fact—that under any other circumstance you might’ve laughed.

But you felt like you were suffocating.

“Uh,” you said quickly, “where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, left.”

You nodded once and practically fled, footsteps echoing too loud on the hardwood as your heart tried to punch its way out of your chest.

You were pacing tight circles across the bathroom floor, the walls closing in with every step. The air felt heavy, too hot, the fluorescent light buzzing faintly above you like it was in on the joke.

Your stomach was a pit, churning with panic.

He probably thought you knew. That you’d done this on purpose, like some deranged scheme. You hadn’t. God, you hadn’t.

You dug your fingers into your hair, tugging at the roots like you could hold yourself together by sheer force.

This was bad.

This was… apocalyptic.

The knock at the door made you jump so hard you nearly tripped over yourself.

“Maren, I—” your voice cracked.

“It’s me,” his voice cut through, low, strained. “Let me in.”

Spencer.

Of course.

You fumbled with the lock, pulling the door open, and he slipped in like someone trying to outrun the situation itself. He shut it quickly behind him, back pressing to the wood for a second like he needed it to hold him up.

“Maren will—” you started, breathless.

“She’s on the phone with her mom,” he said, cutting you off, running a shaking hand through his hair.

You both just stood there for a moment, the air between you thick enough to choke on.

“I—I didn’t know,” you blurted finally, the words spilling out too fast. “I swear I didn’t—God, she never told me—”

“You promise you didn’t know?” His voice was careful, too careful, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and trying not to look down.

That hurt. “I promise! Do you think I wanted this? That I’d walk in here like—like some lunatic who planned the whole thing?” Your hands were shaking now. “My heart’s going to fall out of my chest.”

His gaze dropped to your ribcage where it was visibly heaving. He stepped forward slowly, pressing a palm over your sternum, feeling the hammering beneath. His touch was warm, steadying, but his expression was anything but calm.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, his voice almost breaking around it.

You let out a half-hysterical laugh. “Right?”

He looked up at you, panic flickering like static under the surface of his features. “This is bad. This is… oh, this is so bad. What do we even do?”

“I need to leave,” you said quickly, already turning for the door.

“No.” His voice cracked sharp on the word. He stepped closer, hand sliding up into your hair before you could bolt. “No, you can’t. That just… that makes it worse. Maren’s going to think—”

“She’s going to hate me,” you whispered, and hated how small you sounded saying it.

He shook his head, eyes darting over your face like he was trying to hold it all together with his gaze alone. “She won’t.”

“She will,” you shot back, throat tight.

He kissed your forehead suddenly, like the gesture was instinctual, like he needed to do it to keep breathing himself.

But you went still under it, body locking up, and he felt it instantly. He drew back, his brow furrowing. “What? What is it?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Oh my God, she—“

“She what?”

“She asked me things,” you got out, words tripping over each other in your rush. “About the guy I was seeing. About the sex. If it was good. How it was good. She—oh my God—”

For a second he just stared at you.

Processing.

And then it hit.

You watched it slam into him all at once — his face going through about ten different expressions in five seconds, none of them good.

“She—” his voice cracked, broke off, came back sharper. “She asked about—Jesus Christ.” He turned away, both hands in his hair now like he could physically pull the thought out of his skull. He started pacing, sharp quick movements like he was trying to outthink the air itself.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, stopping dead before pacing the other direction. “No, no, no, no, no. That’s—that’s disgusting. That’s—oh my God.”

You pressed back against the sink, heart hammering harder at his reaction. “I didn’t tell her details!”

“She asked,” he said, voice climbing, whirling back to you like you weren’t grasping the horror of it all. “She asked if I was—if I was good?” His hand flailed vaguely, like the words were too filthy to even finish. “Jesus Christ, she’s my kid.”

He looked physically pained, dragging a hand down his face like maybe he could scrub the thought off his skin.

“This is a nightmare,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes darting frantically like his brain was rewriting the last few months on the spot. “This is—no, this is like Greek tragedy levels of bad. This is—I mean, Freud would have a field day with this.”

Despite everything, a half-strangled laugh escaped you at that, but he just groaned, covering his face with both hands like he was trying to disappear behind them.

“I can’t ever look her in the eye again,” he mumbled into his palms, voice muffled and horrified. “She’s going to think—I don’t even know what she’s going to think.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching him unravel in the tiny bathroom, his shoulders tense, hair sticking up from how many times he’d run his hands through it.

Finally he dropped his hands, looking at you with something desperate behind his eyes.

“You didn’t know,” he said again, slower this time, like he was forcing the words out for both of you.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered back, because it was the only thing in this entire mess that was true and certain.

And for a long second, you just stared at each other in the cramped bathroom, the air thick with panic and heat and something else you couldn’t name.

He pulled you in suddenly, arms wrapping tight like he was holding on to something fragile. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured into your hair, though his voice cracked halfway through like maybe he was saying it as much for himself as for you.

But you just shook your head against his chest, words spilling out before you could stop them. “She—she told me her dad was in the FBI—”

“I am,” he cut in, then paused, correcting himself almost awkwardly. “Well… I was.”

You leaned back enough to see his face. “What?”

His eyes darted away for half a second before he admitted, “Behavioral Analysis Unit. Profiling. Serial crimes. A lot of… dark things.” He rubbed the back of his neck like the weight of his own history sat there.

Of course. Because the universe wasn’t done humiliating you. You should have known that.

“I—I didn’t know,” you said again, because it felt like the only sentence you had left in you.

He studied your face, then finally nodded like he believed you this time. Some of the tension in his shoulders uncoiled, but not much. He bent his head and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, breath warm against your skin.

“We can’t sit down for dinner like this,” he said quietly into your hair.

You gave a weak, shaky laugh. “Maren said you suck at cooking anyway.”

That got the tiniest huff out of him. “Cheeky,” he muttered, but his mouth curved like he couldn’t help it.

You pulled back slightly, searching his face. “So what do we do?”

He cleared his throat like his brain was working three steps ahead. “You’re going… ‘home.’”

You frowned. “As in I’m leaving?”

He shook his head quickly, hands coming down to grip your waist, grounding himself there. “No. You’re going to move your car, say you feel sick, leave…and then park down the street and come back.”

You blinked at him. “That’s… a lot of work for what exactly?”

“For me,” he said simply, fingers flexing faintly on your hips like the contact steadied him. “Because I’m stressed. And so are you. And sex decreases cortisol levels by—”

You laughed softly, nerves sputtering through it. “If we get caught, I’m leaving the state,” you muttered, and that made him grin — an actual grin, sharp and crooked.

“We won’t,” he promised, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced himself. He pulled away reluctantly, already shifting back into the picture of composure even though his eyes still had that faint wild edge. “Now go. Act like you just… threw up or something.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a storm.

When you left the bathroom, he was already back at the stove, calm, stirring sauce like nothing had happened, and you had to resist the urge to glare at his back. You found Maren curled on the couch.

“Hey, there you are,” she said, looking up. “You were gone forever.”

“Yeah, I… I threw up,” you mumbled, forcing embarrassment into your voice.

She sat up instantly. “You threw up?”

“Yeah. I think I just need to go home,” you said quickly before she could fuss more, keeping your voice weak like maybe you’d collapse right there.

She stood. “Wait—you’re not… oh my God, you’re not pregnant, right?” she hissed far too loudly.

Spencer choked on the sauce he was tasting, coughing into his fist, and you wanted to actually die.

“No,” you snapped, face burning. “God, no. I probably just ate something bad.”

She looked unconvinced but didn’t push, just gave you a quick hug at the door and told you to text when you got home.

Except you didn’t go home.

You parked down the block, heart in your throat the entire ten minutes you waited in the dark, the October air biting at your skin. It felt juvenile, ridiculous, sneaking around like this — but when you finally slipped through the side gate and saw the kitchen lights glowing warm in the dark, it didn’t matter.

He was there waiting at the back door. The moment he saw you, he unlocked it fast, tugging you inside.

“She’s in her room,” he said under his breath. “Come with me.”

He caught your hand and pulled you through the house, the two of you moving on instinct. Not upstairs. Past the kitchen, down the hall, to a heavy door you hadn’t noticed before.

His office.

The door clicked shut behind you, the dark green walls and shelves of books swallowing you both into a quieter world. The air smelled like old paper and cedar.

“You have a thing for desks?” you asked breathlessly, because humor was the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

He gave a faint grin, crossing to you in a few strides. “My room’s right next to hers. She’d hear everything. So…” He stopped in front of you, close enough you could see the faint stubble on his jaw. “…yeah. Maybe I do.”

The way he said it made your pulse stutter.

Because you were in his space now — a room lined with degrees, old case files, worn books — and you felt the shift in him immediately. Still Spencer, still nervous and brilliant and awkward, but there was something else running under his skin too.

Something he hadn’t let himself show before.

You step in closer to him, his breath warm against your mouth as he kissed you hard — not rushed, but like he needed it to steady himself. His pulse was hammering against you, his chest tight, the tension still rolling through him in waves.

“You’re panicking,” you murmured when you finally broke away, your lips brushing his.

“Just a bit,” he admitted, voice low, rough at the edges. His hands cradled your face like he was trying to focus on something solid.

“I can help you,” you whispered, your mouth grazing his jaw now. “You said… sex helps stress relief, right?”

His throat moved as he swallowed. “It does,” he said carefully, eyes on yours.

You smiled, lips grazing his ear when you breathed, “So technically… oral sex counts?”

The breath left him in a sound half between a laugh and a groan. “What are you asking to do?” he said, tone gruffer now, like you’d pulled something darker out of him.

“I want to do it,” you told him simply, and his whole body seemed to go still at the words.

Then he smirked, a slow curve of his mouth as he leaned back in the black leather chair behind him. “Knees,” he said, voice low but firm.

You sank down onto the hardwood floor in front of him, the smell of cedar and old books all around you. He watched you like a man starved, gaze heavy as you knelt between his thighs.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, almost to himself, before wetting his bottom lip and biting it softly. His fingers moved fast, unbuckling his belt, sliding his slacks open. When he freed himself, thick and flushed in his hand, your mouth went dry.

“Already hard?” you asked, fingers curling around him gently.

He hissed softly at the first touch, eyes shutting briefly. “And I bet you’re soaked right now,” he shot back, voice hoarse. “So don’t get cheeky with me… just—fuck…” The word broke off into a groan as you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly, deliberately, from base to tip.

His hand slid into your hair, not forcing, just holding you there, thumb brushing the back of your neck like he couldn’t help it. “Don’t tease me,” he warned, voice cracking on the words.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, slow and wet, and his head dropped back against the chair with a soft, guttural sound.

“Oh, fuck… that’s it,” he muttered, jaw tight, thighs tensing under your hands. “Jesus Christ, you feel—god, your mouth’s so warm—” His words kept breaking apart between breaths like he couldn’t quite keep it together.

You took more of him in, slow but steady, your hand stroking what you couldn’t fit yet.

“Fuck, yes—like that, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice cracking into a half-whine when your tongue circled him on the way back up. His hand in your hair tightened slightly, not pushing, just grounding himself as you hollowed your cheeks around him.

Every time you sank back down, his breathing changed, little moans and curses slipping out between half-formed sentences.

“God, you’re… you’re so fucking good at this,” he rasped, head tipped back, his thighs spreading wider under you. “Feels—ah, feels even better than I—fuck—than I imagined.”

You hummed around him at that, and the sound made him choke out a broken groan, hips jerking up before he caught himself.

“Jesus, don’t—don’t do that unless you want me to lose it,” he muttered, voice all frayed edges now. His other hand had come up to his face, dragging down over his mouth as he tried to keep quiet, tried to stay in control while you sucked him slow and deep in his own damn office with his daughter upstairs.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking again as you swallowed him down, his thighs trembling under your hands now, all that genius and control falling apart right there in front of you.

You took him deeper, faster now, the wet sounds filling his office, the smell of him sharp in your nose as you worked him with your mouth. His breath came out in rough, uneven gasps, the kind of sound he usually tried to swallow down when he was flustered—but now he didn’t even try.

“God—fuck, just like that—” His voice cracked, low and raw, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping the armrest like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His hips pushed up slightly, meeting the rhythm of your mouth without even meaning to.

You swirled your tongue around the head, and he let out a helpless moan, a choked-off sound like he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

“Jesus Christ, you’re so… so fucking good at this,” he babbled, voice thick, words breaking apart between shallow breaths. “So perfect for me, you’re… fuck, you take me so well, sweetheart—”

His thighs were trembling under your hands now, muscles jumping every time you sank down harder, wetter, your hand twisting at the base in time with your mouth.

“Yeah, yeah—just like that, please don’t stop,” he groaned, head tipping back, curls falling into his eyes. The genius, the professor, the man who always had too many words—he was barely holding sentences together now.

You hummed around him and that did it—his whole body jerked, a rough, broken sound tearing out of his chest.

“Don’t—ah, fuck, don’t do that unless you want me to come right down your throat,” he warned, voice shaking, but there was no real heat in it. Just desperation.

You went faster, wetter, his breathing turning ragged, his voice coming apart completely as he babbled praise into the room. Whimpering.

“Good girl, so good for me, Jesus Christ—oh my god, I—” His hand tightened in your hair, not pushing, just clinging. His eyes were squeezed shut now, chest heaving as he unraveled, every part of him strung tight as a bowstring.

And then it snapped.

“Fuck—oh fuck, I love you—” The words tumbled out on a raw groan as he came, thick and hot down your throat, his entire body shuddering through it. “God, I love you so much,” he choked again, voice cracking as you swallowed, his hips jerking helplessly under your hands.

He was loud, embarrassingly so, the kind of moaning that would’ve made him blush if he wasn’t so far gone, all wrecked curls and bitten-off whimpers as you worked him through it until he was shuddering, pulling you back gently, like he didn’t even want to but had to.

“Jesus… Christ,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes still half-closed as he looked at you like you were something holy.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand as he slumped back into the chair, completely wrecked, his curls sticking to his forehead. He was still breathing hard, his thighs trembling under your palms when you rose up onto your knees between his legs. His hand found the back of your head, softer now, almost apologetic as he pushed some hair behind your ear.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice ragged, trying to collect himself. “C’mere.”

You climbed carefully into his lap, straddling him in the chair, feeling the way his body was still buzzing under your touch. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the side of your neck like he needed the quiet. You could feel the erratic thump of his heart against your chest.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

He huffed a broken laugh against your skin. “That was… yeah. Yeah, I’m… Jesus, you’re incredible.”

You smoothed a hand through his hair, curling into him, feeling the way his breathing slowly started to even out as you held him. He didn’t let go right away—like the hug itself was another kind of aftercare he needed just as badly as the sex.

When he finally pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes were heavy, soft in a way you didn’t see from him often.

“Did I…” he swallowed, his voice catching, “was I… too loud?”

You bit back a grin. “Oh, you mean the moaning? The I love yous? The whimpering?”

His ears flushed pink instantly. “Don’t—don’t say it like that,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.

“You were loud, Spencer.” You teased, soft but deliberate. “Think Maren heard?”

The way his whole body stiffened was priceless.

“Don’t even joke about that,” he groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling might swallow him whole.

You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “Pretty sure she heard,” you whispered, just to be cruel.

He groaned again, hiding his face in your neck like he could disappear there. “I’m never showing my face again.”

“Hey,” you said softly, tilting his face back toward you. “Spencer.”

He blinked at you, all flushed and mussed-up curls, looking so far from the polished professor everyone else saw.

“I love you too,” you said, quiet but certain.

The tension in his shoulders eased instantly. He searched your face like he was memorizing it, then kissed you slow, deep, nothing like the earlier desperation—just warm and steady, like he wanted you to feel every ounce of what he couldn’t say yet.

When he finally pulled back, his hands were still cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone gently. “I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like it was only for you.

You stayed curled together in the chair, the office dim and quiet around you, both of you pretending the rest of the house didn’t exist.

There was a sudden knock at the office door.

You both froze.

“Dad?” Maren’s voice, muffled but way too close.

Spencer went pale. You scrambled off his lap like the chair was on fire, smoothing your hair with frantic hands while he shoved himself upright, running one hand through his curls like that would hide what just happened.

“Uh—yeah?” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, what is it?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, dry as bone, Maren said through the door: “You do realize these walls aren’t that thick, right?”

Your stomach dropped through the floor. Spencer looked like he’d just been told the BAU was reopening a case on him.

“Maren—” His voice was sharp, panicked, but she was already walking away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, half-mortified, half-choking back laughter. “She heard.”

“I’m moving to another country,” Spencer muttered, dragging both hands down his face.

You tried not to smile too hard as you leaned close, whispering just for him: “Told you that you were loud.”

His glare was weak at best.

And in that small, stolen moment, with laughter still caught in your throat and his thumb brushing over your knuckles, you knew it.

He loved you.

And you loved him.

And nothing else mattered.

