@reidgif
Spencer Reid x Fem Reader
MDNI
Masterlist
CW: Smut, Undercover As Couple, Play Party, Sub Spencer, Collared Spencer, Dom Reader, BAU Reader, Impact Play, Suspension Play, Pet Play, Shibari, Orgasm Denial/Edging, Hand Job, Oral Sex, Vibrator, Catching an Unsub.
WC: 14,438
Reader and Spencer go undercover at a play party. Spencer takes to being a sub a little too well.
(Not Proof Read) (Part One of Two) (Part Two)
The hotel room is quiet but tense. Not tense like a briefing room or a takedown—tense like something coiled, waiting.
Spencer is standing near the window, arms crossed loosely, shoulders drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone screen still lit, the mansion’s invite-only guidelines pulled up for the fifth time.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Security’s going to be tight. They scan for electronics at the door. No comms. No cameras. No help unless we press the panic buttons..”
“Still don’t like this,” he mutters.
You glance up. “But you still volunteered.”
“I didn’t volunteer exactly. I said I was willing.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He makes a soft sound that could be a scoff, or a sigh. “You didn’t hesitate.”
You shrug. “Someone had to do it. And let’s be honest you're the obvious choice… Morgan in a collar? We’d lose the unsub in a heartbeat.”
That gets a short, surprised laugh out of him, and for a moment, the tension shifts.
“But that also means no one from the team’s going to see us like this.” Your voice was light, but there was an undercurrent there. Something just shy of a question.
He shifted his weight. “I’m… honestly relieved.”
Your smile flickered, quiet and genuine. “Me too.”
You set the phone down, letting the quiet settle. Spencer’s eyes are still on the window, but his fingers twitch against his bicep.
“You’ve never been to a play party before.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “No,” he says eventually. “Read about them. Studied them. The psychology, the community. But not in person.”
You nod slowly. “There’s not much difference between theory and practice. Except, you know… everything.”
He looks over at you, a little sheepish. “I just don’t want to look like I don’t belong.”
“You won’t.” You pause, then smile faintly. “And anyway, it’s not like anyone at the Bureau will ever know I’ve done this before.”
That startles him a little. “You have?”
You lift a brow. “You think I'm pulling all of this out of thin air?”
He flushes and looks down.
“I’m not broadcasting it,” you add, a little softer. “But it helps to know the rules when the place we’re walking into doesn’t have any posted on the wall.”
Spencer nods, still not quite meeting your eye. “That’s… kind of a relief, actually.”
You stand, walk over to where his small pile of neatly folded clothes sits on the dresser. “I know we don’t have much time, but let’s talk about what you’re wearing.”
He follows you with his eyes.
You pick up the black button-up. “This, obviously. Simple. Clean. It doesn’t scream anything. You can leave a couple buttons undone.”
He blinks. “How many is a couple?”
You tilt your head. “Four.”
He hesitates. “That’s… a lot of sternum.”
“You’ll survive. You should feel lucky that I’m not putting you in a harness.”
That earns you a quiet huff of air. Not quite a laugh, but close. He leans against the wall as you hold up the black jeans.
“These will work,” you nod. “Not tight, but they fit well. Comfortable, subtle. And if you have to take them off...”
His head jerks up slightly. “Wait—off?”
“Spencer,” you say, calm and steady. “It’s a possibility. If we’re going to stay in character. If someone pushes. You don’t have to let anyone touch you, and I won’t let it get anywhere near that far. But there’s a chance someone will expect a scene. Light restraint, service kneeling, maybe removing a shirt. Maybe pants. We have to blend in, or we’ll stand out.”
He swallows hard. “Okay.”
You meet his eyes. “You trust me?”
He nods. “Yeah. I do.”
You hold up the collar next. Simple, black leather with a silver D-ring. Clean stitching. Quiet elegance.
His gaze lingers on it. “That’s… not subtle.”
“No,” you agree. “But it tells the right story.”
You watch him stare at the collar.
Not glance. Not glance away. He stares, like he’s trying to work out what it means for him, what it will say to everyone else. What it already says between the two of you.
You let him have the silence. Let it stretch.
Spencer has always been good at dissecting symbolism. He knows what the collar represents. He knows what it marks him as. And right now, you can see the pieces moving behind his eyes, trying to figure out how to exist inside that symbol without falling apart.
He shifts his weight again, arms still crossed over his chest, but tighter now. Not protective, exactly. Contained. Like he's trying to keep something in.
You reach for the collar, letting the soft leather unwind in your hands. You’re not looking at him when you ask, “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to call me?”
That gets his attention.
His gaze flickers from the collar to your face, then away just as fast. A flush begins to rise under his collar.
“No,” he says, voice a little too fast. “I mean, yes. I’ve read… options. Common titles. But I didn’t know if you had something in mind.”
“I figured we should choose one that feels natural. Something you can say without stumbling.” You pause. “Too much.”
He exhales, clearly trying to collect himself. “Right.”
“Let’s rule out the obvious ones,” you offer gently. “Ma’am?”
His mouth twitches. “Too formal.”
“Miss?”
He shakes his head. “Too classroom.”
You let a little smile pull at the corner of your mouth. “Mistress?”
That one lands. You watch the word hit him like it has weight. He doesn’t recoil, but his breath hitches just slightly, and the blush spreads higher on his cheeks.
You give him a moment.
“Mistress is... fine,” he manages.
“Fine?”