Taglist: @yokaimoon @blacksnake13 @ssyren @kimiantonelliismyhusband @shinygivergalaxy @sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy @lexxaxxus @evam0481 @lulirossstuff @coldflowermuglover @nighthowlergamez @justlivinginadaydream @nevermorexlee @tbolesar @superbeaglewitch @starneul @iqraaaa07 @imyourapocalypse @lotusflower-princess @lavendersunshine333 @mistyeyeddear @sophia-andr-07 @pyrocrow243 @msfreedom @clearlyhauntedfang @444-green-blog @edsheerantbh @biologicallyyours @sreidlovergirl @rebloggingfromtherapy @potteredjames @evenisolation

⤷ Taglist

[divineross]

wild how anna green managed to write the most fucked up, amoral, unlikeable protagonist of all time whilst simultaneously making him the most relatable protagonist of all time. anyway-

[spenceloria]

RUSSIAN ROULETTE

KINKTOBER ‘25 ❤︎ DAY TEN gun play → emily prentiss !

like what you see? check out my kinktober 2025 masterlist!

warnings: fem!reader, dom!emily, object penetration!!, gun fucking, gun sucking??, power imbalance, paraphilla/autassassinophilia (fantasy, gun is nawttt loaded...), kissing, licking, the "knee thing", degradation, humiliation, clit stimulation, a little overstim, emily is rlly mean and then rlly sweet, probably inaccurate gun terminology/depictions...,

wc: 3.1k

div: animatedglittergraphics-n-more, toastray

lowercase intended, no use of y/n

watching cop shows with a girlfriend who actually worked for the bureau was… interesting, to say the least.

or maybe a better word would be impossible. they were definitely more entertaining before every five minutes was interrupted by a low voice behind you muttering, “that’s not how it really works.”

still, not even emily prentiss’s ever-present commentary could pry you away from your guilty pleasure. drama, crime, high-stakes investigations with just a hint of romance—that was your bread and butter. you’d take wild plot twists and inaccurate forensics over the grim reality of case reports and dull briefings any day.

and, of course, attractive actors never hurt. half the fun was finding a new series with a brooding, femme fatale detective who looked suspiciously like your real, borderline long-distance girlfriend. with emily constantly jetting off to the other side of the country, closeness had become a luxury.

the second you spotted a character that had her dark eyes, sharp tongue, and that particular smirk that was oh so emily, you unravelled faster than any plot twist. there was an obvious reason why most of your “new show” searches ended with, “huh, she kind of looks like emily…”

distance made that habit worse. between time zones, missed calls, and weeks where she was little more than a voice on the other end of the line, you found comfort where you could. Sometimes that meant bad tv, cheap snacks, and a little pretending.

one night, when the yearning for her touch became too heavy to ignore, you cocooned yourself in a pile of blankets and turned on one of those comfort shows. halfway through an episode, a striking woman with onyx hair took down a suspect, pressing the muzzle of her gun to his chest with unnerving calm. her voice was steady, her gaze unflinching.

it shouldn’t have made your breath catch. but it did.

because for a moment, it was emily.

you knew she carried a gun. you’d seen her tuck it away in the safe after long flights home, her movements careful, deliberate, almost ritualistic. but you’d never seen her use it. never seen the agent she became in the field—the power that must come with that kind of control, the authority threaded through her stance.

you imagined the way her fingers would curl around the grip, the certainty in her aim, the unshakable calm in her eyes. the thought alone sent a shiver up your spine. it wasn’t just the danger of it—it was her. the strength, the composure, the way she could command a room with a single look. you missed that. you missed her.

at some point, the line between missing her and wanting her blurred. your thoughts wandered, soft and dangerous, until you found yourself at two in the morning, surrounded by crumbs and static glow, heart racing at the thought of your girlfriend—your steady, brilliant, maddening emily, standing over you, voice low and teasing, power humming beneath her calm.

hardly classy. hardly easy to fall asleep to.

but in the quiet of your living room, she felt close enough to touch.

the door creaked open, and there she was—in all her exhausted glory, framed by the golden spill of the hallway light. a duffle hung loosely from her hand, her shoulders slouched, dark circles caved her eyes in, yet her smile was so soft, so familiar, it made your heart stutter.

“hey,” 

she murmured, her voice low and warm, the sound wrapping around you like warmth after being out in the cold.

“miss me, sweet girl?”

you swallowed, heat rising to your cheeks as your eyes met hers. 

“more than you know.” 

you managed, though your voice trembled despite your best effort. you’d played this moment out in your mind a hundred times, imagined what you’d say, how it would feel—but now that she was truly here, every carefully rehearsed word dissolved on your tongue.

emily stepped forward, the faint click of the lock behind her sealing the two of you in quiet isolation. the room seemed to shrink with her presence; the air thickened with nerves, with longing, with the simple ache of being apart too long. 

she set her go bag down, the soft thud echoing through the stillness, enough to make you flinch slightly.

her gaze lingered on you, dark eyes tracing your features, reading you the way only she could. she could always tell when something sat heavy on your mind. it was infuriating, comforting, and completely disarming all at once.

without a word, she stepped closer and pulled you into her arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. the tenderness of it almost hurt, a quiet contrast to the thoughts you’d wrestled with in her absence. you felt the faint tremor of her breath against your skin, and guilt fluttered in your chest, memory of your rotten fantasies resurfacing with her touch. 

when she finally pulled back, her eyes searched yours again, that quiet knowing smile ghosting across her lips.

“something on your mind?” 

she asked softly,

“what’s bothering you?”

you bit your lip at the question, eyes darting away, unwilling to meet her gaze.

“nothing’s bothering me, i guess…” 

you said, voice small. 

“i was just thinking about you—a lot.”

emily chuckled, low and tired, the sound warm enough to settle the air between you. she kicked off her boots, shedding the day as she always did. she would follow the same steps as she did every time she returned home, a habitual routine: credentials locked away, jacket draped over the chair, the faint hum of comfort returning to the space you shared.

though tonight, you would be a bump in the road for her simple ritual. 

“yeah?” 

she teased lightly as she moved toward your bedroom. the weight of the world seemed to lift from her shoulders, being home felt like a sanctuary in comparison to the harsh reality of her line of work.

“what did you think about?”

the question lingered in the air, soft but heavy. you froze, breath catching as emily reached for her holster. the motion was so routine, so familiar—yet watching her handle the weapon again after a week apart stirred something deep inside you.

as she went to unclip it, to tuck it safely away for the night, your hands moved on instinct. you caught her wrist, fingers trembling slightly against her skin.

“well…” 

you began, words tripping over themselves, 

“when I thought of you, i thought of—um—how you are in the field. all strong, intimidating… with, you know… that.”

your eyes flicked toward the gun now resting in her palm. sleek, cold, unremarkable to anyone else, standard issue for law enforcement, mass-produced across the country. but when it was emily holding it, it wasn’t just a weapon. it was her—steady, commanding, dangerous in all the ways that made your pulse skip.

she arched a brow, a hint of amusement curving her lips. 

“you thought about my gun?” 

she teased, tone light but laced with curiosity. 

“what, have you been binging cop shows again?”

her voice was playful, but it didn’t quite mask the flicker of intrigue in her eyes.

you laughed weakly, wishing you could melt into the floor. 

“yes… well, you know… i don’t know.” 

you mumbled, the words collapsing under the weight of your own embarrassment.

heat crept up your neck as you averted your gaze, unable to meet her knowing smirk. the silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was electric, humming with something charged, something not directly spoken, warily close to confession.

then, the sudden spark of cool metal against your cheek made you flinch. emily had used the very object of your fascination to force your gaze to meet hers. her eyes held a new intensity now, a glimmer of hunger that made your stomach tighten. 

“you’re interested in how i use my gun, huh?”

she teased, the tone mocking but edged with something darker.

with deliberate slowness, she unloaded her firearm, removing the magazine, and ejecting athe remaining round from the chamber, setting everything in the nearby safe.

your eyes were glued to her every movement, pulse spiking. you knew there was no ammunition, that it was just a cold hunk of metal, nothing to fear—but even knowing that didn’t stop your breath from hitching as she levelled the weapon straight at you, barrel aimed at your sternum.

your chest rose and fell too quickly, every nerve alight as her dark eyes held yours. you could feel the heat radiating off her, and the way her lips curved into that mischievous smirk made your stomach flip.

“you know,” 

she murmured, tilting her head, 

“you’re staring a little too hard. should i be flattered… or worried?”

you swallowed, throat dry, trying—and failing, to look anywhere but at her. 

“i… i can’t help it,” 

you admitted, voice low, betraying your composure and proving you were more than a little nervous. 

“you just… you’re… different when you do that.”

her chuckle was soft but dark, teasing. slowly, she lowered the barrel, letting the tip brush against your chest—just enough to touch skin, just enough to make your pulse spike again. her hands lingered on the gun, careful, calculated. 

“different, huh?” 

she whispered,

“is that what you call it?”

she teased you, slowly dragging the cold metal up your neck, the icy sting igniting flames on your flesh, heat spreading as she dragged her gun up to your face. her breath, warm and tingling, brushed against your flushed skin, sending shivers down your spine as she pulled you closer. 

she nipped playfully at your collarbone, the sensation of her teeth mingling with the hard, unyielding pressure of the barrel against your cheek made you dizzy. you sighed, a sound weighed with a mix of fear and desire.

you realized that you had never felt this... exhilarated before. there were no words to describe how the terrified ecstasy coursing through your veins affected you, especially as she pressed the weapon firmly against your forehead, her gaze locked deeply into your trembling eyes.

"you like this, don’t you?" 

she whispered, her voice a seductive murmur. 

"feeling so helpless and pathetic?"

a shiver ran through you at her words, a mix of humiliation and thrill. despite the burning flush on your face and the reeling in your brain, you managed a shy, almost unnoticeable nod, acknowledging the truth in her statement.

"you really are a sick one, aren't you?" 

she teased, a playful tilt in her voice.

she pressed her knee firmly between your thighs, the pressure of the gun barrel against your flesh intensifying. the sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that left you weak-kneed and breathless. it was enough to make you moan, your mind a fog of desire and surrender.

she leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, 

"tell me, what do you want? what does your sick little heart desire?"

her voice was a low, sultry purr, sending waves of anticipation through your body. 

you struggled to form words, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. the gun's touch, cold and unyielding, was a constant reminder of her control, her power over you. 

"i... i want more." 

you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible.

a  smirk played at the corner of emily’s lips, and she pulled back slightly to look into your eyes. 

"more, huh? you're a greedy girl, aren't you?" 

she chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. 

"well, i guess i can indulge you just a little."

she shifted, her knee pressing harder between your trembling thighs, and you gasped, your flushed body responding eagerly to her calculated touch. the cold, polished barrel of her firearm traced a deliberate line down your heated cheek, your quivering jaw, before settling on the edge of your plush, swollen bottom lip.

"open." 

she commanded, her voice a velvet wrapped in steel, firm yet impossibly gentle.

you obeyed without hesitation, staring directly into her dark striking eyes as you wrapped your eager tongue around the sleek barrel, sucking lightly, gasping at the raw, musky taste of iron flooding your senses. 

emily bit back a moan as she watched you take the full length of her gleaming weapon between your puffy, bitten lips, your jaw going slack to accommodate its unyielding presence. the sight of you—vulnerable, willing, desperate, seared itself into her brain; she wasn't sure how she'd ever maintain her professional composure in the field with the vivid memory of you worshipping her gun etched permanently in her mind. 

this wasn't something she'd ever imagined craving, but you effortlessly scraped out the deepest, most buried parts of her, dragging them into the harsh light with terrifying ease.

she pushed it a fraction further down your throat, mesmerized as salty tears brimmed in your wide, trusting eyes, pupils blown out with desire as you maintained unwavering eye contact. the press of the gun between your teeth remained constant, a cold reminder of her absolute power. 

you felt her shift again, her taut body pressing flush against yours, and you released a shuddering sigh, a sound of pure bliss echoing in the charged air between you.

suddenly, she pulled her gun out of your mouth, watching the glob of saliva stretch between your lips and the black object, connecting you, shining with evidence.

she pressed her mouth to yours once more, moaning at the metallic taste on your tongue as she forced you across the bedroom, tripping over furniture as you were pushed onto the bed, springs groaning and mattress bouncing with the addition of your weight.

emily made quick work of your confinements, practically ripping off your sweatpants and tank top, leaving you nearly bare beneath her.

now slick with saliva, she dragged the ice-cold barrel of her weapon across your sensitive nipples. the metal left a trail of goosebumps in its wake, your delicate peaks hardening instantly against the freezing touch.

a moan escaped you—loud, guttural, nearly primal as she firmly pried your trembling thighs apart with her free hand, gun gliding over the damp cotton of your white panties, fabric soiled, slick with your arousal.

she pressed the shining metal against your swollen clit through the thin barrier, the pressure both terrifying and exquisite. a high-pitched whimper tore from deep within your throat as she hooked her finger around the elastic and deliberately pulled the soaked fabric aside, exposing your glistening folds to the cool air. 

with deliberate slowness, she mapped the delicate flesh your cunt with the muzzle, circling and nudging your pulsing heat until you nearly bucked off the bed.

you felt immense shame for your actions—still, you persisted as her eyes locked to yours. she watched each reaction, taking note of each gasp… made you clench around nothing, aching for more.

you writhed, wanting to squirm towards her touch, desperate for relief, but she pressed you flat and made you take what she gave you. causing your hips to tremble with every calculated pass of the weapon.

she leaned in and licked a line along your jaw, the sharp edge of her teeth promising a bite she never gave. she laughed, low and wicked, then drew the length of the barrel along your slit, parting you. the metal was numbingly cold and your body was radiating heat.

with one swift motion, she sheathed the full length of the gun into your core. finger hard on the trigger as she drilled the cold intrusion of metal into you at a feverish pace.

you knew the magazine was empty, that you were safe, but something about the fear of danger and the glint in her eyes only egged you on as she continued fucking you with her very own gun.

the same gun she brought to quantico with her every morning, the one that had been in the field, pointed at unsubs, taken their lives—your thoughts were cut off as she twisted her grip, quickening her pace so that she was pistoning in and out of you at a ludicrous speed. your moans were borderline pornographic as you threw your head back in pleasure.

"my filthy, disgusting girl, getting off on my gun like a sick slut." 

emily's teasing only made your mind reel as her slender fingers found their way to your clit, applying pressure that sent your eyes rolling and your thighs quivering. her touch propelled you towards the brink, approaching like a sudden, tidal wave, swift and unanticipated.

you never imagined reaching climax so swiftly, not from just a few strokes of her wrist, not like this. the sounds that filled the room were obscene, the constant wet slap of her movements was humbling enough, but the sounds escaping your lips? they would have seriously made you cringe in any other situation.

though in this specific moment? the words that left your mouth were the least of your concerns.

"em! emily! oh my god! please!"

She chuckled, savoring every whine that left your mouth as she brought you towards your edge, dangling you over a cliff.

"need to cum! please, please, please—"

your pleas had her pushing deeper, until the sensation became almost unbearable, the intrusion forcing your thighs to close instinctively, but emily wouldn't allow it, gently guiding your legs back open.

"already? my god, you really are fucked up, hmm?"

Your hot tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving salty trails in their wake. the heat building in your lower belly felt like molten lava, as if the intensity was consuming you from within.

"pl—please!"

emily cooed at your pleas, wiping away your tears with a gentle kiss and a soft touch, her tenderness contrasting with the intensity of your body in her hands, making you clench impossibly hard, using all your remaining willpower to hold back until she gave the signal.

"go ahead, sweet girl."

the sudden softness in her voice was your undoing, pushing you over the edge with a force that made you feel like you were floating in a sky of stars, your body going limp against the soaked sheets of your creaking mattress.

emily guided you through your climax, continuing her movements despite the strain, your blissful expression distracting her from the overstimulated sounds leaving your lips.

"'stoomuch... em... please..."

your words barely rose above a whisper, pulling emily back to reality as she slowed her movements, watching as the clear slick of your release dribbled out of your swollen core, connecting to the tip of her gun. she brought the metal to her lips, tasting you, admiring your dazed smile from below.

"you did so well for me, baby."

emily leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, her tongue gently soothing the tender flesh. she smiled into the kiss, the black metal long forgotten, lost somewhere between the sheets.

for now, the world was just you, her, and that playful smirk that crept onto her lips as she spoke against yours.

"so, did the new episode of that police drama air yet? I liked where the plot was going last week."

ok this was freaky as fuck but i hope u enjoyed hehe found out what autassassinophilia was to write this so wow! big ass word... anyway we are officially in the double digits of kinktober! love you all and i hope you guys are enjoying it so far!(please reblog if you did!!)

taglist! @velvetinkbym  @girlnerd116,  @dorotheareid  @antisocialbutterfly611  @blacksnake13  @giannaisannoying  @hangeuls  @chicken-went-bye-blog  @svtluvrsstuff @dilflover-3  @kyeomlurver  @queenbee127 @nonb1narydyke @simpfornikolailantsov @imaginewagons34 @luvpinkjaz @cmloverr @sugarsunshine4 @definitlyno @mattsslvtt @adaslvr @willowsblanket @bxuzi @otteshamoshfegha @viviandarkbloom11 @bellaciao0 @jay-2s-world

[misserabella]

the wolf and the lamb

werewolf! spencer x human! reader (pt.1)

“run little lamb, run.”