“It’s good. I mean. It works.”
You tilt your head, enjoying the rare chance to watch him unravel. “You sure?”
He nods, still not looking directly at you. “It’s the most appropriate for the dynamic.”
You let the collar slip through your fingers until it rests flat in your palm. “Mistress it is, then.”
The flush on his face deepens. He doesn’t respond, but his hands curl slightly at his sides, like the word is still echoing inside him.
He looks like he wants to sink through the floor.
“And for you,” you continue smoothly, like you didn’t notice how red his ears are, “I need something I can say that sounds natural. Something that fits the space.”
He opens his mouth, then hesitates. “I don’t really… know what fits.”
“Let’s try a few.” You tilt your head. “Sweetheart?”
He blinks. “That’s very… tender.”
You nod. “Okay. Noted. Boy?”
His mouth tugs. “A bit on the nose.”
You hum. “I could just call you by your name.”
“You could.”
You smile faintly. “But it might be more fun to choose something else.”
He doesn’t disagree.
You let your gaze drop to the collar for a beat, then look back at him.
“What about Pet?”
Spencer goes still.
The blush creeps slowly from his neck up to his cheeks again. His mouth opens like he might protest, but then he closes it. And then, finally, he gives the smallest nod.
“Pet,” you say again, trying it out.
His throat works. He nods once more. “That’s… manageable.”
“You like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” you agree, watching him. “But you didn’t say no either.”
He exhales, soft and short. “It makes sense.”
“Pet, then.”
He nods. His hands are curled a little tighter now, and he won’t quite meet your eyes.
“Do you want to sit?” you ask softly.
He nods after a second, sits at the edge of the bed like it’s habit more than choice. You stay standing. Not looming over him. Just nearby. Steady.
“I can walk you through the rest of it,” you offer. “Before we get dressed and ready to go.”
His gaze flicks up. “Yeah. Please.”
You nod. “Once we’re inside, we’ll stick close. You’re my submissive, not a free agent. That means you don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t answer questions from anyone unless I nod first. And you don’t touch anything or anyone that isn’t me.”
He nods quickly. “Right. That’s one of the rules, right? Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.”
You give him a faint smile. “Exactly. And for tonight, that’s you. You belong to me.”
He feels those words sink into him like a stone in water.
You belong to me.
They shouldn’t affect him. Not like that. He’s heard lines like it in case files, read them in interviews, watched footage. They’re just part of the role, part of the world they’re stepping into. But something about the way you said it, steady and sure, no room for interpretation… it wedges itself under his skin and stays there.
His mind slips, just a little.
Not visibly. He keeps his face neutral, nods like he’s just processing. But inside, the shift is immediate and overwhelming. A scene playing out in full colour behind his eyes before he can stop it.
He imagines kneeling in front of you. Your hand in his hair, gently guiding him down, not harsh, not cruel—just commanding. Certain. Your voice low and warm when you tell him what a good boy he’s being. How proud you are of him for obeying. The approval in your tone curling under his skin and lodging in his chest like something vital.
He pictures your fingers under his chin, tilting his face up to meet your gaze. Your eyes heavy with authority, with knowledge, with that quiet, devastating focus only you have when you're in complete control. He imagines the collar around his neck, snug and unmissable. Your thumb brushing over the D-ring, anchoring him to you like it means something real.
Then he’s stripped down, hands behind his back, body exposed and offered. On display, not just to be seen, but to be claimed.
Not in front of strangers. Not for show.
For you.
Your mouth near his ear, breath warm against his skin as you tell him he's yours. That he doesn't have to think. That he doesn't have to speak unless you say so. That every part of him belongs to you tonight.
And maybe every night.
The thought lands hard in his chest. Too hard.
His breath catches. Not loud, but enough.
He shifts on the bed, uncrosses his legs, then crosses them again the other way. His palms press down against his thighs. His fingers twitch. He’s suddenly aware of the way his jeans fit. Of the subtle pressure building beneath the zipper.
No.
He clenches his jaw. Tries to breathe evenly.
You’ve just finished explaining the basic flow of the night when you notice it.
Spencer hasn’t said anything in a while, not since your last instruction. He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, posture tight. His hands are on his thighs, fingers rigid like he’s forcing them to stay still. His eyes are locked on the floor, and his breathing has gone shallow.
You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s spiralling.
Quietly, you set the shirt down on the dresser and turn toward him. You don’t walk over right away. You give him a second, then another.
“Spence,” you say gently. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look up. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are fixed on the carpet like if he moves, something might snap.
You take a step closer.
“Talk to me. You’ve been fine all day, and now you’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
His voice is hoarse. Immediate. Unconvincing.
You sit next to him on the bed, leaving space between you. Close enough to reach him if he needs it. Far enough not to crowd.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re not panicking. But something’s wrong.”
He shifts. Crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them like they’re too heavy. His whole body is wound up, too still in a way that feels brittle.
“I’m just thinking through the scenario,” he says.
You wait.
He glances at you, then away. The flush on his neck gives him away.
“I didn’t consider... until just now...” He stops. Swallows hard.
“Consider what?”
“That I might get an erection.”
The silence after it is immediate. Heavy.
He exhales like he’s just dropped something dangerous.
You don’t laugh. You don’t tease. You just nod once, slowly.
He stares ahead, not at you. “It’s not something I planned. It’s just… the environment. The psychology of it. Being surrounded by all of that.”