10,7k words!

cw; +18 content!, minors dni!!, historical enemies to lovers but in reality is helpless pining idiots to destined lovers, forced marriage (union of kingdoms), cold spencer, mentions of hard expectations and starvation in search of a better image and figure (r), protective spencer, possessive spencer, jealous spencer, reader is not as innocent as she seems, appearance of characters (emily, hotch, rossi, jennifer and derek), slow burn, lots of sexual tension, angst, teasing, haunting, devotion to reader from spencer, insecure lovers, mentions of past relationship?? but not quite (jennifer x spencer), crying, nudity, arguments, masturbation (spencer and reader), perv! spencer (just a tiny bit), somnophilia???, reader reads erotica (relatable), love confessions, first times, loss of virginity (r), oral sex (both receiving), fingering, nipple play (r receiving), dirty talk, lots of begging, pet names (angel, beautiful, pretty…), lots of praising, pure desperation, rut spencer, breeding kink, knot locking, multiple orgasms (r receiving) and rounds implied, marking, biting…

in a world where all kind of ghouls wandered… from vampires to wendigos… you ought to be scared to encounter them. but why did it seemed that a merciless death would be better than your father handing your hand in marriage to one of them?

his brown eyes are specking with golden hues that match the bands that sit prettily on the burgundy velvet cushion that the ring beholder offers you.

the babbling of the priest sounds like gibberish to your clogged ears. your heartbeat is going so fast you believe it might escape from your rib cage. if it does…you hope you can run away along with it from this church and this fate you’re now in the hands of.

“miss?” your eyes drift from the man— from who you’d be calling husband from now on towards the priest.

“forgive me. i seem to have lost my train of thought.” he smiles kindly and repeats what he had asked.

“do you take this beast, spencer reid, king of his kind, as your husband? in health and wealth, sickness and poorness?”

you suddenly feel like swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon, and your breathing hastens.

but you have to do this. a bloody war depends entirely on the next words you’ll spew. you have no choice but to…

“i do.”

“then, hereby, with the power i behold and under the eyes of our god, i name you wife and husband. you may now bear the rings…” his hands are warm, but his eyes are cold, void of feeling. his jaw is tight the moment he steps closer. his nostrils flairs as he takes in the musk of your skin, the perfume the maids had sprayed on you, the vanilla that lingers from the oils they had lathered you on after your bath. he looks at you as if you were an insect and his next meal at the same time.

his touch is scalding and electrical as he slides the golden band, the branded signature with his name and the date of your union, onto your heart finger, the metal just a barrier of thin skin away from the blood that pumps right straight to the thumping core in your chest, which now too would belong to him, either you wanted it to or not.

your eyes zero on it, trying to take in the sigh and the idea of now being a married woman, and not an ordinary one at that, but the wife of the king of all beasts, the ones you’ve been against since the beginnings of time.

but your little bubble pops at the rasping of the priest. the ring. his ring. the ring you have to put on your now husband’s finger.

“oh, sorry.” your voice is soft, that’s something spencer has noticed, but nothing compared to your touch, your skin. he hides the way his breath hitched when you carefully and tenderly caught his hand, so you could slide the band on his finger. he can hear your rapid heartbeat, can sense the fear and nervousness coming out of your soul in waves.

good. you should fear him.

“and now… you may kiss the bride.” your body locks, muscles going rock solid. anyone could mistake you with a statue by the way you’d even stopped breathing.

a growl leaves the beast’s chest and the whole church freezes.

“is it necessary?” his dangerous glare digs daggers into the priest’s chest, who starts sweating and stuttering.

“i-i’ts tradition, my lord.” his smile is screaming ‘please, mercy!!!’.

“fine. if i must.” he drawls, and you have to swallow as his cold stare now falls upon you, just like his presence. his new step breaks your space, it’s heavy, and his proximity chokes you, crushes you.

you hold your breath as he bends down, golden and hazel eyes facing your doe ones, widened in astonishment.

the space closes, diminishes, and dissapears. your eyes tighten close, your hands clenching into fists.

please, god, don’t allow this to be my death.

and when you thought that he would tear into your skin, you feel him take a deep breath in. he was taking you in, and god did you smell biteable.

spencer’s teeth clash down onto each other, and a new growl leaves his chest. this one is deeper, dangerous. and it terrorizes you.

a squeal escapes your lips, your stomach flips. he must consider your scent disgusting compared to those of his kind. what if he couldn’t take it? what if the need to feel your flesh give in into his mouth and your blood hit his tastebuds was too strong? what if his instincts-

but then soft as cotton lips pressed against the corner of your plush and trembling ones.

it was quick, a peck, before he was pulling away to show the relieved faces of now a happy crowd and priest.

“may god gift you with a long and lovely marriage, king and queen reid.”

his castle was not what you had expected. hell, had you even expected a castle at all?

high stone towers shadow you, colorful lilies of stained glass decorating the façade of the covered in bloom vines.

you frowned at the sight. your books always talked about being the gladiolus the flower of the crown of the beasts. for its meaning as the flower of the gladiators, strength and victory. no lily was ever mentioned on the scriptures.

“my lady?” one of the servants had opened the door of the carriage for you and now gifted you his hand as support for you to descend onto the ground.

your husband, observed in the shadows of the coach as you gladly accepted with a thankful smile. fangs glinted.

if the beasts had not their recognizable sharp canines, they would pass as one of your kind. they also were taller, sturdier, stronger. with a clawed hand of theirs, your skull could easily sink in under their tight grip. you tried to not think about the fact that soon you’d be entering into their den.

that was until…

“my lady!” your eyes found those of emily prentiss’, your confidant and with who you’d grown playing through the bushes of the maze in your palace.

“emily!” having her in your arms had never brought you as closer to home as you had been since you had said your ‘i do’. “oh, i’m so glad to see you… but what are you doing here?” you questioned.

“an order from your husband, he thought you’d feel safer with some of our kind working along his servants in the castle.” your eyes then sought out the beast with who you now shared not only a united kingdom, but a last name. and there he was. aaron hotchner, the guard that had kept you alive like a guardian angel since before you could walk, shaking the hand of your husband as who you assumed —and would get to know later as derek morgan— would be his second hand, a man of great built and tanned skin.

“oh…” you muttered, your sight quickly adverting as spencer seemed to notice your staring, finding your fleeting eyes.

his hazel irises burned over your skin; your figure in your still pure white wedding gown.

“let me take you upstairs, into a much comfier dress, hm?” emily took your hand and you nodded, tagging along, but the need to turn around ate at you and tugged on your strings until you did, finding that spencer’s eyes had not yet left you, or the way emily held your hand.

(…)

after that, you didn’t catch sight of your husband until the sun had commenced to dip below the frond forest that surrounded you.

you now wore a sleeveless bedazzled and corset tight purple gown, your delicate feet in the comfiest heels you had ever worn. your long and wavy hair —a masterpiece from your stylists— danced across the hair as the clacks of your kitten heels accompanied and announced your arrival to the dinner hall.

two tall butlers opened it for you, their synced voices stating your entrance. “lady reid.”

guards stood posted at every door, maids just a feet away in case of need. across the room a feast spread before your eyes, at the head of the table your husband sat, waiting for you.

but what spencer wasn’t expecting was to see you wearing purple, the emblematic color of his kind. before he could think, he was standing, his chair scraping the rick marble of the floor. he stared at you so intensely, for a moment you thought you had somehow done something wrong, offended him… but no.

if spencer couldn’t hold himself as well as he knew how to, his mouth would have hung open in surprise. but of course, his composure was his forte. though you seemed to have a natural knack to shake it to its core.

you bowed before him. “my lord.” your voice soft, kind and elegant as you acknowledged him.

he mimicked you as soon as he pulled his train of thought together. “my lady.” both of you stared at each other. “i wasn’t aware of your knowledge on our history and emblems.”

and that. that was the longest he had talked to you for.

you smiled, softly, just a mere trace. “thought that, now as part of that history, i should start playing the part of where i belong now; the house of reid.”

his body slightly froze at your words, but he gently nodded, and with no more comment, swiftly signaled you to take a seat on the other head of the table, right across from him.

after that, the maids were quick to prepare your silverware and drape a velvet cloth over your lap in case of spills.

you thanked them, and stared at the food in front of your eyes, there were plates that you’ve only seen in drawings or read in books, tropical fruits about which’s sweetness songs strummed along.

you didn’t know where to start. but that was not just what concerned you. spencer still stared at you, calculated. like a gentleman, he awaited for you to make the first move, take the first bite. it was an inverted veneration to which you were accustomed. and you didn’t know what to take. what to eat. how much to eat. society standards were hard, you’d starve for the perfect size, the perfect figure. you now were a queen. the closest thing to perfection and god known to man… you had to be nothing less than that. you couldn’t be.

you reached for sautéed asparagus, your fork easily pinching though the softness of it before slicing it in a smaller piece once in your plate.

spencer continued to stare as you filled —more like half-filled— your plate with small portions of vegetables. cooked potatoes, carrots, tomatoes…

he stopped you just as you were to pick on some lettuce. “not a fan of meat?” his plate stood, yet, empty, the golden specks on his eyes shining under the flames of the chandelier.

“oh, not at all, my lord.” your eyes met a plate of stake nearby, and you felt your mouth water. “seems delicious.”

the beast frowned then. “feeling ill, perhaps?”

you shook your head, and once again, denied. “no, my lord.”

his eyes narrowed, once, and then took his silverware. “alright then.”

(…)

dinner had never been so long and dreadful. but nothing could compare to the hour in which the sun left you in the dark.

you had been bathed for a third time that day, and lathered in all times of oils that left your skin smelling and feeling like the most softest of petals.

a sheer white gown covered your figure, and your hair hung down to your waist in the same beautiful waves you had worn to dinner.

you were now awaiting for your husband on your chambers. white, purple and gold surrounded you, lilies filling the room, the window letting in the soft and warming breeze of the upcoming summer.

you couldn’t stop staring at your reflection on the mirror that hung from the nearest wall. were your lashes sufficiently curled? were your cheeks rosy enough? is your hair properly curled from every angle? did you look perfect? you had to. it was your wedding night.

your cheeks flushed at the thought and realization of it. your wedding night. the night in which you’ll become one with your now husband. the night in which you’ll offer yourself completely to him, body and soul, for the first time ever. you were not supposed to know what would happen. but you were curious, and sneaky, so of course you had managed to find books of anatomy and some… erotica on the forbidden section of your castle’s library.

pleasure. that’s what you’ll feel. once he rids you of your clothes, once he crawls on top of you, once he spreads open your thighs and…

a knock falls upon the wooden door, and you jump on your place. it’s him. you quickly take a last peek towards the mirror, anxiously combing through your hair one last time. you’re flushed. cheeks, neck and ears pinkish and warm as your meek voice mutters a “come in!”.

the door creaks open, and spencer’s heavy steps break the air, with his presence inside the room, it feels heavier upon your shoulders, dense.

he closes the door, and his eyes met yours, but then, he takes a deep breath in, and has to fight the urge to growl deep into his chest at the scent you give off. he hadn’t even looked at you, hadn’t even touched you yet…, and he could already smell the arousal pooling in between your plush thighs. how sweet you were. how ripe and ready and…

his lung filled in with the scent of your need. your body, soft, smaller, pliant—called for him, to be bred, to give him the heir that will officially be the union of both your kingdoms.

you’re so willing to let him take you, for him to push himself upon you and break you apart…

“why are you still awake?” his voice is ruff, dry, void of any warmth. your body shivers, freezes. your heart jumps.

“i… uh-“

“it’s late. you ought to be sleeping. a queen needs all the rest she can get.”

your cheeks pink. have you thought wrong? did they not…?

“i thought i’d wait awake for you…” his fists clench at the sliver of soft and tempting voice that leaves your plush lips —those which he had barely felt, tasted, a mere hours ago at the ceremony and which you wouldn’t stop wetting with your wicked tongue in nervousness—.

he simply ignores your words, and sits on the common tea area in the spacious room, taking out of his vest’s pocket a perfectly sized book of what? your sight could not catch.

“my lord…?” your voice calls once again for him, questioning. his eyes fall close at the sound.

after eternal seconds of still silence, he speaks once more.

“it’s our wedding night.” the declaration makes you pulse, flush, reek. and spencer growls. “i’ll stay in your quarters for exactly an hour, as it is expected of me to be here tonight, then i’ll leave.”

you frown. solely an hour? ‘your quarters’? he’ll ‘leave’?

you take a deep breath in…

“i don’t understand…”, and let it out. your hands, clammy, shaky, clasp together, your thighs tremble, tighten. “you won’t…?”

“what.” that single word is cutting. “take you?” your core floods, your body warms and he growls once again, making your flesh wear those beautiful goosebumps that call unto his most dark instincts. “stop that.” he orders. “stop with that nonsense and go to sleep, you need the rest.”

you swallow. your heart freezes over and cracks. your hopes wither.

but you nod, concede, and gently make your way into the silk, sheer, white sheets.

you turn on your side, eyes facing towards the window facing the floral and beautiful gardens of your new… home?

you let your lids fall, and with a last breath before you will yourself yo sleep you mutter out a broken.

“goodnight, my lord.”

the days are long, almost never ending. your desk if full of paperwork you thought you would never have to do. you were prepared, of course, your entire life-hood had been lesson after lesson to take the crown after your father and mother —being the only offspring of the marriage—. but it had surprised you. never in history had a queen had so much power in her hands, so many decisions to make —not on your kingdom at least—.

“the king wants your insights in the kingdom matters, for you’re the owner of it as well.” derek morgan, the second hand or your husband spoke with the kindest of smiles as he carefully placed the papyruses on the wood before you, ink and quill ready.

your eyes were wide and doe’d in surprise, but you managed to give a quick nod before he retreated and stood beside aaron on the door, guarding it. the first thing that came to your mind was the reasoning for this. aaron was a capable soldier, a golden one at that. the best in you kingdom. he could protect you just fine, so why a second one…? that’s why the possible answer of the reason for it being spencer’s need to monitor you through derek, to keep you from making mistakes… made anger boil in your gut. could it be that he thought of you as inferior? as frail and dumb just for being a human?

you straightened your back even further and gritted your teeth. aaron, non the wiser, and knowing of your mannerisms, raised slightly his eyebrows at your almost imperceptible show of fury.

your quill flew through the sheets, your scribbling was almost frantic as you also filled the margins of the documents with your strong opinions and arguments. plans were made. data updated. and contracts for upgrades were signed with your careful, floral and graceful script.

and when you were done, you sat up abruptly.

“aaron.”

the guard stepped forwards. “yes, my lady?”

“i’d very much like to wander through the gardens.” hotchner nodded under your command.

“then i shall accompany you, my lady.”

you didn’t even gave morgan a side glance as your kitten heels clacked by him, leaving the room and him behind.

and it wasn’t until you were deep into the gardens that aaron spoke once again. “are you alright, my lady?”

“please don’t call me that, aaron. i shall remain your princess even if my name has changed.” he chuckled lightly at your sweet fit and pout.

“alright then, princess. but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“just marriage matters.” you simply said. aaron was like a second father to you, he had been there even in your first steps, and helped you clean your wounds when you’d fall while playing through the maze of your castle. you were pretty sure he wouldn’t like to know about the marital distance spencer put between you two. how he left you to sleep alone every night, and barely spoke to you during the days.

you were married to a ghost in a crown.

“marriage is supposed to be hard, princess. even more if you’re different species.” he gave you an encouraging smile, the golden wedding band blinking at you. you sometimes forgot he was married, and had a beautiful kid he also had to take care of aside from you. you took a mental note to give him more vacation time and shorter shifts now that haley and jack had moved to the houses near the castle —that spencer had built specifically for the servants, guards and their families.—.

you hummed, feet dragging through the perfectly cut grass.

“i guess you’re right.” you continued your walk, under a willow and a couple of meters away from you a beautiful pond overflowing with the most crystalline water you had ever laid eyes on, pink water lilies rimming it as if it were a painting, or the most perfect natural mirror. hotchner should’ve known the moment that wicked smile of yours split your porcelain face. “how do you think my husband shall react if he found me in the pond?”

“princess.” he tried to stop you, but the word hadn’t even finished leaving his lips before your heels were off, and you were tugging at your dress, undoing the front corset and letting it drop to the ground.

aaron was quick to look away. sure, you still had your white chainse to cover you. but you were a queen, and firstly, a woman. one he deeply respected. he turned.

“princess, i believe this won’t be to the king’s liking.” he rose his voice, muttering a breathy curse when he heard your feet plunge into the water and your little squeal.

“well, i am his queen and equal. and if i desire to go into this lake, then i shall.” and with that you dived in. the water was the perfect temperature, mostly colder than warmer, but you preferred it that way.

your long hair adhered to your back as you came back to the surface, eyelashes decorated like chandeliers with the droplets of lukewarm water. your cheeks were flushed, a relaxing smile giving away on your lips as you wadded though the water, observing the little butterflies and dragonflies that would pass by. maybe you could plant more flowers for them.

but your little bubble of relaxation bursted when a needle with the low growl of your husband went through it —and the air who surrounded you— like an arrow.

“and what is my wife doing naked in front of another man who is not me?”

you froze on your place, just for a second, your muscles locking and going taut with a tension that had been growing like weeds inside of you, creeping and surrounding your heart in spines. then you smirked, but put on your best confused and innocent expression as you turned and your doe eyes met his.

“but i am not naked, my lord. i’ve still got my chainse on.” your lily-white words fell from your wet lips. “look.” and when you stood from the water, it cascading in rivers down your silhouette, which now was accentuated by the sheer white fabric glued to your skin — a fabric that left everything on sight— in that instant, derek morgan, who had tailed down the king, looked away as well, fixing his dark brown eyes in the plum and willow trees.

spencer, on the contrary, kept his eyes, which shone, for just a split of a second, with the purest golden… on you. on your pebbled and rosy nipples, that show through the sheer damp white.

“princess-“ aaron quickly took off his purple velvet cape, stepping towards you to cover you. god forbid you caught a cold and fell ill. but the deep threatening growl of the king stopped him from taking one more step.

spencer didn’t mutter a word. the stare he gave the human clearly spoke aloud his thoughts: drape that thing over her and i’ll have your head. then, he undressed. first his purple embroidered vest, then, his white flared shirt, and stepped towards you.

your eyes raked down the exposed skin. sun-kissed toned muscles greeting you, making you almost salivate. his chest was strong, the perfect size for you to hide against for warmth in a chilly night. his shoulders, wide, the muscle taught in tension, made for your hands to claw at. his stomach… lean, soft yet harsh lines showing his formed abdominals. and then… lower… peeking from his pants, the most mouth watering and sharp v-line —which you wondered if would cut your fingertips if touched— flanking soft highlighted curls that disappeared down down down…

your vision got clouded by the cloth of said shirt as he pulled it down over your head, covering you and engulfing you in his rich scent, making your heart almost beat out of your chest.

his jaw was tight, muscle about to snap as his eyes were anywhere but on you. as if he couldn’t bear the sight of you.

his grip was tight on your hip, and from his pink lips fell a simple order.

“now go change.”

and for the first time. you didn’t try to fight. not with the way he growled each word under his breath.

spencer was about to spill over the edges. his skin was tightening, and his body felt like a goddamn furnace. he knew what that meant, he could feel it in his bones. but he kept working and working and working, trying not to think about the storm of hunger that would take over him sooner than later.

“so, under my watch, the constructions wouldn’t take long, and would enrich the kingdom, for ferthey is interested in our wolfsbane as much as we are interested in their luna magra.” rossi —the treasurer and political man of the court— spoke, plans of a new harbor and corps expanded on the table.

spencer was trying to pay attention, he really was, but his mind was far far away from the room in which he stood.

“sounds good. the faerie has always been fair and generous in tradings. also our bonds would tighten.” the king hummed. “send correspondence as soon as possible.”

“yes, my lord.” david bowed, rolling the maps and saving them back carefully into his satchel.

“making decisions without your queen, gentlemen?” heads turned under the sound of your voice, eyes landing on your figure, framed by the wooden door. and if non-the wiser, you could have been mistaken for a painting, the most mouthwatering masterpiece. soft plush thighs uncovered under the same shirt spencer had covered you with the afternoon prior, which you had clung onto after the maids had showered, insisting you’d sleep on it.

you looked so small under the size of it, so fragile. hair slightly messy, cheeks rosy and lips plump. you had just woken up.

eyes widened, and then left you, bodies folding on bows. “my lady!” it was as if the church’s choir was present with the way they all chanted your name.

spencer’s chest puffed in a deep breath, almost a gasp, also an intake of your sweet scent being consumed by the musk of his. his sharp eyes wondered your exposed skin, canines gritting when the neck of his shirt slipped slightly down your shoulders, slightly unbuttoned front showing your clavicles and juncture of your neck, where he would…

“out.” the order was guttural, simple. every man in the room tensed under it.

you rose your eyebrows as you looked him straight in the eyes. “not so soon gentlemen, i have yet to see what you were planning in my absence.”

the step they were about to take towards the door became a mere feint. now, the court stood in between the words of both carrying the crown.

“everyone. out. now.” you husband’s voice filled the space once again, but this time… even your body felt the need to comply. the bellow was rough, deep, the order of a true leader.

when the bodies of his kind moved like mere puppets on strings and left the room in a hurry is when you noticed that the roar was not a simple one. but an alpha’s order. spencer had used his alpha’s voice against his own. a tone so impossibly deep and strong that no wolf could unfollow nor break, not if they weren’t as stronger as him. and there was no wolf as strong as the king.

when they left you two behind inside the room, after the soft click of the door, you scoffed. “now that was not fair.”

“i’m starting to believe my lady has a liking to undressing herself in front of other men.” he growled and you smirked with a shrug of your dainty shoulders.

“can’t a queen be comfortable in her own castle?” he clicked his tongue. you had a sharp one, your were quick.

“in my shirt.”

“in your shirt, indeed.”

yours. yours. yours.

mine. mine. mine.

you could hear his teeth clashing against each other in a tight bite.

“take it off.” he ordered. he wanted it back.

“as you wish, my lord.” and who were you to deny your king and husband?

but as your hands took the hem of your shirt, and started to pull upwards, to pair of strong burning hands encircled your wrists. in a blink, spencer has crossed the room, his brown eyes catching a mere glimpse of the sheer underwear underneath his shirt before it could go any further.

a low growl left his chest, and your body reacted to it. to it and to his touch. goosebumps rose, slick formed…

“what are you doing?” his heavy breathing hit your cheeks. deep rich coffee.

you kept your eyes on him. “exactly what you asked for, my lord. i’m taking it off.”

“here?”

“are you not my husband?” his eyes closed. spencer bit the inside of his cheek until copper hit his tastebuds, and ground himself with a deep breath before facing you once again.

he let go of your wrists, but stood a breath away, eyes dark, deep into yours. a dare was written in his irises; ‘do it. do it if you have the courage.’

and you, once again, delivered.

you didn’t look away as you continued your tugging, up, up, up, until it left the warmth of your skin behind, fell down your hand and ended on the floor.

only covered by your drawers, all but your most sensitive core, stood exposed before his eyes. at first he didn’t look, fought against the need of your eyes to wander, but your skin was so pure… and ready for the taking.

your breath got stuck in your throat as, by the mere sight of the naked skin of your neck, the mere crevice of it, his eyes turned the prettiest and brightest golden you’d seen. and before he would let his eyes travel downwards, towards the soft and supple mounds of your chest and rosy peaked nipples begging for attention… he forced them away.

“leave.” he said in a breath. his skin was itching. his lungs suffocating in the dulcet aroma of your arousal. but his face ported the poker of a card, and his eyes had returned to the chocolate you were acquaintances with once again.

you stood there, unmoving. and that’s when he called louder. “prentiss!”

through the wooden door, the voice of the brunette could be heard, before the human cracked it open. a slip dress stood in between her arms, as if she were conscious of what would happen once you stepped into the conference room.

“yes, my lord?”

“would you mind aiding the queen to dress and lead her back to her chambers?” he asked, as politely as he could with the deep growl that begged to leave his chest. emily looked at you, and you simply turned, slipped on the dress and left him behind in that empty room. the door shut and his eyes zeroed on the shirt on the floor, the shirt you had worn to sleep, the shirt that now contained not only your scent, but his, combined.

his hand took it, gripped it, if it weren’t for his composure he would have already ripped it to pieces, but instead, just followed after you and into his room, throwing it into a corner before pouring himself three fingers of bourbon.

you must be doing this on purpose.

that was spencer’s thought when you stepped foot into the dining room for breakfast that morning. you were properly dressed this time, a beautiful, flowy, summery dress clinging to your body in all the right places. it was a feast for the eyes of anyone. but the dessert. the sugared cherry, the forbidden fruit… was how you smelled.

his nose flared, his lungs filling up in pure unabashed hunger.

orgasm. you smelled like an orgasm. he could smell the residual cum in between your thighs, on your fingers. could practically smell your moans, your whines.

he was aware that you knew. you must. just as he was aware that if he could smell it, the others of his kind in the room could as well.

but how… how did you knew what an orgasm, what pleasure was supposed to be?

had you heard about it? had someone told you about it? had someone touched and taught you?

the mere thought made the golden fork in his hand almost snap in half.

“morning, my lord.” you saluted him, sitting down on the opposite head of the table, like always. “how was your sleep last night?” you inquired, and made sure to slightly part your thighs.

either you were completely oblivious or your little fits lately had been completely intentional.

‘the second.’. you’d answer with the prettiest of smiles if you could read into his mind.

“fine.” he answered gruffly. “what about yours?” but still courtesy didn’t lack.

“splendid.” you smiled softly, and he swallowed a growl. fucking tease.

truth be told? your little schemes were just a simple way to get spencer’s attention. to get his touch. but most of all, to prove that he desired you. just as you did. he must desire you, right?

but up until now, two weeks of marriage had passed, and no little stunt had worked. first, it had been the lake, next; the shirt incident. after that, you had made sure to become friendlier with his second hand, derek, in seek of his jealousy. you had pranced around the castle with shorter and shorter gowns, had basically rooted yourself to the places he most commonly frequented; like the library, where the tow of you spent hours reading each on a different side of the room. you haunted him like a ghost… and yet, he had stood impassible. to everything. every step, every word, anything you did… his façade was impeccable. you couldn’t make him react. couldn’t make him tick. and it was as heartbreaking as frustrating.

until…

it was late at night. another alone night in your chambers as you devoured page after page of a romance novel you’d found on the castle’s library. when the passion filled the pages, and neediness seeped into your undergarments, soaking the tender flesh of your thighs…

when your hand came down in seek of relief… that it hit you.

werewolves had the best sense of smell ever recorded and known. so… if you waltzed into a room where he stood unclean, dripping in release… he must notice. he must smell it.

so that night, you made sure to make a mess. it wasn’t difficult if you recalled the image of his sun-kissed skin, exposed and strong chest, marked abs, perfect happy trail that led the way to…

so now here you stood, eyes digging deep into his, acting as if nothing was wrong. but this time, you had seen the way his nose had flared, how for just a mere second, golden had taken over his irises, how his body had tensed… a crack, a way in.

and you were not gonna let it leave your grasp.

now. about to enter a state of rut, in which inhibitions lowered and a savage, hungrier side of him broke through his walls… spencer felt taunted. like a donkey to which they had offered a carrot hanging from a stick, right in front of his eyes. what you didn’t know is that he was no donkey, and you were no carrot. he was a wolf, and you were a lamb… and wolves devoured lambs.

he felt the urge to take ahold of you, sink his claws and teeth in you and ravish you.

but instead, spencer glued himself sat to his seat, and bit harshly on a bloody piece of steak.

(…)

spencer`s chambers stood at the end of the hall, a couple of doors away from yours, for a matter of protection. and you took advantage of that. nocturnal as he was, you became accustomed to his scheduled, and knew the exact moment in which he would make his way down the hallway and into his room to commence your little toying.

the first night spencer caught the sound of your dulcet moans and needs whimpers… he almost broke through your door and took you right there. he could hear the whines, the wet sounds of your arousal as your fingers pounded into your warm and velvety insides, your ragged breathing… the calling of his name.

so sweet, so needy…

he couldn’t help but stay until you finished all over your fingers and sheets with a quiet scream of his name.

his fists tightened, his jaw clenched, and he breathed out to himself: “keep walking, reid.”. even when his trousers were drenched, and he felt like dying of hunger.

(…)

the situation repeated itself each night, every passing one getting harder, every new moan and whimper becoming more and more impossible to ignore, making his desire more and more difficult to tame.

until he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

it was late. too late. you had already went through your little performance and were asleep when he softly and stealthily slipped into your room.

he bit back a groan at the unfiltered scent of you. fresh. potent. not blocked by the wooden door. it was right there. before him. under his nose.

such a deep sleeper you were that you didn’t awake at the imperceptible click of the door, or the fumbling of his clothes.

his eyes were bright in the darkness, like flames, pure gold as he stared at the silhouette of you, on your side towards the moon and away from him. you were uncovered, only piece of clothing your little nightgown. sheer. taunting. your thighs were exposed, glistening the further up his eyes went in between your legs. but nothing could be seen. it’s not as if spencer needed it. with just your scent and the sight of you spencer could come untouched. he got on his knees. venerable. under a spell. he worshipped you as he would worship a goddess. he knew he didn’t deserve to touch you. he always did.

the very first time he saw you. the very first whiff he got of you… he knew. you were made to be his. born for it. he could feel it in the way those invisible red strings connected his heart to yours. but he never touched you. didn’t properly kiss you. didn’t talk to you. firstly, because spencer was terrified of loving you —which he feared he already did— and secondly, because he was a monster. he could-no- would hurt you. he wouldn’t be able to fight the instinct and need to bite down on your neck and brand you as he would if you were of his kind, wouldn’t be able to not stretch you open on his knot and breed you like he’d been dreaming about doing since the moment you bowed your “i do.”.

he bit down on his shirt, canines tearing through the cloth, as one hand pushed the shirt you’d worn days ago —his shirt— right up against his nose and the other circled his stiff cock. it’s veins were full, about to pop. the head was already dribbling pre, leaking. and his balls were so tight and stuffed with the cum he wanted to deeply fuck into you he could cry. for fuck’s sake, his knot was almost fully formed. he was sure that it’ll merely take a few strokes to make a mess.

he was a dog. figuratively and literally as he started to stroke himself, golden eyes zeroing where your thighs met. he couldn’t even see it. couldn’t see your cunt. but he could smell it. and god if it didn’t smell as the best feast he’d ever encountered.

he was panting. basically in heat as he masturbated to the placid sleeping self you were on your bed. which should be his bed as well. both’s bed.

“god…” he begged, to whatever existed above the clouds. but deep down, he knew that his own personal god(dess) was asleep, in that bed, completely unaware of how hard and fast he jerked his cock to her.

and if spencer weren’t that needy, he might feel bad. but he couldn’t. not when it felt this good.

the thought only made him rose higher. you. naively thinking he didn’t desire you, even walking through your castle with your dried cum between your legs, practically begging him to bend you over the dining table and breed your womb full of his pups.

the imagery of it, of you plump and round and beautiful with his baby, made his knot try and lock into his palm. and just before shooting endless ropes of cum into the floor and his thighs, he took his napkin and pressed it against his sensitive tip, eyes rolling as he came, silent growl fighting his way out of his throat.

he didn’t know for how long he came. neither for how many rounds he went for as the night advanced. but in the end, his napking became useless.

spencer’s favorite moment of the night became the night. of course, being a wolf, he adored the moon. but lately something much more beautiful and bright had captured his attention. he spent the nights in your room, when you were deeply asleep and sated. you still left the scent of your release all over the room. such inhibited pleasure… he couldn’t believe you felt such sentiment for someone as impure as him.

his pre-rut state was getting worse; dizziness, hot flashes, fevers…

but deep in the night, he would softly rest his arms on your bed, and his chin on top of these. and just the mere sight of you, of your peaceful features, of your beautiful and breathtaking face… was enough to satiate his hunger, his thirst. you offered him solace. peace. oxygen as he struggled to breath during the day.

and yet, you were so unaware… of how deep his devotion for you had rooted inside his soul…

that a mere misunderstood… the right presence in the wrong moment and place… shattered you.

“spencer. stop this nonsense, you’re suffering. you cannot spend your rut alone. it’ll be unbearable.” you were on your way to the gardens to watch the sun disappear into the vast forest, aaron as always by your side, guarding you even if no threats were on sight. but a delicate cooing voice made you stop on your tracks. spencer’s office door was ajar, light coming from the inside, as well as his voice as he answered:

“i’m fine.”

“you are not. look at you, you’re running a fever again. you know i can help. i’ve done it before.” your eyes fell on a beautiful blonde. he wasn’t a royal, that was for sure, but neither a servant. maybe an acquaintance of the king’s. stunning ocean eyes. the smallest waist you had ever laid eyes on. he was a sigh for sore eyes. and a werewolf. just like spencer.

something deep inside you felt off at the sight of the two of them together. insecurity. how couldn’t you be?

spencer sighed, shaking slightly his head, brown eyes away from her. “jennifer…”

even her name was pretty.

but what you weren’t expecting was for her to take his face in between her hands and smash her lips against his.

all air left your lungs. it felt as if a dagger had gone straight through your heart. a punch to the gut. the little food you had had for breakfast —‘cause you had been watching your figure, trying to lose weight and be more appealing to your husband— made its way up your throat, and you had to swallow the nausea back down.

the sight was fleeting, for a hand came over your eyes and covered them.

“don’t look, my lady.” aaron’s voice whispered sadly onto your year, and you felt tears prickling.

not wanting him nor your husband to see you like this, you shoved him away harshly, making quick haste to run away towards your chambers.

spencer, who had quickly pushed away the blonde, caught sight of aaron’s stern face on his door, and the waving of your air in the air as your heels angrily made their way down the corridor.

he was quick to follow, pushing through your door as you tried and slam it on his face.

he muttered your name. and if you weren’t in such a heartbreak, you would have noticed it was the first time he had ever done it.

“no.” you cut him off. “that much you loathe me? despise me? enough to…, to depend on another woman at your weakest. in your rut?! to allow her to take a place i have gained by the bows i made before god and by the ring that hugs my finger?!”

spencer swallows, his eyes leaving you, falling shut. there are a million voices screaming inside his head. his insides are burning. his skin is on fire. his hands are itching to pull you close and his mouth is ready to kiss away all your worries and tears.

“look at you, you can’t even stand the sight of me! is that it? you no longer can survive seeing me every morning? fine! i’ll leave you alone. i’ll live, eat, bathe and sleep on my own. i’ll even move to the furthest isle of this goddamn castle!”