You nod again. “Arousal is a common response at these kinds of events.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that. I’ve read about it. I just didn’t think it would affect me. And now I’m realizing that it might. When we’re in there. When I’m in character.”
There’s shame in his voice, and tension in every inch of his posture. Like he’s waiting for you to recoil. To judge. Like the possibility alone is enough to undo everything you’ve built.
But you don’t flinch.
“It’s not something you need to apologise for,” you tell him. “You’re reacting to a high-stimulation environment. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m...” He cuts himself off.
“I don’t,” you say before he can finish. “I don’t think anything bad about you. You’re being honest, and that helps me keep you safe.”
That startles him a little. His eyes flick to yours.
You offer the smallest smile.
“I’m the one bringing you in there,” you remind him. “You’re mine tonight. And it’s my job to know what’s going on with you.”
He nods, his throat tight, and looks away again. Still tense, but not frozen.
“Let’s keep going,” you say gently. “Only if you’re ready.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “I’m ready.”
But even as he says it, his hands are still trembling slightly against his legs.
You watch him for another moment, noting the tension still coiled beneath the surface but his breathing steadying.
“Before we move on,” you say gently, “do you have any more questions? About the dynamic, the rules, what to expect once we’re inside?”
He shakes his head slowly. Then hesitates.
You wait.
“I think I have the basics,” he says finally. “Stay with you. Don’t speak unless you prompt me. No touching anyone else. Consent is non-negotiable.”
You nod. “And if someone touches you without permission?”
“I let you handle it.”
“Good.” You pause. “Let’s talk through the profile again.”
You can tell his mind is working, already shifting back into case mode. The nervousness is still there, but now it’s more focused, more analytical.
You keep your voice even, clinical. “Three victims so far. All dominant women. Each one killed after attending private parties like this one.”
Spencer nods slowly. “No sexual assault, but all signs point to rage. Overkill. Personal.”
You sit back slightly. “The working theory is that these women are stand-ins.”
“For someone else in his life,” Spencer says.
“Right. Someone specific. Not a general hatred of women, but something... narrower.”
“Someone he knows. Or knew. A woman with authority over him.”
You nod once. “We think he’s submissive in his day-to-day life. Professionally. Personally. He’s used to being controlled.”
Spencer glances toward the collar still resting on the bed, then back at you. “So the party lets him be near that dynamic again. But on his terms. Where he can watch it. Choose his moment.”
“And target someone who reminds him of her. Whoever she is.”
You let that settle between you for a beat. It’s all theory. Probabilities. Patterns that might line up or might lead nowhere.
But the pattern of the victims makes something very clear.
“He’s not picking at random,” you say quietly. “So tonight, we need to pay attention to who’s watching.”
Spencer’s jaw tenses.
“Not just who’s active,” you clarify. “But who’s standing still. Who lingers. Who watches the women in charge too long, especially if they’re with a male submissive.”
He nods slowly. “He won’t be obvious.”
“No. He won’t risk it. But he’ll be there for a reason. And if we fit the image... we might be what draws him out.”
You don’t add that it’s why you were chosen. Why the two of you make the best bait.
You don’t have to.
Spencer’s already thinking it.
You reach for his shirt again, fingertips smoothing the folded edge. You keep your tone light as you ask, “You ready to get dressed?”
His gaze lingers on yours for a second longer.
Then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
You let out a slow breath and stand. The collar stays untouched on the bed, for now.
You step into the bathroom without a word, closing the door behind you. The light is harsh, clinical, but it doesn’t matter. You’re only in here to change, to breathe, to keep your balance.
The dress slides on like a second skin. Black PVC, glossy and tight, hugging every line of your body. It stops high on the thigh, the hem teasing more than it covers when you walk. The neckline dips deep, a plunging V that leaves your cleavage exposed and impossible to ignore. You smooth it down with steady hands, adjusting the straps where they cut in just slightly, then step into your heels. The extra height makes your legs look even longer, your stance more commanding.
You lean over the counter pull together a quick smoky eye. Nothing heavy, just enough to change the shape of your gaze. A swipe of bold lipstick follows. Something rich and red, deliberately striking. When you catch your own reflection in the mirror, there’s a flicker of recognition. It’s not exactly you. It’s the version you’ve built for tonight.
You open the bathroom door and step back into the room.
Spencer is already dressed. He’s seated at the edge of the bed, shirt clinging to him just right, black fabric soft and open enough at the collar to bare a stretch of skin you’ve never seen before. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The jeans mold to his frame, dark and neat and subtle until he shifts his weight and the way they stretch across his thighs makes your mouth go dry.
He looks up.
And freezes.
His eyes catch on the gleam of your dress. They flick down—slow, unwilling—and you feel it when they hit your legs. The short hem, the way the PVC hugs your hips, how your heels make your stride longer and more deliberate. Then higher, tracing the arch of your waist, the slick black curve of your breasts framed by the plunging neckline.
He doesn't speak.
His lips part, just slightly, but no sound follows. His throat bobs. His fingers flex faintly against his thighs, and for a beat, neither of you move.
The room is too warm all of a sudden.
You turn toward your coat just to stop yourself from staring outright, but you don’t make it two steps before you're glancing back over your shoulder. You catch him again, right in the act. Still looking. Trying not to, but failing.