“that is not far enough!” his voice is gruff, desperate, harsh and cutting. he’s panting. eyes golden as he stares down at you. “you’re right. i can’t stand the sight of you. i can’t look at you. i can’t breathe when i’m around you. but not because i despise you. quite the contrary, because i desire you like i’ve never desired anything in my life. all the knowledge i’ve stored inside my head vanishes as you come near, all logic leaves me when you look at me. ‘cause i’ve leant that perfection is a myth. impossible. unreachable. and yet… there you stand…” your heart stops. your body freezes. your hands shake. and you fight the urge to pinch yourself. “the day you vowed before me the “i do”? the day that you let put that ring around your finger? you made me kneel with a simple stare. you ripped my heart out with the sweet dagger of your voice. you condemned me. condemned me to this hell in which i get to have you close but never close enough. you became the moon i pray to, the oxygen my lungs long for, the most beautiful breathing painting right before my eyes. you became my hell… and… my god given solace.”

both of your breathings are ragged, shaky. you’re drowning.

but in a blink, you can finally breath. after weeks of thin air filling your lungs.

his lips are soft yet harsh as he devours your mouth. the two of you moan on each others tongues. his hands don’t know where to touch. fuck, can he even touch you? should he? he shouldn’t. but his brain has already stopped working, something only you manage to do.

“spencer…” you whimper as his lips trail from your bruised lips to your neck. he inhales, deep. and his incredibly hard cock stirs in his trousers.

that’s all he needed. your scent. his name falling off of your lips while you were under his touch. it was the last push down the precipice. he growls, canines growing, bigger, sharper. you need them in your neck as much as he does. but… “god… i can’t.” he’s in rut now, his mind is foggy, his instincts are screaming at him to take you, ravage you, knot you, breed you… but most of all… make you his. mark you as his. with the ring or his bite on the juncture or your neck.

you hush him, pulling him closer. “you can. god, please spencer. you can. i want it. it’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

his sweaty forehead presses against yours, his golden eyes are as bright as the pure sun. “i’ll hurt you. i won’t… i won’t be able to control it. i’ll hurt you and i’ll hate myself for it.”

“you won’t. and even if you do… i’ll love it. just as i love you.”

after that, spencer’s head had never felt clearer. his chest lighter.

there’s a mess of hands as you desperately tug on each other clothes. but there’s no time to waste, and a gasp leaves your lips when he simply claws at your dress and rips it apart, making it mere shreds.

“spencer!” you try to tut, but he hushes you in between desperate kisses as he walks you backwards towards and onto the bed. you flop down onto the silk sheets. and jesus, aren’t you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“god, forget about it. forget about the dress. i’ll buy you a new one. hell, i’ll buy you a thousand more of them if i get to rip them off of you every time.” you’re cheeks flush, even more when he rids himself of his vest and shirt. the sight you’ve missed so much, hits you once again, and your core floods. “fuck… you’re do damn beautiful. gorgeous. perfect.” he pants as his golden eyes ravish you. you shudder, and your cunt throbs. you instinctively press your thighs together. for relief. hell, maybe even restrain, but spencer growls.

“don’t you dare. don’t you dare hide from me. i’ve been dreaming about this sweet pussy of yours for weeks now.” you squeak when you see him kneel before you.

“my lord!” you try and make him stand but he pulls open your thighs, trying to take a glimpse of your dewy pussy lips, but when it doesn’t seem like enough, he just rips you free of your undergarments. now you’re fully exposed under his hungry gaze. and even though your virginal body is screaming in embarrassment, it’s already ready for him. to be ravished, fucked into oblivion… and you won’t leave this room without finally getting your husband to take you as it has been intended since the very first day of your marriage.

“no ‘my lords’ here. my name is spencer. your husband. you must refer to me as such.” his eyes meet yours, and you nod.

“my husband.” you repeat, and he groans as if he had just thrusted into you.

“god, you sound heavenly. but even more when you moan my name.” and he proves it by sinking in between your plushy thighs. his nose meets the dripping mess, tip against your clit. and he inhales, deeply, depraved. he growls, and your back arches when this time, it’s his tongue what meets your cunt, from entrance to mound. “beautiful… so sweet… so ready and needy for your alpha, aren’t you angel?” your eyes roll the same direction as his tongue rolls against your clit, a high pitched scream leaving you as he harshly sucks on it, letting it go with a pop just to slurp at the juices that quickly leaked out of you. “so wet… you’ve been needing this as much as me, hm baby? poor thing… so neglected by his husband. but don’t worry, there will be no more of that.” your breath hitches as his fingertips join his tongue, flicking and pinching you clit, prodding at your entrance until one finger slips inside. it goes in so easy he moans. “you won’t need to keep going with your little stunts to get my attention. to get me to fuck you until you cry. from now on… i’ll give you everything you want.” he thrusts, once. “i’ll fuck you full of me every day and night.” another finger stretches you open, and your hand tugs at his pretty and messy curls, making him groan and bite at his lower lip in pleasure. “i’ll make sure you’re dripping of me every minute of every single day.” another deep thrust. “and when it takes…” another thrust, a harsh suck on your sensitive clit. “when you’re round and glowing with my pup…” a third finger goes in, and you scream. you’d never gone this far. the fullness stings… but makes you dizzy for more. you wanted it to hurt, only if the one hurting you was spencer. “i’ll make sure you stay that way season and season again.” he fucks and laps at you. “until you beg me to stop.” and before you know it, white is taking over your vision and you’re screaming his name as you come around his pumping fingers, which fuck you through it. he groans at the sight, using his thumb to tease your clit and not miss a single second of it. “look at you. such a fucking natural, trying to milk my fingers… can’t wait to feel you try it on my cock.” he pleasures you through it, shrinks out of you and consumes every drop of your pleasure.

your vision is dizzy as he growls and pulls away. “fuck… can’t.” he basically rips away from his skin his trousers, as if the soft cloth was burning him, when in reality it was him who was.

you notice. notice how he’s still fighting against himself. how’s he’s battling against every and each one of his instincts for control.

“spencer…” his golden hues meet you, and you feel like prey about to be devoured. but it only pumps your veins of that fuzzy desire you crave. “please… stop fighting it.” one of your hands pressed against his toned abdomen, and you feel the muscles tense under your soft fingertips. “i want it. i want you.” he grits his teeth, but his jaw slacks when your hand curls around his throbbing and leaking cock. is big. massive. you fear he won’t even be able to push the tip in. and the mere thought of not being able to take him hurts you.

he moans your name as you explore him. your touch felt like pure snow against his scorching skin. relief. a relief he’d never known before. not even with one or his kind. not even with jennifer.

his mind is so filled up with you, his body is so attuned to yours and his soul craves you so much he beliefs you to be an illness, a drug. and he can’t escape it. he doesn’t want to. he’ll never let go of you now that he has tasted you, kissed you…

he almost comes the moment you find his knot, already puffy at the base of his length, flanked by perfectly groomed curly pubes. your mouth waters. your cunt pulses. this. this is what you craved.

“i want it.”

he growls, as if he were in pain. “you won’t be able to take it. it’ll hurt.”

“then hurt me.” you spew, fast, unthinking. you’re both animals starving. “please… alpha…”

a dribble of cum leaves his tip at the name. he’s cumming. he’s cumming just with your voice and mere touch. it’s not much. it’s not dense. it lacks. but you don’t waste it. you’re quick at letting your maw fall open and your tongue loll out, catching what he gives you before your lips engulf his engorged and pinkish tip. spencer moans, deep, guttural. and his fingers lace in your hair. the perfect grip. soft, careful, yet tight, as if he were scared you’d stop; leave him. not ever, you thought.

his eyes were a reflection of his uncontrollable hunger as he stared down at you. “god…” he whined when you lapped at his length, when you sucked at his tip… and he was about to fold in half when you took him deeper into your throat. and if he didn’t knew better, if he hadn’t seen the erotica books you’d sneaked into your quarters, he would have believed you had prior experience. “jesus, gorgeous…” the hold on your locks tightened as you bobbed your head and slightly choked. “you’re that desperate for me to fuck you, mh? gonna lube me up?” you nodded, teary eyes looking up at him as you gulped around his cock. he groaned. “such a good girl…” he praised you. “but i don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

in a blink you were underneath him, his narrow hips in between your soaked thighs. “this pretty little thing is already soaking wet for me.” he chuckled when you squealed at the feeling of his rudy tip teasing your slit, bumping against your clit. spencer kissed and lapped at your neck, at the juncture of it. it’s as if the glands there called for him. he nibbled at it as he thrusted against the heat of your pussy lips. “so ready… i bet i could just slip right in.” you whimpered.

“please…” his hand curled around his cock, and tentatively pressed against your twitching, dribbling entrance. a gasp left you when he barely pushed, almost breaching, just to pull back. even in this state, even when the rut was making him basically go insane before your eyes… he was tempting you, taunting you. this was payback.

“please what?” he licked at your glands, lips sucking a bruise against them, as if like that he could make your scent a beverage.

“please, alpha.” he growled.

“fuck. you make it difficult to teach you a lesson.” your breath hitched as he pressed further and your eyes fell shut, he took your cheeks with his free hand. “nuh-huh. don’t hide from me. look at me. i wanna see you take me.” and your eyes widened when, in a clean squelching swoop he thrusted inside your scorching walls. although, his knot still stood on the outside. he groaned. you moaned. it was the unleashing of a famine. “mine.” he growled and bit onto your lips, kissing you roughly as he started to move. he didn’t give you time to adjust. it wasn’t as if you needed it. you were so wet, his cock glided easily in and out of you. “say it. say you’re mine.”

“i’m you’re spencer, i’m yours.”

“my queen. my wife. my moon.” he growled against your mouth, tongue licking inside of it as his hands took ahold of your hips, so harshly you believed there would be bruises tomorrow morning. you couldn’t wait to see them marring your skin on the mirror. marking you as his. “so tight… so warm… so perfect for me.

“spencer…!” you whimpered as he sped up. he was desperate. starving. he drove into you like a man possessed, as if your pussy gave him life.

your g spot was bruised and milked over and over again with each snap of his hips. the now damp pretty curls on his base slightly tickled your clit, reminding you that there was still a part of him you hadn’t discovered, taken, made yours…

your legs surrounded his hips, talons sinking against his lower back as you pulled from him and pushed your hips against his next thrust. you felt the throb of his cock against your clenching walls when his knot breached your entrance. he gasped and trembled. “fuck. what… what are you doing?” you pulled from him closer.

“i can take it. please, spencer… make me take it.” he groaned, panting, canines digging into his lower lip until he tasted iron.

“you know it’ll hurt you, right?”

“i wouldn’t mind hurting if it’s for my husband.” you muttered against his lips, and licked the tear of blood on them.

“fuck. how can you…?” he stopped himself, his words stuck inside his chest as he gulped.

how could you be this perfect? how could he deserve you?

“please.” and how could he deny you? deny his queen? his goddess? his moon?

the stretch was almost unbearable. spencer had spat on his knot, trying to make it easier for you. but taking it, as a human, was a very tight fit and incredible feat.

he strived to distract you, of course, he peppered your face with kisses, licked at the salty tears that left your gorgeous doe eyes and swallowed your whimpers of pain as he encouraged you. his hungry eyes took in the sight of your pretty pussy lips spreading around him, slowly sucking and letting him in. they were pinkish now, puffy due to his previous lapping and sucking and now his animalistic thrusts. the sight was breathtaking.

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, baby. i know it must hurt but you’re taking it so well, you’re taking me so good…” when it finally popped inside, you breathed in. you felt like you could pass out in pleasure. you were so full. he was in so deep… his dribbling tip was harshly pressed against your cervix. no space existed between you. “such a good girl… taking my knot. letting me knot her and pump her full of my pups…” he growled. and when your hips rocked in need, he didn’t wait to start fucking fuck back into you. the popping of his knot in and out of that tight ring of muscles added a squelching, dirty and sick pleasure to your union… and the sight… jesus. the way your mound bulged with each new drive of his cock into your heat…

you couldn’t stop moaning. whimpering. whining. crying out his name as he battered your cervix, fucking you dumb until spit dribbled from your plushy lips. he acted like a real animal —like the animal he was— when his tongue made sure to slurp the excess.

your high was approaching, you could almost taste it. spencer could smell it.

“close, pretty? gonna cum all over my cock? milk it just like you did with my fingers?” you nodded in hiccups, nails digging on his shoulders. “go ahead, show me how much you love my cock splitting you open.”

it was as if you were under a spell, ‘cause once the order, his permission, left his lips, you were crumbling. screaming. cumming and creaming so hard you feared once your vision turned white and your hearing clogged that you’d gone blind, deaf or died. maybe all of the above.

he kept fucking you through it. his canines lengthening, knot swelling. “so beautiful… gonna look even more once i pump you full, once i get you round with my pups. gonna look so plump…” his teeth nibbled at your perky nipples, making you gasp. “so prettily soft and swollen…” he sucked on them, as if he hoped milk would already come out. he was awaiting the day he could milk your breasts with his lips, taste you and the way your body changed for his baby. all because of him. “you want that, angel? want me to fuck all my cum into this greedy pussy or yours? knot you to make sure it takes? keep you plugged with it for hours before it swells down and i’m ready to do it all over again?” you nodded, desperately, tugging at his hair.

“yes, yes, yes, oh god spencer, please… i need it. i need your knot. need you to fuck me pregnant. want to give you pups.” he growled.

“the take it.” and all breath left your lungs when you felt him thrust for one last time, deeply, knot locking in place as it swelled impossibly bigger, so big tears stung your eyes. “take my cum. make me a daddy.” and you were cumming again when not only did he fill you up with his creamy, warm and thick cum, but sunk his teeth into the juncture of your neck hard enough to leave mark. to mar you. to finally… finally… make you his in the way that mattered. you were now his. body and soul. his wife before god, and his moon before the one that stood shining brightly above you.

rope after rope, he filled your womb. so much your belly swelled, his hot wicked tongue lapping at the wound he had just inflicted on your precious and perfect skin to clean it of any blood, to help it heal.

“mine.” he muttered against your lips, and you nodded.

“yours.”

spencer had always seen you as a lamb. precious, pure and fragile. prey. but he started to believe that it had been the other way all along.

i’m planning a part two. so don’t worry! you’ll be seeing more of these two. hope you liked it.🤎

psa!! ;; remember that reblogs, likes and comments encourage your artists!!

[directedbygubler]

Cutting it close 🗡️

pairing: PostPrison! Spencer Reid x AFAB! Fem Reader

Kinktober Day 1 - Knife Play ~~ Kinktober Masterlist

rating: Minors don’t interact, Smut, 18+

synopsis: You meet Spencer Reid after his time in prison, and he becomes obsessed with you — watching you to make sure you don't make a mistake as you try kill. But you won't kill infront of the looming stranger. But when he reveals himself and the needs he has you take him up on it. He's drawn to save you from the saviour complex, but craves the violence you burn with. He's not letting you go.

wc: 6.2k

cw: Smut, Violence, p in v, knife kink, blood, empty threats, Sub Spencer, use of good boy, praise, degradation, Consensual, Saviour complex Reid, rough, Toxic, Mentions of Reid past trauma, use of a knife (not stabbing and only once very small.), mentions of murder, begging, very high key pathetic Spencer, Whimpering & rambling spencer

a/c: WAKE UPPP ITS THE FIRST OF THE MONTH 🎃

You were smart. Too smart, in fact.

You knew you wouldn't get caught. Not after the first man. Not after the second. By the third, you were cocky enough to keep a trophy. Weeks bled into months, months into nearly a year, and still there wasn't a single mention of you on the news. No breathless "killer on the loose" headlines. No cops pounding on your door. They'd written it off as random violence. Wrong place, wrong time.

Until he showed up.

You noticed him the second time he followed you.

Didn't talk to him. Didn't look at him.

Tall, lanky, curls falling into his eyes, hands shoved into his pockets like some overeager grad student wandering the wrong part of the city. Didn't look like a cop, didn't walk like one either. More like some nerdy Lecturer over at Georgetown who'd just finished teaching "Philosophy of Crime" or whatever bullshit class got him off.

Maybe he was a perv. Maybe he was just curious.

But he was making it impossible to get a clean kill.

Always lurking. Always looming. Standing too far away to be threatening but close enough that you could feel the weight of his stare. Guard dog. That's what he was.

A fucking stray someone had sicced on you.

For over a week he didn't let up. Day, night, didn't matter-tall guy with the big brown eyes was always there. Watching. Waiting.

Until tonight.

Until the man in the bar.

He was the handsy type-cheap cologne, worse teeth, too drunk to notice the look in your eyes when he touched your hip.

"Oh, come on, princess... I was just being friendly," he slurred into your ear as you stood from the booth.

Sure you were, sweetheart.

You didn't answer. You didn't have to. You just started walking, weaving through the back door and into the wet neon-streaked alley behind the bar, knowing he'd stumble after you like the idiot he was.

"Baby," he called, voice cracking through the night.

"You're playing hard to get, I get it..."

You smiled to yourself.

He had no idea he was following a wolf.

No idea that you had a knife clutched in your hand behind your back, blade catching the faint red glow of the EXIT sign above the bar's door.

No idea that you'd already picked the spot his body would fall.

He followed like they always did.

Until-

The grip came from behind.

Iron-tight. Your wrist pinned back hard enough to make the knife bite into your own palm.

The drunk idiot laughed, leaning against the wall with a sleazy grin. "Ohhh... I get it. You're taken. Didn't know, baby."

The voice behind you was low. Sharp.