He shifts like he’s trying to get comfortable. It only draws your attention again, down to where his legs are braced wide on the mattress. His jeans hug the shape of his thighs tightly, muscle drawn out and defined under the stretch of dark denim. You’ve never let yourself notice before, not like this. Not how thick his thighs are, how good they look under pressure, how easily your fingers could dig into them while you tease him with your tongue.
Your stomach twists with the thought. Heat ripples just under your skin.
And then your eyes lift, drawn to the open line of his shirt. His throat, pale and smooth, exposed and so fucking tempting. It’s unfair, how delicate he looks like this. Not fragile, but something softer. Skin that’s never been shown to you, on offer now without meaning to be.
You want to touch it.
You want to lean in close and bite.
You suck in a breath through your nose and look away, pulse thudding a little too loud in your ears.
Neither of you say a word.
But the air between you is thick with something you can’t name without giving yourself away. Something more than nerves. Something more than just the case.
Spencer stares down at the floor now like it's safer. Like if he looks at you again, he won't be able to stop himself.
And you’re not sure you would want him to.
You take the collar with you, slipping it into the inside pocket of your coat before either of you leave the room. Spencer doesn’t comment, and you don’t explain. It doesn’t need to be said. Once you’re inside the mansion, the collar will matter more than anything else.
The team is waiting in one of the smaller conference rooms on the main floor. Final briefing. One last chance to go over the profile, the plan, every moving part before you disappear behind the doors of the mansion.
Everyone’s calm. Focused. It feels like standard protocol, even if this is anything but.
JJ goes over the plan again, voice low and steady.
“Security is going to be heavy at the door,” she says. “No cameras, no phones, no means of communication. Once you’re in, we’ll be dark until you signal us.”
“They scan everyone on entry,” Rossi adds. “No last-minute surprises. Anything unexpected gets you turned away.”
“We’ll already be in place by the time you get there,” Morgan says. “Unmarked cars, perimeter covered. If you see the unsub, make sure he sees you too. Try to get him to come to you.”
You nod once. Spencer follows your lead. His silence isn’t nervous now—it’s focused. He listens, absorbs, thinks.
The others leave ten minutes before you, SUVs pulling out in pairs to loop the back roads and slip into position without drawing attention. You and Spencer take your own car. Nothing flashy. Something expensive enough to pass but common enough not to stand out.
The ride is silent.
He sits beside you with his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. It’s all already there in the quiet. What’s waiting. What’s expected. What could happen.
When the mansion appears ahead, glowing in soft light, you don’t say anything. You pull up and park without fanfare.
You sit for a beat.
He looks at you without speaking.
You reach into your coat and draw out the collar.
The silence turns heavier.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes drop to the leather. He watches as you unbuckle it slowly, letting the ends part in your hands. His breathing stays steady, but something flickers in his expression. Not fear. Not resistance.
Anticipation. Something deeper.
“May I?” you ask, turning toward him.
He looks at it, then up at you. His voice is quiet.
“Yes.”
You lean in.
He tips his head without needing to be asked.
The collar slides easily around his neck, snug but not tight. Your fingers are steady as you fasten the buckle at the back, then smooth the leather once it’s in place. The silver D-ring catches in the light. You let your thumb brush it, once.
Then you sit back and look at him.
His eyes lift to meet yours. Quiet. Composed.
Owned.
You take a breath. So does he.
And then you open your door.
Time to go in.
You step out into the warm night. Spencer follows close behind.
The paved walkway stretches ahead, lined with soft lights that guide your path to the wide front entrance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look around, just walks a step behind you, steady and quiet.
The mansion doors are already open. Two guards in fitted black attire wait just inside the threshold, neutral expressions in place. One gestures you forward without a word.
You stop when instructed.
“Names?” the man asks, tone efficient.
You give them, calm and clear. He checks a list, glances back up, and gives a short nod. “Step to the wall, please.”
Another staff member approaches for the pat-down. They start with Spencer, quick and thorough but never rough. His shoulders stay relaxed. He doesn’t flinch. He watches you while they work.
Then it’s your turn. Their hands move across your coat, along your waist and hips, respectful and practiced. You let it happen without comment.
“Thank you,” the staff says once finished. “You may enter.”
Inside, a woman steps forward, hands clasped politely in front of her. “Coats?”
Spencer shrugs his off first. The collar around his throat is revealed fully now, the silver D-ring gleaming against the open neck of his black shirt. The woman’s gaze lingers for only a moment before she hangs it on a rack behind the entryway.
You remove your coat next. The glossy black PVC catches the warm light, pulling attention across the room. The hem of your dress barely brushes the top of your thighs. The neckline dips low and unapologetic. You don’t flinch under the glances. They’re not inappropriate, just curious.
You thank the woman softly and move forward.
The foyer is expansive and bright. Soft music plays under the low hum of conversation. Crystal light fixtures glint overhead, casting warm reflections across marble floors. The air smells faintly of perfume and polished wood.
People are everywhere.
Some are dressed in elegant suits or sleek evening wear. Others wear lingerie or leather or just enough to cover their genitals. Some submissives kneel beside their partners with quiet focus, hands resting on their thighs or clasped behind their backs. Others move freely, laughing softly, sipping from glasses, speaking with ease.
The atmosphere is vibrant. Relaxed. Like any high-end social gathering, except for the honesty of the power dynamics laid bare in posture and proximity.
You pause just inside the threshold. Let your eyes move slowly across the space.
No one stares at you, but several notice.
Spencer stays close behind your shoulder, his gaze sweeping lightly across the crowd. His expression doesn’t shift, but you can feel the tension in him. Not discomfort. Just awareness.
You let your fingers brush his hand once. A silent cue.
He falls into step beside you.
You pause near one of the wide columns, letting the crowd move naturally around you. The foyer remains a steady hum of conversation, the air warm with body heat and quiet anticipation. Movement is fluid, unhurried. Groups form and shift, the social rhythm calm but deliberate.
Spencer stops just behind your right shoulder, quiet and still.
You glance down at him. Then lower your voice.
“Kneel.”
He obeys immediately.
His movements are smooth, practiced even if they’ve never been put into action like this before. He sinks down onto one knee first, then both. His hands settle palm-up on his thighs. His eyes drop in submission. No hesitation. No visible strain.
It sends a quiet hum through your blood.
He doesn’t overplay it. He doesn’t perform. He just waits there at your feet, calm and composed.
You let your hand rest lightly on the back of his head. A casual gesture of ownership. Grounding for both of you.
Then you scan the room again.
You look past the doms chatting in pairs and the couples trading soft laughter. You look for men standing alone, watching too intently, hovering without fully engaging. It’s early still, too soon to draw conclusions, but it’s enough to start building a sense of who’s there to play and who’s there to linger.
A few eyes move in your direction.
Your outfit demands attention, but it’s Spencer who earns it.
A woman in a long red gown passes with a glass of something dark in her hand. She slows as she catches sight of him at your feet.
“Well trained,” she murmurs as she walks by. Her eyes flick up to yours, amused and approving. “And pretty. I like that.”
You smile faintly but don’t respond. Just run your fingers through Spencer’s curls once before letting your hand fall away.
Another pair stops near you. The woman holds a leash but doesn’t tug on it. Her submissive, a tall man in silk shorts, kneels at her side and eyes Spencer like he’s sizing him up.
“You’ve had him long?” she asks you.
“Long enough,” you answer.
Her smile widens. “Lucky girl.”
They move on.
Spencer doesn’t react. He stays perfectly still. His breathing is steady. His posture doesn’t waver.
He doesn’t need instruction.
He belongs to you. And tonight, everyone here can see it.
You let the moment settle before finally turning your head, casting one last glance around the foyer. You’ve studied the crowd long enough to know your unsub isn’t here. Not yet. If he’s inside, he’s deeper in the house.
Time to keep moving.
You give Spencer a small gesture and head toward the hallway. He follows silently.
The hallway feels quieter than the foyer, more concentrated. The air has weight here, charged not with tension but with intention. Every step seems to matter more. Every glance feels heavier.
You come to a stop in front of the first room.
A small chalkboard is mounted beside the doorframe. The words Shibari have been written in soft white chalk, the letters neat but slightly smudged at the corners like someone wrote it quickly, with practiced ease. A delicate white line is drawn beneath it, almost decorative.
Spencer doesn’t speak, but you feel the shift in his posture beside you. His eyes are on the board too, processing what it means.
You glance at him. He meets your gaze, gives a small nod. He’s ready.
You open the door.
The room is dimly lit, the lighting warm but focused, pulled downward by a few directed spotlights that leave the corners in shadow. A long wooden beam has been mounted horizontally across one wall. Thick ropes hang in orderly loops from hooks. A single scene is already in progress.
A woman stands with her back to the audience, bare skin wrapped in a precise pattern of jute rope. The knots run across her shoulders, down her spine, looping around her breasts and thighs, snug but not harsh. Her arms are pulled behind her, wrists bound and anchored just above the curve of her waist. Her breathing is slow. Measured. Trusting.
The rigger moves with a quiet confidence, checking tension, adjusting placement. His expression is focused, reverent. He doesn’t rush.
You feel Spencer shift beside you.
His breath catches, so softly no one else would hear it. Not shock. Not discomfort. Just the involuntary response of someone new to seeing this up close for the first time. A naked woman bound in something beautiful. A kind of vulnerability that isn’t helpless, only offered.
He straightens subtly, weight adjusted, jaw tightening just slightly. He schools his features quickly, folding himself back into the role. You don’t look at him, but you feel the effort it takes.
Your eyes return to the knots.
They’re clean. Balanced. Every strand symmetrical. The lines across her thighs support rather than constrict. The wraps around her chest curve like sculpture.
A few others linger along the perimeter of the room, standing or seated in quiet observation. You count them without seeming to. Most are male. The power balance is quiet, but present.
You stay for another moment. Then you shift your stance.
“Come.”
Spencer follows you out without a word.
The next door is just a few paces down. Another blackboard hangs beside it, the chalk clean and bold.
Impact Play
Underlined twice, a small symbol of a paddle drawn beside it.
You glance at Spencer. He doesn’t hesitate this time, just follows silently as you push the door open and step inside.
The room is warmer than the last. The lighting lower. Shadows curve along the walls. A wide desk sits at the centre, heavy and dark-stained, angled slightly toward the small crowd lining the back and side walls.
A woman is bent over its surface completely naked. Her elbow braced against the desk. Her legs are parted, feet braced. Her body shudders slightly with each strike, tension rolling through her spine.
The man behind her is fully clothed in black slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His posture is casual but controlled, one hand resting at the small of her back, the other raised and coming down in steady, measured slaps against her ass. The sound echoes off the walls in crisp, regular rhythm.