"Get the fuck out of here."

Not to you. To him.

And it was a command, not a request.

The drunk blinked, swayed on his feet, then stumbled back toward the main street, muttering something about crazy couples.

You tried to twist free, but the grip on your wrist held firm. Stronger than you'd expected. "The fuck is your problem?" you snapped over your shoulder.

The man behind you-him, the stalker-said nothing at first. He just reached around, disarmed you with a speed that had your chest tightening, then stepped back into view, knife dangling from his long fingers.

And fuck, up close? He really didn't look like a cop. No badge. No gun in plain sight. Just a button-down rolled at the sleeves, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes.

But he wasn't panicked. Wasn't horrified either. He just looked... disappointed. "That was reckless," he said finally, voice quiet but cutting. "There's CCTV right there." He gestured with the knife toward the corner of the building.

You glanced.

Fuck. Camera.

Missed it completely.

"Well, having a stalker breathing down my neck is making me a little... reckless," you shot back, yanking your wrist from his now-loose grip.

One corner of his mouth twitched. Like you'd actually amused him.

"Stalker?" he repeated, spinning the knife lazily in his hand. "You mean me?"

"Yeah, you. Looming over me like some freak. What's your deal?"

He finally smiled, small but real. "I'm Dr. Spencer Reid,' he said, polite like this was some casual introduction at a coffee shop. "Supervisory Special Agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI."

You stared at him.

Then down at the knife still in his hand.

Then back up at him.

"You're a fed?"

"Technically, yeah."

"You technically just stopped me from killing someone."

"If I wanted to arrest you," he said, meeting your eyes steadily, "I would've done it already."You took a slow step back. He noticed.

"Don't," he said quietly. And then, softer, "Please." You stopped. Against your better judgment. "Why wouldn't you?" you asked, folding your arms.

His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke.

"Because.." He hesitated. "You're not even a suspect.

There are no suspects. There's just... me. Because I'm smart enough to know it's you, and —"

He broke off, like admitting it out loud made it worse.

You huffed a laugh. "What? You want to help me?

Rehabilitate me? Some fucked-up savior complex?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

You blinked.

"You're serious?"

"Yes." His voice cracked on it. Just a little. Then, quieter: "You're... you're too smart to waste yourself like this."

You tilted your head. Smirked.

"What, you like me or something?" Silence.

"Oh my God. You do. You fucking do."

His ears went red.

And he still didn't deny it.

You laughed, sharp and mean. "Jesus. You have the strangest fucking type, you know that?"

"Tell me about it," he muttered, almost to himself, spinning the knife one last time before folding it and slipping it into his pocket like he had every right to keep it.

He took you back to his place that night.

Not that you needed much convincing.

The man was a fed, sure, but he was a fed with a savior complex the size of D.C. itself, and you? You weren't above exploiting that. He was kind. Smart. Way too handsome for his own good with the curls falling into his face, the tie hanging loose like he'd stopped trying to impress anyone hours ago.

And he looked at you like he'd burn the world down to figure you out.

So, yeah. You went.

He kept you close as you walked through the quiet streets, one hand at the small of your back like he was scared you might bolt if he gave you too much space.

Maybe you would have, just to watch him chase.

"What did you mean," you asked, breaking the silence,

"when you said 'tell me about it' earlier? You know, when I said you had bad taste in women."

He let out a breath that was half amusement, half something heavier. "I don't... exactly have good taste, I guess," he admitted, voice soft like he was embarrassed by the confession.

You bumped his shoulder, teasing. "That's not an answer."

"It's the truth." He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders curving inward slightly. "I've had... bad luck.

With relationships."

You gave him a look, slow and sharp. "Expand on that, doctor. You owe me, remember? Stole my knife.

Stalked me for a week."

That earned the tiniest curve of his mouth. "I wasn't very... popular growing up," he started carefully.

"Bullied a lot. Too smart. Too awkward. Too... me.

People didn't exactly line up for dates with the scrawny kid who carried calculus textbooks around in the eighth grade."

"Shocker," you deadpanned.

His lips twitched. "Then, when I got older, I met someone. A woman. She... she was incredible. Brilliant.

Kind. I loved her." His voice softened, like the words weighed more than he wanted to carry. "She died.

Right in front of me."

You didn't say anything. Just let him walk with it for a moment.

Then: "And?"

"And then," he exhaled, "I developed feelings for a... particular killer-"

You barked a laugh. "I'm not your first? That's disappointing."

His head snapped toward you, startled, before a reluctant smile curved his mouth. "Let me finish."

"Please do."

"She got me sent to prison for a crime I didn't commit," he said flatly. "Kidnapped my mother.

Manipulated the entire federal justice system while she was already behind bars."

You let out a low whistle. "Yikes. What a girl."

"I shouldn't have liked her. I kissed her once. That was it. I thought it was... complicated."

You smirked. "And now what? You want to finish what she started?"

"No!" His head shook fast, curls bouncing. "No, that's not-this isn't-" He dragged a hand down his face. "I study crime. All the time. Even when I shouldn't. I saw the numbers on stabbings go up. I profiled the entire thing myself-no one else even knows you exist. I just...

I wanted to stop you. I wanted to help you. I know everything about you."

There it was again. That word. Help.

You stared at him, voice flat. "You have a savior complex."

He didn't deny it.

"Jesus," you muttered, shaking your head. "You're telling me you went to prison too?"

That shut him up for a second.

Then, quieter: "Yeah."

You waited.

"It was... lonely," he admitted finally, eyes fixed ahead.

"General population. No protection. They knew I was a fed. It didn't go over well."

"You were attacked?"

He gave a small, humorless laugh. "More than once. I was in for six months. Doesn't sound long, I know, but... I thought I was going to die in there. I thought that was it." Something in his voice shifted there.

Darker. Raw.

You slowed your steps slightly, watching him.

"I was stabbed," he added almost absently. "Just once.

Superficial. I've had worse."

You arched a brow. "Worse?"

"I was kidnapped. Tortured. Drugged. Killed and brought back. Then I got shot in the knee. Then the neck. And that was all before prison."

You stopped walking altogether, turning to stare at him. "You're telling me all this for what, Spencer?

Sympathy points?"

He stopped too, facing you fully now.

"No," he said. "I'm telling you because I want you to understand why I'm here. Why I can't stay away from you."

Your mouth curved slow. "Because you like me."His jaw worked. Then he nodded once. Honest.

"I want to save you," he said simply. "Because you deserve saving. Because you're brilliant. Because the world chews people like you up and spits you out, and I can't stand it. Because I'm... because I can't stop thinking about you. And yeah," his voice dropped, quieter, darker, "maybe I want you to hurt me a little too. Maybe I want that more than I should."

There it was.

The slip.

The edge of something raw underneath all his logic and statistics and savior bullshit.

You smiled slow, dangerous.

"Oh, Doctor," you murmured, stepping closer until he had to tilt his head down to keep your eyes. "Now we're getting somewhere.

His apartment was nothing like you'd pictured. Not that you knew what to expect.

But this? This was... cozy. Warm. Dark green wallpaper instead of sterile white walls. Wood floors that creaked faintly under your boots. Books stacked in precarious towers along the shelves like they might collapse any second. A battered chessboard on the side table. The faint smell of coffee lingering like he lived off the stuff.

No framed photos.

Of course not.

He shut the door behind you, locked it, then hovered for a second like he didn't know what to do with you now that he had you here.

The silence pressed thick.

He set your knife down on the coffee table between you like some offering, the metal catching the dim lamp light.

You didn't reach for it.

Not yet.

You waited.

He sat on the armchair opposite you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he was mentally cataloging every wrong turn that led him here.

Finally, he spoke, voice low.

"I know this is... foolish," he said. "But after everything... after that much hurt... it's hard not to... need the threat."

Your lips curved slowly. "Just the threat?"

His gaze lifted. Met yours. Nodded once.

You could see him fighting himself, hands dragging down his face like he was two seconds from bolting and two seconds from begging.

"Spencer," you drawled softly, amused, "you profiled me. Dug through my whole history. Every grade. Every job. Every messy little thing l've ever done. You know me inside out... and here you are."

He swallowed hard.

You leaned back against the couch cushions, studying him like a puzzle you weren't sure you wanted solved.

"I'm sorry," he blurted suddenly, words tripping over themselves. "If you want to leave, you can. I shouldn't have said-"

"I thought you wanted to save me," you teased, head tilting.

"I do," he said quickly. Too quickly. "But only if you want to be saved."

You smirked, leaning forward until the lamp caught the edge of your grin.

"I wish to be saved, Doctor."

Your hand closed around the knife slowly, deliberately, dragging the blade across the wood of the coffee table with a soft scrape.

"How will you save me?"

His eyes darted between you and the knife. Not fear.

Not even close. Something darker. Something hungrier.

"Every time you want to hurt someone," he said, voice tight but steady, "we... find another way."

"Another way," you repeated, tasting the words. "Like what?"

He hesitated.

You let the silence stretch. Long enough to make him squirm.

"Spencer," you murmured, dragging the knife tip across the table again, slow circles etched in the varnish. "Tell me."

His jaw clenched. His eyes snapped up to yours.

"You don't have to hurt me," he said finally. "You just have to... scare me. Threaten me. It's about the fear, isn't it? The power? That moment when they realize they can't stop you. You'll see it in my eyes."

His words started coming faster. Like he couldn't stop them now.

"You get what you want," he said. "And I... I get to stop thinking about the last year of my life every time I close my eyes. About prison. About being helpless. About bleeding in the dirt because someone decided I deserved it. You want control? Take it. Take all of it."

The confession landed heavy.

You tilted your head, studying him. "You want that?"

"Yeah," he said, voice rough now. "One hundred percent. I'm consenting. I want you to scare the hell out of me. Just... don't actually kill me."

You smirked. "I promise."

That earned you the faintest, shakiest exhale.

You rose slowly from the couch. Watched his eyes track the blade glinting between your fingers.

"You're so jumpy," you murmured, stepping closer until you stood over him where he sat. "You like this?"

His throat worked. "Yeah."

"You like me holding the knife?"

"Yes." His voice cracked. "God, yes."

"Filthy," you teased softly.

He didn't even deny it.

You leaned down, close enough that your breath brushed his cheek. "Say it."

His jaw flexed.

"Say you want me to scare you."

"I want it," he said hoarsely. "I want you to... fuck, I want you to terrify me."

Your mouth brushed his ear when you spoke next.

"Good boy."

He made a low sound in his throat at that. Quiet. Barely there.

Your free hand slid into his curls, tilting his head back as the blade traced his jaw lightly. Not enough to break skin. Not yet.

"You shaking, Doctor?" you taunted softly.

"Yes," he breathed.

"Because you like it?"

Another shaky nod.

You laughed, dark and low, then finally kissed him.

Messy. Hard. Like you wanted to taste the panic under his skin.

His hands gripped your hips like he didn't know what to do with himself, like he was half a second from begging.

You dragged the knife down his throat lightly, felt his pulse hammer against the steel.

"You want me to save you too," you murmured against his mouth.

"Yes," he admitted, desperate and quiet.

"Then you better beg prettier than that."

You pulled him to his feet, the gangly height of him folding toward you willingly, like he'd been waiting for you to take over since the second he first saw you.

He didn't hesitate.

Didn't ask twice.

Just grabbed your wrist and guided you to his bedroom like a man walking toward the gallows, fast and silent, a flicker of something wild in his eyes.

The apartment stayed dim, shadows stretching over dark walls. You only got glimpses: more books stacked high, a half-drunk mug of coffee on the nightstand, a bed with white sheets that wouldn't stay white much longer.

The knife hit the mattress first, silver flashing before disappearing in the folds.

Then his hands were on you again, urgent, fumbling as he kissed you like he needed to make up for the years of hurt he'd just confessed to. He broke only to help yank your T-shirt over your head, curls falling in his face as he breathed hard, eyes running over every new inch of skin you gave him.

By the time you stripped him down to his dark briefs, you were both already half wrecked.

You shoved him lightly, and he let you push him back onto the bed without protest, that tall frame folding under you until he was sprawled across the white sheets with you straddling his hips.

You could feel what you did to him.

Hard against you through thin fabric, twitching every time you rolled your hips slow. The heat of him searing even through your panties.

You picked the knife back up, the weight familiar, the metal cold.

Dragged it down his chest, slow, deliberate.

"You're so hard," you murmured, and his hands gripped your hips like he didn't know whether to stop you or beg for more.

He made a sound. Low. Embarrassing.

You smiled. "God... whimpering? You're a federal agent, Doctor Reid, and you're whimpering for me?"

He flushed bright red but didn't deny it, eyes glassy as you leaned down to kiss his throat, the edge of the blade kissing his chest at the same time.

"Bad boy," you whispered, teeth grazing his pulse. "So impatient."

He squirmed when you brought the knife up to the side of his neck, just enough pressure to make his breath stutter.

"You'll be good, won't you?"

A frantic nod.

"Words, Doctor."

"Yes," he gasped. "'ll be good. I swear. Please."

That got you smiling slow.

You reached down, tugged your panties to the side, freed his cock from his briefs. Big. Flushed. Veins standing out thick down the length.

Your mouth actually went dry.

And he saw it.

"You-you don't have to, I mean, if you don't want to-"

"Shut up," you said lightly, bringing the knife closer.

He shut up.

Flinched when the flat of the blade touched the inside of his thigh.

"You said you'd be good," you reminded, voice low, teasing.

"I will," he rushed out, words tripping over themselves.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-I'm sorry-"

"Beg prettier."

His pupils blew wide.

"Please," he said instantly, desperately. "Please don't stop. I want it. Want you. I've been -1 can't stop thinking about you, about this, I shouldn't want it, I know I shouldn't, but I-fuck—please."

The knife rested lightly against his cock now, cold and sharp and making him suck in a ragged breath.

"You like that?" you murmured.

"Yes." His voice cracked on it. "God, yes."

"Filthy," you said softly, dragging the blade up the center of his chest until it hovered under his chin.

He groaned.

"I've read everything about you," he confessed suddenly, words spilling out too fast. "I-I profiled you, I know your GPA, your whole family history, your first arrest record, I know everything and I still-fuck-I still want this so bad I can't breathe."

You laughed softly. "You're so fucked in the head, Doctor."

"I know," he choked out, hips jerking up against you helplessly. "I know. Please."

"Please what?"

He swallowed hard. "Please ride me," he whispered finally, desperate and wrecked.

You smirked. "That what you want, Spencer? You want me to fuck you with your own knife at your throat?"

"Yes." His head dropped back against the pillow.

"Please. Please, I want it so bad."

You moved your hips and aligned yourself, You sank down on him slow.

He actually moaned.

Choked, needy sound torn right out of his chest as you took him inch by inch, the blade still pressing lightly to his throat like you could carve the sound out of him if you wanted to.

"Fuck," he gasped, hands clutching the sheets so tight his knuckles blanched. "Oh my God-"

"Big cock for such a smart boy," you teased, rocking slow just to watch him squirm.

He whimpered, actually whimpered, as you ground down hard enough to make him groan again.

"Tell me you like it," you ordered.

"I like it," he gasped instantly. "I love it, please don't stop-fuck-you're so wet, you feel so good-"

You pressed the knife harder, just a fraction, and his hips jerked up like he couldn't control it.

"You gonna come already, Doctor?"

"No," he said quickly. "I can-I can be good, I swear, I can last, just-please keep going, I'll be good, I promise."

You smiled darkly. "Beg for it, then."

He did.

He begged like he was praying, voice shaking, words tumbling out between moans as you rode him slow and mean with the cold press of steel under his jaw

You rode him slow at first, dragging it out, the threat of the knife just enough to make his breath hitch every time you pressed it closer.

Not enough to break skin.

Never enough for that.

But he didn't know what you'd do.

And God, he loved that.

Spencer's hands gripped your hips tight, long fingers trembling against your skin like he couldn't figure out whether to pull you closer or let you ruin him at your own pace. His curls stuck to his forehead, sweat beading along his temple as his wide eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils blown, lips parted like he couldn't quite catch his breath.

"Fuck," he gasped, voice already breaking as you sank down harder. "You feel-God, you feel so good, please—”

"Please what, Doctor?" You dragged the knife slow across his chest, the point kissing up the center of his sternum, stopping at his throat.

He swallowed hard, Adam's apple brushing the blade, the smallest flinch you felt everywhere in his body.

"Please... ride me harder," he begged, the words tumbling out fast, like he had to spit them out before he lost the courage. "I can take it, I swear, just-just use me, I don't care what you do, just don't stop."

Pathetic.

Deliciously pathetic.

"You're so desperate," you said softly, dragging the tip of the knife along his jaw as you rocked your hips slow, deliberate.

He nodded, frantic. "I am," he admitted, shameless. "| am. I've been dreaming about this, about you, for weeks—| shouldn't-| know I shouldn't want it this bad, but fuck, I can't help it-"

You smirked, leaning in close enough that your breath ghosted his ear. "What would your team think, hm?

Their big, smart FBI boy, begging a girl with a knife to fuck him like this?"

He whimpered. Actually whimpered.

"They wouldn't believe you," you added, voice dark, teasing. "That you like being scared. That you like when I talk about gutting you while you're this hard inside me."

"Fuck," he groaned, hips jerking up helplessly as you slammed down harder. "Oh my God, I- God, I love it, I love it so much, please don't stop-"

You tightened your grip on the knife, just enough to make him freeze.