Each hit sends a ripple down her frame. Her breasts swing forward with the movement, caught in the low light, the curve of her body fully visible from where you stand.
Spencer’s weight shifts beside you.
You glance at him once, just enough to see the way his throat works as he swallows. His jaw is set. His eyes are fixed forward, deliberate. Focused. He’s in control, but it’s costing him more here than in the last room.
The man delivering the spanking pauses, then turns his head toward the gathered guests.
“Any requests?” he asks lightly. “We’ve got time.”
A few chuckles rise. Someone suggests a paddle. Another calls for a crop. The dom smiles faintly.
“Generous crowd tonight.” He looks down at the woman, hand drifting slowly across the red bloom of her skin. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”
She moans quietly, barely audible. Her thighs tremble.
The dom picks up a leather paddle from the desk. Tests the weight. Turns slightly, letting the audience see his angle before lining up for the next strike.
You glance through the room. All men along the walls. All watching. Some with subs leaning into them, some alone.
You scan each face.
Spencer stays quiet at your side, hands loosely clasped behind his back now, the image of obedience.
You place your hand gently on his lower back.
“Follow,” you murmur.
And you both turn to leave.
The third door comes into view, just around the slight curve in the hallway. The blackboard next to it is marked in tall, slanted strokes of white chalk.
Suspension Play
You pause for only a second, your eyes on the lettering, then glance toward Spencer. His gaze is already there. You nod once and open the door.
The space inside is taller than the others, the ceiling reinforced with black steel rigging bolted deep into the beams. Thick rope hangs from above in long, weighted strands, the ends tied into carefully positioned harnesses that hold the woman suspended a few feet off the ground.
She’s completely nude, strung up by the hips and thighs, chest angled downward, arms drawn behind her. Her knees are bent, feet off the floor. The ropework bites cleanly into her skin, supporting her full weight, keeping her tilted in a vulnerable, open curve. Her head hangs low, hair swinging freely as she moans, the sound sharp and unrestrained.
The man behind her, also nude, is steady, hands gripping the rope for leverage as he thrusts into her with slow, brutal control. He uses the suspension to deepen his movement, pulling on the ties to drive into her harder. Every thrust rocks her forward in the air, her moans loud and unfettered, echoing off the walls.
Spencer freezes beside you.
Just for a breath. A blink. The shift is barely perceptible. But you see it.
You scan quickly, letting your gaze move from one face to the next, just long enough to read body language, power dynamics, placement. There’s curiosity here, arousal, focus—but nothing sharp. No anger hiding under the surface.
You conclude quietly that this isn’t the scene you’re looking for.
Whatever you’re meant to find tonight, it won’t be here.
Your hand finds Spencer’s wrist for just a second.
“Come.”
And you slip out together into the hallway.
The chalkboard outside the next room is drawn in rounded, playful letters. White on black.
Pet Play
You glance at Spencer once. His face is unreadable, jaw tight, arms loose at his sides like he’s trying not to clench his fists. You reach for the handle and open the door.
The air inside is warmer. Softer lighting. Plush rugs underfoot, thick enough to muffle the sound of movement. It’s quieter than you expect for a room hosting live sex.
Until you hear it.
A whimper, high-pitched and needy, followed by the rhythmic slap of skin.
Two couples occupy the centre of the space, lit gently from overhead. The scene is already in progress.
The female sub is bent low, her hands and knees pressed into the rug. Her hips are high, back arched, thighs spread wide enough to display everything. A tail plug shifts between her cheeks with every jerk of her body. She’s panting, flushed, her moans broken up by soft little yips that sound almost practiced.
Mounted behind her is the male sub. Also on all fours. His movements are erratic at first, shallow thrusts, his breath loud and wet. His cock slides between her thighs in frantic, eager bursts, guided loosely by instinct. He’s making small noises too. Not words. Whines and groans, completely lost in it.
Their doms are standing just behind them, watching.
The woman is tall, striking in a fitted red corset, heels sharp enough to pierce. Her hand rests on the back of her sub’s head, keeping him in place as he humps into the woman beneath him.
“Good boy,” she croons sweetly. “Such a good little mutt. Fuck her just like that.”
Her fingers tighten slightly in his hair. “Get that knot in. Breed her.”
The woman moans louder. Her breasts sway beneath her with every impact. Her knees scrape forward slightly across the rug as the male sub fucks into her harder, burying himself to the hilt, balls slapping wetly against her skin.
She cries out, eyes squeezed shut, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. Her dom strokes her hair lazily, like petting a well-behaved dog.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, mock-soothing. “Good girl. Be a good bitch and let him fill you up. You don’t need to think, do you? You just need cock.”
Spencer sways almost imperceptibly at your side.
His breath isn’t steady now. Not quite. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way his body pulls tighter. The way his shoulders lock. His hands twitch once, then flex open again at his sides.
You stay close, eyes drifting casually along the perimeter. Watching. Cataloguing.
You can feel Spencer next to you, holding it together. Barely. His eyes stay on the scene in front of him, and you can almost hear the questions churning behind his gaze.
You don’t say anything.
He shifts, just a fraction. His eyes flick to the doms. Then to their subs. Then back to the space between them.
He doesn’t understand why this scene is getting to him. Pet play had sounded absurd when he read about it. Ridiculous. The ears, the tail plugs, the crawling. He thought it would feel like theatre.
But here it’s raw. Degrading. Intimate.
And something about it pulls at him.
His hands twitch again at his sides. He presses his thighs together slightly, like his body is trying to regulate itself. His jaw flexes.
Shame creeps in slow.
He doesn’t want to react to this. He doesn’t want you to know he’s reacting.
You don’t look at him. You give him that privacy.
You make a mental note of each man watching the female dom. No one lingers too long. No one yet sets off the instinct to look twice.
The male sub begins to rut harder now, erratic and desperate, hands fisting in the rug for leverage. The dom above him strokes down his spine.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “Breed her for me. Be a good little mutt and fill her up.”
You scan the room one last time. No lingering stares. No unusual interest.
Then you touch Spencer’s arm gently, just a brush of your fingers.
He exhales like he’d been holding his breath.
You turn for the door, and he follows without a word.
The chalkboard outside the room is filled in with sharp, deliberate handwriting.
Orgasm Control & Denial
Couples welcome to join
You open the door and step inside.
The space is larger than the others. Dim, but not dark. A low platform runs the length of the far wall with a few wide, padded benches spaced evenly apart. One is occupied. The others are open, waiting.
The energy in the room is different from the others. Louder. Not with talking, but with sound. Heavy breathing. Guttural moans. Sharp, strangled cries. The kind that come from being edged too long, held just out of reach.
It isn’t a stage show. No one’s performing. But the people here are watching, and they’re enjoying it. Heat in their eyes. Fingers curling into partners’ thighs. Everyone’s tuned to the same frequency.
Beside the occupied bench, a man kneels naked. His cock is flushed and twitching, painfully hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. He’s trembling. His dom is standing just behind him, holding a slim vibrator lazily in one hand.
She drags it along his shaft, featherlight. Barely touching. Just enough to make his hips jerk forward against his will.
“Still holding out?” she murmurs. “You’re really starting to leak now.”
He chokes on a moan, breath stuttering. “Ma’am—please—”
“I didn’t ask you to speak.”
He goes silent instantly. His thighs are shaking. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back even though every inch of his body is screaming for relief.
“You’re dripping all over my bench,” she says coolly. “Do you know how pathetic you look? Kneeling there, humping the air like a dog. Have some control.”
His whimper is immediate. High, needy, involuntary.
“Tell me what you are,” she murmurs.
He closes his eyes. “A needy, disobedient little slut.”
“For?”
“For you, Ma’am.”
You don’t move from your position near the wall. Neither does Spencer.
But you feel him beside you. You feel the heat radiating off him. The restraint, the tension, the confusion.
He’s breathing harder now, even though he’s trying to be subtle. His hands twitch at his sides. He shifts his weight again, then stops himself, like any movement might draw attention.
His reaction is visceral. Immediate.
It hits him harder than any other room. The command, the denial, the humiliation being folded gently into control—it breaks something open inside him. You can see it. His throat working. His jaw locked. His eyes wide and too bright.
You glance down, only for a second.
He’s hard. Undeniably.
He doesn’t even try to adjust himself. He just clenches his fists at his sides and keeps watching, flushed and frozen, like he’s terrified of what it means.
He swallows hard. His jaw is tight. Like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this, how much it's affecting him. But he can’t tear his gaze away.
You shift your focus to the rest of the room. More people have entered since you arrived. Some paired off. Some standing alone. All absorbed in the scene playing out.
You scan slowly. Deliberately.
Not everyone is looking at the sub. Some are watching the dom with awe, admiration, arousal. A few even look inspired. But one stands out.
A man standing rigid. Alone. Eyes locked on the dom. Not the sub. Only her.
His arms are crossed. His shoulders drawn high, mouth a tight line.
Every time she denies her submissive, his body tightens. Each word of degradation seems to land directly on his skin. His stare never wavers. His anger simmers just beneath the surface, unreleased.
You’ve seen men like this before. But never quite like this.
This isn’t discomfort. It isn’t confusion.
It’s loathing.
And he hasn’t looked away from her once.
The dom settles into a chair behind her sub, her movements smooth and deliberate.
“Turn around,” she says softly, tapping his shoulder.
The sub scrambles to obey. He moves between her thighs, eager and desperate. She doesn’t touch him. She simply leans back, one leg crossing over the other, fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair as his mouth presses to her, eyes closed like it takes everything in him to keep from grinding himself into the bench.
“You want to cum?” she asks.
He moans something into her skin. She lets him keep going, doesn't bother waiting for a real answer.
“Then earn it.”
You flick your gaze to the man at the edge of the room.
Still watching. Still locked onto the dom and no one else.
He’s not angry now, but he’s not indifferent either. His jaw isn’t clenched anymore, but his arms are still crossed tight. He’s not fighting the scene, but he isn’t enjoying it either. His stare hasn’t moved from the dom’s face.
He’s studying her. Measuring her.
And that’s a problem.
You glance at Spencer.
“I think that’s him.”
Spencer’s eyes shift subtly, following your gaze.
“He hasn’t looked at the sub once,” you add. “He’s obsessed with her.”
He nods slightly, still flushed. “So what do we do?”
You hesitate for half a second.
Then you turn to him, more certain than before. “We give him something new to focus on.”
His breath catches. “You mean… us.”
You meet his eyes. “If we get up there, it might be enough to shift him. If he starts watching me instead of her, if he follows us when we leave—”
“Then we have him,” Spencer finishes.
You nod once. “Exactly.”