"Should I kill you after?" you whispered.

His breath caught, eyes fluttering like he didn't know if he wanted you to or not.

"No," he said finally, voice cracking. "Please, no, I-1 want to stay with you. I want to save you. I want to keep you."

You laughed low, mean. "Save me? Spencer, you can't even save yourself."

That hit.

You saw it in the way his eyes went dark, in the way his body jerked under yours like he felt the words.

"I know," he said hoarsely. "I know. That's why-fuck-that's why I want this. Because I can't fix anything else but maybe I can fix you, maybe if I give you everything

You slammed down on him hard enough to shut him up with a broken moan.

"Pathetic," you murmured.

"Yes," he gasped. "I am. God, I am, just please-fuck-please keep using me."

You pressed the knife harder to his throat. Empty threat. No cut. But his whole body went tense, cock twitching deep inside you like he was already close.

"You like this?" you asked darkly. "Me threatening to slit your throat while you come inside me?"

"Yes," he groaned, shameless now. "God, yes, I want it so bad, I'll be good, I'll do anything, just please-please let me come—"

"Not yet," you said, gripping his chin tight so he had to look at you. "Beg harder."

Your hips keep slamming down, over and over, wet and filthy, his cock hitting deep inside you as he moans like he's never been touched before in his life.

"Please," Spencer gasps again, voice cracking, hands clutching your thighs like he doesn't know whether to hold you still or beg you to go harder. "Please, I'll be good, I swear-God, I'll do anything you want, just let me come, please-"

You smirk because he's a fucking mess.

This man.

This 6'1 federal agent with three PhDs and a kill count from the job-reduced to whimpers and pathetic begging because you've got a knife to his chest and his cock buried deep inside you.

"Yeah?" you taunt, voice thick with your own moans.

"You wanna be good for me, Doctor? Hm? You wanna come like a good boy?"

"Yes," he groans, desperate. "Yes, I-I'll be good, I'll be so good for you, I'll-fuck, please, I can't-"

You cut him off with a kiss, messy and rough, biting at his lips before pulling back just enough to press the blade harder against his chest.

And then-just because you can—you drag the tip across his skin, a shallow, deliberate cut. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make him gasp loud into the room and buck his hips up hard, fucking into you like the pain shot straight through his cock.

"Fuck," he chokes out, eyes rolling back.

It's barely anything. The tiniest red line. But the sight of it-the threat of it-has him falling apart under you.

"Look at you," you laugh low, smearing the blood across his chest with your free hand before grinding down harder on his cock. "Begging for it. Bleeding for me. You like this?"

He nods fast, too fast, curls sticking to his damp forehead. "Yes-God, yes, I love it, I love you, I-1 shouldn't-fuck-"

"Oh, you love me now?" You tilt your head, riding him harder, faster, the bed creaking under the pace. "That easy, Doctor?"

"I can't help it," he gasps, actually fucking moaning when you tighten around him on purpose. "I can't stop thinking about you-about this-l've wanted it for weeks, I wanted you to ruin me, I wanted you to scare me-fuck-please, just-please let me come-*

"Pathetic," you whisper, dragging the knife back up his chest, to his throat again, watching the way his breath stutters when the point rests right over his pulse.

"I know," he moans, shameless now, hips jerking up like he's chasing it, like he's already close. "I'm pathetic, I'm a pathetic fucking mess for you, I don't care, just please, please let me come, I need it, I need you-"

Your own head tips back at the way his voice breaks, at the way he sounds like he's in pain when you grind harder, faster, fucking him like you're using him for yourself.

The threat is right there, the knife cold against his throat, his cock so deep inside you it's obscene, and he wants both.

He wants all of it.

"Tell me," you growl, leaning close enough to kiss his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, teasing. "Tell me how bad you want it."

"Please," he begs again, louder now, shame completely gone. "I want it so bad, I wanna come so fucking bad, I'll do anything, I swear-please, use me, keep using me, just let me-God-let me come, please-"

You smile wickedly, your own release building tight and hot in your belly.

"You gonna be a good boy for me?" you whisper, knife pressing just a little harder at his throat.

"Yes," he gasps, frantic, eyes blown wide. "Yes, I'll be so good, I'll be anything you want-just please, please let me come-"

And then you ride him harder, chasing your own orgasm, using him just like he begged for, the knife glinting under the low light as he groans broken sounds into the room.

Your thighs are burning, the pace brutal now as you chase it-chase your own release, like he told you to, like he begged you to. Because that's what he wanted.

For you to use him.

The knife stays pressed to his throat. Not enough to cut, just enough that he can feel the cold kiss of it every time his head tips back into the pillows.

You can barely hold the taunts in now, moans ripping from your mouth between curses and filthy praise as the orgasm coils tight in your gut.

And he's right there with you.

"Come on," Spencer pants, voice cracking, frantic now.

"Come on, use me-use me, I can take it-God, please, please, come on me, please-"

He's begging for you to come, not even himself. That's how far gone he is.

You lean over him, hips pounding down mercilessly as you grind for your own pleasure, using his cock like it's yours, like he's yours.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you gasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound now.

"Yes," he moans, nodding like he's agreeing with you, like he can't stop. "Yes, I'm good for you-I'll be so good, I'll do anything, just-God, come on me, please

And then it hits.

You come hard, clenching around him as your whole body arches. It rips through you sharp and blinding, curses spilling from your mouth as your hips keep moving because you need it, you need every last wave of it until you're shaking with the force of it.

You nearly drop the knife when you come, but you don't. No, you hold it steady to his throat because you know he wants it there.

He's groaning broken sounds under you, hands gripping your thighs like he's hanging on by threads, eyes locked on you with something close to worship.

"Fuck-fuck, you look so good," he stammers, hips jerking up helplessly into your overstimulated body because he can't stop himself. "God, you're so fucking perfect, I-fuck—please, please let me come-"

You smirk down at him, even through the bliss. "You wanna come, Doctor?"

"Yes," he gasps, desperate. "Yes, please, l'm gonna-l can't-l'm gonna come, please let me, I'm so close, fuck, you feel so good-"

You press the knife harder to his throat, the threat sharp in the air. "You gonna make a mess for me?"

"Yes," he whimpers, hips jerking erratically now, his voice breaking. "Yes, please, I'll be good, 'll be so good, just let me-please, I can't-oh fuck-"

You grip his jaw tight, holding his head still as you ride him hard, chasing his orgasm now because you want to watch him fall apart.

"Come," you order darkly.

And he does.

It rips through him, hard and fast, his whole body jerking under you as he spills inside you with a loud, broken moan. His hips keep thrusting up like he doesn't even care he's already coming, like he wants to give you every last drop.

"God-oh God-fuck," he chokes, eyes squeezing shut as he rides it out, trembling under you, muscles tight like he's falling apart completely.

You don't stop moving right away. You ride him through it, through the sensitivity, until he's begging breathlessly-

"Please-too much-oh God, please, I can't-"

Only then do you ease off, dropping the knife to the sheets finally as you collapse forward onto his chest, both of you still shaking.

Spencer's arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight even as he's panting hard, hair damp with sweat, your blood smudged across his chest like some kind of trophy.

You don't move right away.

You stay on top of him, your chest pressed to his as both of you catch your breath. His arms lock tight around your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go for even a second.

"W-we do that every time you wish to hurt someone," he says finally, voice still shaking from the aftershocks, words half-broken against your hair. "Every time. I will save you..."

You snort softly against his throat, still panting. "You think this is saving me?"

"I know it is," he murmurs stubbornly, kissing your temple like he can convince you with soft touches if not with logic. "I'm not letting you go. Not until you don't need the knife anymore. Not until you need me instead."

There's something so naive about the way he says it— like this older, brilliant man with all his scars and trauma and genius is still hopelessly romantic enough to think he can fix you with kisses and a savior complex.

And maybe that's why you almost believe him.

His hands rub over your back gently, steady now. He's soft with you even though his chest is streaked faintly red from where you cut him.

"Did I hurt you?" you murmur, lifting your head to look at the mark across his chest. It's not much. Just a thin line.

He shakes his head quickly. "No. I mean-yeah, it stings, but-God, it was so fucking hot," he admits in a rush, cheeks flushed as he meets your eyes like he's half-afraid you'll laugh at him. "I wanted it. I wanted all of it. I meant what I said before... the knife, the fear-it makes me feel alive again. After prison, after everything... it's like I can't stop needing that edge."

You study him for a long moment. The man is still half-hard inside you despite how wrecked he is, curls damp, lips swollen, eyes blown out like you've broken something open in him that can't be closed again.

"You're fucked up, Doctor," you murmur with a faint smirk.

He actually laughs, but it's humorless. "I know. I'm-God, I'm so fucked up," he admits, fingers tightening on your hips like he doesn't want you to move. "But l've been through so much shit, I can't even sleep some nights without feeling like the floor is gonna drop out from under me again. And then there's you, and you're the first thing in months that makes me feel like I have control by giving it up."

There it is. The over-explaining. The Reid tendency to just keep talking when most men would shut up.

"Six months inside," he mutters bitterly, "jumped twice, stabbed once... They put me in general population like I was disposable. You know how long six months feels when every day you think you're not gonna live to see the next?"

You shake your head slowly.

"Forever." he savs flatlv. "It feels like forever." He swallows hard, his hand sliding up your back again, softer now. "That's why I want this. You. Even the knife.

I want to be the one you come to instead of killing somebody else. I want to be the thing that keeps you from going too far."

You smirk faintly. "That's what you want, huh?" He nods instantly. "Yeah. I'm not letting you go. I meant it."

There's something about the way he says it-calm, certain, like he's staking a claim that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

You slide off him slowly, and he hisses at the oversensitivity before pulling you right back against his chest when you lie beside him.

He kisses you this time. Not frantic like before. Slower.

Desperate in a different way, like he's trying to memorize your mouth.

"Every time," he whispers again when he finally breaks the kiss, lips brushing yours. "Every time you wanna hurt someone, you come to me instead. Promise me."

You don't promise him. Not yet.

But you know you will.

Because Spencer Reid is the smartest idiot-and he's gonna ruin you while begging to be ruined back.

Taglist -> @solarmoon244 @blacksnake13 @arzzymp3 @giannaisannoying @moriisage @cosmisooo @baileef222 @wanabeluvd @yokaimoon @blacksnake13 @ssyren @kimiantonelliismyhusband @shinygivergalaxy @sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy @lexxaxxus @evam0481 @lulirossstuff @coldflowermuglover @nighthowlergamez @justlivinginadaydream @nevermorexlee @tbolesar @superbeaglewitch @starneul @iqraaaa07 @imyourapocalypse @lotusflower-princess @lavendersunshine333 @mistyeyeddear @sophia-andr-07 @pyrocrow243 @msfreedom @clearlyhauntedfang @444-green-blog @edsheerantbh @evenisolation @biologicallyyours @sreidlovergirl @potteredjames @bernelflo @virtualangelbaby @marisaalian @slut-for-artists @tokalotashiz

Kinktober masterlist — Main masterlist

[sp6ncers]

❝ friday i'm in love ❞

↳ butchfemme spencer reid x reader series

─────────── ୨୧ ───────────

in which femme! reader and butch! spencer start noticing each other around college and slowly develop a relationship that pushes the boundaries of friendship but isn't quite a romance... yet.

contains: MIT college! au, he/him butch lesbian spencer reid, slow burn, butchfemme penemily, femme4femme jelle, tarabecca, biology major reader, fluff, angst, individual warnings in each chapter ♡︎

part one — coming on 04/10/25

[wallsofparadis]

happy kinktober to those who celebrate

[apartattheseams]

my heart is the worst kind of weapon

[faireladypenumbra]

The biggest failure in modern anime fandom is that, somewhere down the line, people lost fact that Ouran High School Host Club is a satire of other shoujo

[stuck-in2008]

Didn’t know this

[inkydelusions]

JACKPOT - 1.4k

pairing: singlemom!reader x girldad!spencer reid summary: it's the night of your daughter's dance recital and all it takes is to se eher on stage for everything to shift. for the three of you to become a family. c.warning: fem!reader, reader is a mom, mentions of the kid's biological dad, spencer being a die hard girl dad (as always, if i missed something, let me know!) a/n: (based on this request) first request ever !! i'm so nervous omg. hope you like it !! hope you enjoy it <3 likes & reblogs are appreciated !! requests | masterlist

“do you have everything?” spencer asks for the millionth time, pacing around the living room as he scans the space. “the camera. did you take the camera?”

“yes, babe,” you answer with a soft smile. “it’s still in my bag, where i put it the first time you asked. two hours ago.”

spencer sighs. “i’m sorry. i’m nervous.”

“spence, relax. you’re not the one going on that stage tonight.”

“no, it’s my little girl. that makes me even more anxious.”

your heart swells the same way it always does when he refers to your daughter like that. like she’s just as much his family as she is yours.

“what if she doesn’t see us in the crowd and thinks we forgot?”

you lay a hand on his forearm, halting his nervous pacing. “we’ll be in the front row, and you’re wearing a shirt with our faces on it. i think she’ll see you.”

he runs his hands over his chest, smiling proudly at the t-shirt he had made weeks ago. right in the center is a picture of the three of you, your little girl smiling broadly as she poses with her hands in a heart shape.

“she looks adorable in this.”

“i still can’t believe you wore that to work today,” you tease with a smile. “and i can’t believe morgan didn’t say anything about it.”

“oh, no. he did. he bullied me all morning. but i already ordered one for him with a picture of my face. just imagine. this face, huge, right in the middle of his chiselled chest.” spencer gives you one of his characteristic grins, and you bark a laugh.

finally, he takes your hand in his and you leave for your little girl’s school.

there are two free seats on the front row when you arrive, as you promised spencer. he practically runs for them, even though they’re reserved for you. they even have a name tag with your daughter’s name on it.

as you wait for the show to start, you take the chance to look at spencer, really look at him. he’s reading the program (which isn’t very long since it’s just two classes acting tonight), and his face lights up when he sees your girl’s name on the list of performers. he turns the pamphlet to you, pointing at the name proudly and you have to bite the insides of your cheeks to avoid crying.

tonight’s not the first time he attends one of this little functions with you. it is, however, the first time he does so as more than mommy’s friend, the first time he attends as your baby girl’s dad.

two nights ago, as you tucked her into bed, she asked: “when is dad coming home?”

at first you thought she meant the man who gave you a positive test and then disappeared in the middle of the night. your heart froze, unsure how to respond. but the next morning she asked again, this time pointing at one of the pictures on your bedside table, the one where spencer and you appear hugging each other with the brightest smiles ever on your faces.

“that’s dad?” you asked, your throat tight, needing to be sure.

she nodded eagerly, hugging the frame. “of course it’s dad! spencer. dad!”

you haven’t told him yet. you want your daughter to say it first. and, truth be told, some part of your is a bit scared of his reaction. you don’t want to see even the slightest hint of fear or rejection in his eyes. 

the lights dim, soft classical music begins, and then… there she is. in a pink tutu, cheap tiara gleaming on top of her head, she leads the choreography from the front row. the second her eyes land on you and spencer, she beams, waving quickly before spinning and leaping with her classmates.

beside you, spencer holds the camera right under his nose, making sure he gets everything on tape, but also wanting to enjoy the show live. he smiles the whole time, eyes slightly glassy. and when he turns to look at you, for a brief moment, you see it in there, the pride, the love he holds for your little girl.

when the show ends, both of you are crying. the emotion too much to hide.

“she’s really good,” spencer whispers, squeezing your hand tight.

“yeah, she is.” you sniff, wiping tears away. “thank you for being here, spence. it means a lot. to both of us.”

his frown is brief before a soft smile replaces it. “of course. i wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

soon, parents filter toward the exit to pick up their kids, and you catch spencer bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager.

“there she is!” he grins, spotting her as she steps out, wearing her tutu over her blue sweatpants, tiara in hand.

she sprints toward you both, and you crouch low, scooping her into your arms.

“you were amazing, baby!” you tell her.

“i saw you cry, mamma.” she pouts.

“oh, those were happy tears, baby. don’t you worry. i’m so proud of you, princess.”

“i’m not a princess, mamma. i’m the queen,” she corrects, holding up her plastic crown.

“right, sorry. you were amazing, your highness.”

her frown eases and she turns to spencer, launching herself into his arms. he spins her once, both of them laughing, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“you did so well, bug. i’m so proud of you.”

“so… can we have breakfast for dinner?” she grins mischievously, taking advantage of all the praise and attention she’s receiving.

you exchange a knowing smile with spencer. she may be young, but she’s far too clever already.

“of course, baby,” he says warmly. “if mommy agrees.”

“oh, you know i love breakfast for dinner,” you add. “besides, our little queen nailed it tonight. that deserves a prize.”

the three of you start walking to the car, when a gust of wind hits your faces. you shiver, immediately turning to your daughter to make sure she's wearing her coat. but spencer's already there, kneeling in front of her, wrapping his own purple scarf around her neck.

“we can’t have the queen getting sick. who would rule over us then?” he tucks the long strands of the scarf into the pockets of her jacket.

“thanks, dad,” she says with a kiss to his cheek, oblivious to the way her words hit him like a tidal wave.

spencer stays frozen, eyes wide, until you lay a hand on his shoulder. his gaze meets yours, and you see no fear, no hesitation. only pride.

you smile softly. “come on, spence. let’s go home.”

dinner is a blur of pancakes and laughter. your daughter crowns you with her tiara, declaring you her co-queen, while spencer listens as she recounts her day at school like every word from her is sacred.

later, he takes bedtime duty, his voice and her giggles drifting from the bathroom as you clean up the kitchen.

when you’re almost done, warm hands circle your waist. spencer rests his head on your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your neck that makes you shiver.

“she called me dad again,” he whispers, his voice bubbling with joy.

“she did a few weeks ago too, you know” you admit, turning in his arms. “while you were in los angeles.”

“really?” his grip tightens slightly.

“yeah. i didn't tell you because… because i wanted her to be the one to give you the good news. and also, i was a little bit scared.”

you turn around but keep him close to your body, your back against the counter and your chest so close to his you feel every breath he takes.

“of what?” he asks in a low voice, his breath barely a caress against your lips.

“of you not wanting it. not wanting this.”

he laughs softly, disbelieving. “are you serious? our little girl just made my day, love. i’m the happiest man alive.”

there he goes again. our girl.

“seriously?”

he nods, grinning wide. “i have the most gorgeous woman on earth as my girlfriend. i get to go to bed and wake up next to her every day. and her daughter, who, by the way, is the coolest kid i've ever met, just called me dad. multiple times!”

your hands fly to his cheeks as you kiss him, unable to contain yourself anymore, his smile breaking between each press of lips. he’s dizzy with happiness, still reeling from the night’s magic.

“forgot to mention,” he murmurs against your mouth, “my girl’s also the best kisser ever. i really did hit the jackpot.”

[prentissociety-deactivated20251]

━━━ bad idea... right?

s.reid ━━━

Wc: 3.4k

Warnings: they exes 😰, oral r!receiving, hair pulling, title kink (doctor), reader is tipsy, begging, needy user, insecure Spencer, SOFT DOM SPENCER, marking, possessive Spencer, yapper Spencer ofc, not spell checked or proof read! No use of y/n

Summary: I just tripped and fell into his bed!

it was a normal Friday night, you were out at some sleezy club with some of your closest friends and colleagues from your current department in the lapd, you had been transferred there after excelling during your time with the bau in virginia when covering for an agent who was on maternity leave. It had been over three years since that posting, and over three years since him.

you and Spencer were together, and you burned hard and fast. you were messy and raw and it was a whirlwind romance, but neither of you were ready for that level of commitment, him having recently broken up with his long distance girlfriend, and you just not really being a commitment type. he would go cold when you got quiet and in essence you were doomed from the moment you laid eyes on him. But that didn't stop your mind from wandering even all these years later.

It was gone midnight when you got the call, you were already more than a few drinks down and there was a guy desperately trying to chat you up to your right, not that you could hear a word he slurred over the pulsing music, so much so yoh almost miss the vibration of your phone from your pocket. you slunk out of the door and into the cold nights air to answer the call, but what you heard from the other side made you freeze more than whatever was going on outside, as you heard his voice. "I'm in La, wanna meet up?" His neediness laced every word with a sense of unrelenting urgency, like hed been waiting for this. You hung up the call without a word. seeing him tonight was such a bad idea... but fuck it.

your screen lit up again as he sent you the address of his hotel and your mind went blank. you quickly bid your friends goodnight, telling them something about going to sleep, but never saying where or in whose sheets! And as you pull up to his place you see him waiting outside, that annoyingly perfect smirk playing on his lips.

"Hey," you whisper, the word barely audible over the thumping bass still echoing in your head from the club. Your heels click against the pavement as you step toward him, every step heavier than the last. And there he is — Spencer Reid, leaning against the doorframe in that damn beige sweater you hate because it makes him look like a human math textbook… but also kind of want to hug. His hair is messier than usual, like he's been running his fingers through it all night. Probably thinking too much again.

"Hi." His voice cracks just slightly. Of course it does. Spencer Reid doesn’t do smooth entrances — only emotionally fraught silences and quotes from psychology journals no one asked for.He stares at you for three full seconds — which feels like an eternity — then blurts out: “Statistically speaking, 68% of ex-partners who reunite after emotional detachment end up hurting each other all over again.” You open your mouth to respond and—“But I’ve also read,” he interrupts himself quickly, stepping forward even though he doesn't touch you, “that dopamine levels when seeing someone you loved can spike higher than during first contact? So maybe… this isn’t purely irrational? Maybe it’s… biologically significant?” You can’t help it — a laugh slips out.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “Only you would try to science your way into making kissing me feel logical. ”His ears go red instantly — adorably traitorous little things they are. “I didn't say anything about kissing,” he stammers. Then pauses. Swallows hard. "...But I didn't not say that either."

You lean in a little closer, your breath teasing the air between you. "You've been thinking about me, Doctor?" His Adam's apple moves beneath that damn sweater. He's blushing down to his toes. "No." Another lie. "Maybe."

"Only maybe?" you tease, and his shoulders tense under your gaze. "Come on, Spence. Out with the truth. How much did you miss me?"

He hesitates for a full heartbeat, his gaze dipping to your mouth. That little tell. It's like a neon sign to you. Finally, he exhales."A lot," he admits. "More than I expected."

A slow smile spreads across your face. You've heard him make a thousand speeches, on every subject from quantum physics to criminal psychology. But none of them have ever sounded like this, raw and honest and painfully real. "You know what?" you murmur. "There's something else that's pretty biological…"

He blinks. The blush spreading down his neck. "What's that?" You step even closer, so your lips brush his ear. Your hand settles on his chest, his heartbeat races under soft, beige material. "Touch," your words ghost over his neck. The way he shiver in response makes your heart beat faster too. "Humans are hardwired to crave touch. Fingers brushing skin… lips…" His breath hitches and you smile.

He's practically panting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the tension crackling between you like static electricity. He wants to touch you — he's desperate to touch you — but still, he's frozen, paralyzed by his own insecurities. "I…." he rasps, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I shouldn't."

"Shouldn't?" you repeat, your hand drifting lower, tracing the line of his throat. "Or are you just scared?"

His jaw clenches, there's the stubbornness you know so well. "I'm not scared," he huffs, glaring down at you. "I'm being reasonable."

You arch an eyebrow. "Since when has reason had anything to do with us?"He opens his mouth to respond, clearly searching for a rebuttal. You step even closer, pinning him against the door frame. Now there's no mistaking the lust in his eyes. He wants you. Badly.

The air crackles between you. His expression is a war of emotions, logic and desire duking it out on that adorable face. God, it shouldn't be legal for someone to look this good while overthinking. Every rational reason he's come up with to keep a distance between you is slowly unraveling in the heat of your gaze. Finally, he growls, low and desperate. "Screw it."

He reaches for you, hands landing on your hips like magnetized to your body. His grip is desperate, fingers digging into the fabric of your dress like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. In one smooth movement, he spins you, pressing you flush against the wall, body trapping yours. "This is a bad idea," he breathes against your neck, his voice hoarse. "It's statistically improbable. Illogical. It's—"

You grind your hips against his, your body fitting against his perfectly. He groans, head dropping to your shoulder. "Don't think," you whisper, your hand sliding into his hair. "Just feel. "He shudders as your fingers brush the back of his neck, sensitive spots you know so well. But he's trying to resist, still clinging to some semblance of logical thought.

His breathing is ragged, his forehead pressed against your collarbone. He's fighting it — god, he's trying so hard to keep his head on straight. But then you scrape your nails lightly down his spine and his hips jerk against you, betraying his own body's need.

He groans again, his fingers gripping your hips tighter. Every time he tries to speak, the words get lost in a low, needy noise deep in his throat. You can feel him losing the battle, logic crumbling in the face of pure desire. "God," he gasps, voice rough. "You're such… a bad influence."

A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. "And yet, you can't stay away," you remind him, rolling your hips again, savoring the growl that escapes his lips. He's unraveling now, years of tension snapping with every touch. One of his hands slides up your abdomen, splaying across your stomach, holding you against him. A possessive gesture, staking a claim you know damn well he's been wanting to make for weeks.

"I hate you," he mutters, his words a lie contradicted by the way his hips grind against yours. "You're the worst." You laugh at that, the sound turning into a soft moan as his hand dips lower, fingers toying with the hem of your dress.

"Hate's a strong word," you murmur, arching into his touch. He groans again, his other hand gripping your thigh, lifting it to hook around his hip. The sudden shift in position presses you even more tightly against him, the friction sparking a fire low in your belly.

He's all hard lines and muscle against you, the heat of his body seeping through his clothes. His hand on your thigh rubs slow, teasing circles, the touch so close — yet so damn far — from where you need it. "God, I want you," he confesses, voice tight with desire. "So damn much."

The admission hits you like a punch — raw and unguarded, the truth finally breaking through his defense mechanisms. You'd tease him for it, but you're too busy whimpering as he kisses that spot beneath your ear. "Then take me," you whisper, running your hand under his shirt. His skin is warm, the muscles in his stomach tensing at your touch. "Stop thinking. Just be impulsive, just…"

He swears under his breath, the sound ragged and desperate. Any last remnants of restraint snap like a rubber band pulled too taut. In the next instant, he's hauling you up, legs around his waist. There's a hunger in his eyes that makes your heart skip a beat. He's a man possessed, the calculated genius replaced by a creature of pure craving.His lips bruise yours in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue mapping out your mouth as he stumbles towards his bedroom.

He drops you onto the mattress, barely managing to kick the bedroom door shut before his body covers yours, pinning you against the sheets. Hes needy, full of pure pent-up desire, his hands roaming over your body, like he's trying to memorize every inch of you. You arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, hips bucking up to meet his. It's pure instinct, pure fire driving every move.He breaks the kiss, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about this," he gasps.

He kisses his way down your throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Your stomach tightens in response, heat pooling between your thighs. His hands roam over your body, his touch rough, almost desperate. Every time you let out a soft sound of pleasure, he growls against your skin, like he's hungry for more. When he reaches the edge of your dress, his fingers hook into the fabric, pulling it up, up... then pausing. He hesitates, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

His expression is a mix of desire and uncertainty — as if even now, he's second guessing himself. He's so damn predictable, even like this. You reach for his face, cradling his jaw as you meet his eyes. "I swear to god, Spencer," you murmur, "if you start talking percentages of success in a bedroom, I'm going to kick you off this bed."

He has the decency to look sheepish. "I wasn't… I'm not…" he protests weakly, but the words die in his throat as you roll your hips against his. The heat in his gaze is quickly returning, lust overriding any more logical thoughts. "No more statistics," you whisper, fingers tracing his lower lip. "Just touch me." Something snaps in him, and he obeys with a guttural sound. His mouth seeks yours again, his tongue delving deep as his hand slides up your thigh.

He kisses you like it's the only thing he knows how to do, all teeth and tongue and pure needy desperation. He's still trying to be gentle, that careful part of him refusing to be completely overtaken by lust. But you don't want gentle right now — you want him to lose control. You shift underneath him, grinding your hips up into his. The friction makes him shiver, his fingers gripping your thigh almost painfully.

His fingers slip under the edge of your underwear. Your breath hitches, anticipation building as he traces slow, teasing circles against your skin. Every touch is like a spark, igniting a thousand nerve endings.He's so damn close to where you need him, yet he hesitates, like he can't quite bring himself to take that final step. You know he's thinking about something, overanalyzing every detail, his brain still trying to win the battle against his body. "Spencer, please," you gasp, arching into the touch "fuck me."

His gaze snaps up to yours, eyes blazing with a fervor you've never seen before. It's like a switch has been flipped — all hesitation is gone, replaced by primal need. "You're so impatient," he growls, but there's no annoyance in his voice. Just heat. He hooks his fingers under the elastic, pulling your underwear down in a swift motion. He moves over you, muscles shifting under his skin. He's still not quite touching you, but it feels like every nerve in your body is alight with anticipation.

His eyes rake over you, taking in every curve and contour like he's memorizing every detail. He looks wrecked already, his breathing ragged, hair sticking up in a chaotic mess. He's so damn beautiful you almost hate him for it. "Look at you," he breathes, his voice ragged. "I've dreamed about you like this… all soft an desperate… and it was never… enough."He leans down, his lips brushing your collarbone. "Want you, need you so goddamn much."

He kisses along your collarbone, the stubble on his jaw scratchy and perfect against your skin. His hand skates up your inner thigh, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You're trembling now, every nerve ending on fire. He pauses, hovering over you. His eyes lock with yours, a silent question in their depths. You know what he's asking: Are you sure? You can't form words right now, so you just nod, your breath coming in short gasps. That's all the encouragement he needs.

He kisses a path down your stomach, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You're hyper-aware of every sensation, from the slight bite of his stubble to the cool air against your overheated skin. He pauses when he reaches the juncture of your thighs, his breath warm against your core. A soft sound escapes your throat, halfway between a gasp and a moan. He looks up at you, gaze burning with an intensity you've rarely seen."Please," you whisper, arching into him. "Oh please…"

He chuckles, low and deep in his throat. "Always so impatient." But his voice has dropped an octave, full of gravelly desire. He presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, just above where you want him, his tongue darting out in a teasing touch. His hands slide beneath your legs, hooking them over his shoulders and holding you open for him. "I want to taste you," he murmurs, barely above a whisper. "Is that what you want, sweetheart?"

The words send an electric current straight through your core, your whole body quivering with need. You're helpless beneath him, completely at his mercy, and you know he damn well knows it. You nod, your words reduced to desperate gasps. "Yes… God, please…"

He nuzzles into your thigh, stubble scraping over sensitive skin. He's still teasing, still taking his time, like he wants to savor every moment of this. But you're quickly reaching your limit, need coiling tight in your stomach. "Sweet Jesus, woman…" he mutters, his mouth hovering over where you need him most. Then, finally, his tongue flicks out, just a hint of contact that has you nearly arching off the bed.He laughs, the sound smug and self-satisfied. "You're so responsive"

That stupid mouth of his, always talking even in moments like this. But there's no denying the effect it has on you, making dirty words sound almost poetic. "Stop teasing," you gasp, your nails digging into the sheets. "I swear to god, Reid—" He doesn't let you finish, his tongue finding that sweet spot and drawing a ragged moan from your throat.

It's like he knows exactly where you need him, like he's mapped out every inch of you in his mind and is now putting that knowledge to devastating use. Every touch of his tongue is deliberate, calculated to drive you closer to the edge. He's still using his fingers, still holding you open for his mouth, and you're quickly devolving into a whimpering mess.His eyes flick up to meet yours, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. "You taste divine."

That just makes him hum against you, a sound of deep satisfaction. "You still like me, though," he murmurs, the smugness in his voice almost unbearable. He doesn't give you a chance to respond, his tongue returning to its work with fervor. You're practically shaking now, your hands fisted in the sheets, trying to hang on to something, anything. He pauses, his lips hovering over you again. "You close, sweetheart?" he asks, and goddammit, you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You grit your teeth, frustration warring with need. "I'd be a lot closer if you stopped talking," you gasp, trying to sound defiant but failing miserably. He laughs, the sound muffled against your skin. "You're so loud, you know that? So demanding…" He punctuates his words with a flick of his tongue, making sure you can feel every vibration of his voice.

The dual sensations are maddening, his words and his tongue working together to drive you to the brink. You try to form a response, some clever retort that will put him in his place, but all that comes out is a whimper. He chuckles again, clearly enjoying the way you're falling apart. "C'mon," he murmurs, the words a hot breath against your skin. "Just let go. I've got you…"

Your body is as tense as a plank of wood, every muscle straining, balanced precariously on the edge of oblivion. You're so close, so damn close, and he knows it. You can see the hunger in his gaze, the predatory way he watches you unravel. He's enjoying this, watching you lose control when you're usually the one with sharp words and sharper knives.You can't take it anymore. Your fingers fist in his hair, pulling him closer. "Please," you gasp, desperation seeping into your voice. "Please."

Something changes in his expression at that, the cockiness replaced by something more raw and vulnerable. It's like he can't resist you when you're begging, when you're so desperate and open and vulnerable. He redoubles his efforts, his fingers digging into your thighs, his tongue driving you higher. The pressure builds, spiraling tighter and tighter, until you're teetering at the edge.His eyes find yours again, darkened by hunger and something else. "Look at me," he demands, his voice ragged. "I want you to look at me."

You meet his gaze, breath hitching at the intensity in his eyes. In this moment, all the masks, all the careful defenses are gone. There's only raw emotion, pure need, burning through the both of you. "That's it," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on yours. "Let go, sweetheart. Let go." And with that last command, you can't hold back anymore. You go flying over the edge, your body tense and trembling, and he's there to catch you.

He holds you close as you come back down, your body shuddering in his arms. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the ragged sound of his breathing. He's shaking too, his grip on you bordering on possessive. "God…god," he gasps, burying his face in your neck. "You are so breathtaking, sweetheart." You can't quite manage a response yet, still trying to catch your breath. So you just stroke his hair, fingers tangling in the wild strands as you unwrap your thighs from around his head

He looks wrecked, disheveled in a way you've never seen before. His shirt is rumpled, hair mussed from your fingers, lips glistening. God, you must look just as bad. He shifts upward, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at you. His gaze sweeps over your body, taking in the marks he left on your skin. That possessive glint sparks in his eyes again, pressing a kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself in his mouth.

[I gave up.]