He glances toward the platform, then back to you. He knows what it would mean. What it would look like. He’d be undressed. Vulnerable. Exposed in front of strangers, with your body over his, your hands on him, your voice in his ear.
It should scare him.
And it does.
But it also sparks something else.
Something he’s tried not to name for months now. That pull toward you. The way he thinks about your hands on him when he shouldn’t. The ache in his chest when you smile at someone else. The secret hope that maybe, just once, you’d really want him like that. Not for the job. Not for a case.
But because you wanted him.
This won’t be real. It can’t be. But it might be the closest he ever gets.
His voice is quiet.
“Yes.”
You meet his gaze.
And your stomach flips.
Because you want it too.
But you nod like it means nothing. Like it’s just strategy.
“Do you trust me?” you ask, quiet and deliberate.
His breath is shallow, but his answer doesn’t waver.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The words slide out of him without hesitation. Not preformative. Not forced. A declaration.
Your fingers slide into the D-ring of his collar, hooking there with quiet control. You turn without another word, tugging gently to guide him toward the platform.
The moment you hit the edge of the stage, you feel the subtle shift in energy. A few heads turn. A few glances flick in your direction. But most of the room is still caught in the ongoing scene. That’s fine. You don’t need the whole room.
You just need one man’s attention to turn.
You lead Spencer to the far side of the stage, placing yourself between him and the man standing just off to the right. Close enough for him to see every detail.
You keep your tone light, calm, authoritative.
“Take off your shirt.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Spencer’s fingers immediately rise to the buttons of his shirt. They fumble just once before he catches himself. The fabric parts slowly, revealing the line of his throat, the soft skin of his chest, the curve of his waist. He shrugs it off and folds it once in his hands.
Your gaze skims over him, clinical and cold. You don’t let your expression give anything away, even as your stomach tightens at the sight of him like this. Bare. Willing. Obedient.
“Now your pants.”
He hesitates for only a moment, then obeys. The button pops. The zipper slides. He steps out of the jeans, leaving only his black boxer briefs. You note the line of his thighs, the quiet tension in his stance. He doesn’t cover himself. He doesn’t look away.
You step close.
And begin your circle.
One hand lightly grazes his shoulder, then drifts down his spine, unhurried and firm. You walk slowly around him, gaze cool and assessing, fingers brushing down his arm, across his lower back, skimming the side of his thigh.
You stop at his front and drag your eyes down the length of him, lingering on his stomach, the curve of his hips, the outline of his cock through his underwear.
You click your tongue once.
“Hm. You’re not much to look at, are you?”
Your tone is unimpressed. Cool.
Spencer flinches just slightly. You tilt your head, studying him
He doesn’t speak.
You let your fingers trail just above the waistband of his briefs.
“I expected more,” you say softly, as if to yourself. “For someone so eager to be owned.”
Your fingers skim across his stomach. His breath catches. You ignore it.
"I’m not even sure what use you’ll be to me tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll make you kneel in front of the whole room just so they can see how eager you are to be used.”
You glance to the side. Not directly at the unsub. But you can feel the weight of his stare now, aimed at you. Not the other dom. Not her sub.
You.
Good. Let him watch. Let him stew in it.
You take one more slow lap around Spencer, trailing your fingers along his skin like you’re still deciding if he’s even worth keeping.
Then you step in close behind him, voice low but sharp.
"You don’t get to cum tonight unless I say so. And if you’re lucky, I might let you beg."
Your fingers skim lightly along the small of his back. Not tender. Intentional. A show.
"But for now, you stand there. Hard. Humiliated. And you take it."
His breath catches.
And to the side, you feel it. That stare. Heavy. Burning. Locked on you.
Exactly what you wanted.
You stop at Spencer’s side and let the silence stretch just long enough to press on him. His breathing is quiet but quick, just barely. You tilt your head.
“Hard already?” you murmur, just loud enough to carry. “I’ve barely even touched you.”
He doesn't respond. He knows better than to speak without permission.
You let your eyes travel downward, pausing where his cock presses thick and obvious against the front of his briefs. You don’t reach for him. Not yet. You just stare. Then slowly turn away with a small, unimpressed sound.
“Desperate,” you say coolly. “And untouched. That’s almost impressive.”
You step behind him and lean in close to his ear. “Is this what gets you going? Standing still, surrounded, humiliated?”
His breath stutters, but he keeps his body locked in place.
You move in front of him again. His gaze doesn’t move from the fixed point on the wall. His fists are clenched at his sides now, tight with effort.
You raise your voice, just a little. “I wonder what they’d all think if I picked someone else. Someone who could keep their cock soft unless told otherwise.”
That lands. His jaw tightens. His cheeks flush.
You don’t give him a moment to recover. Just let the words hang there while you slowly pace behind him again, heels sharp on the platform.
“Maybe I should ask for volunteers,” you say, smooth and loud enough for the room. “Find someone who actually knows how to behave.”
You don’t mean it. Not even a little. But the unsub doesn’t know that. And Spencer—Spencer’s shoulders twitch, almost imperceptibly.
You slow your step. Pause at his back.
Then lean in close again, low enough for only him.
“But that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it?”
A full shiver runs through him. You can see it travel down his spine.
You step around to face him again, standing just outside his reach. You tip your head slightly as your eyes drop back to the thick outline in his briefs.
“That’s what I thought,” you murmur, softer now. “So easy to control.”
You take another step forward. Just one. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your body. You watch the tension in his arms, the way his fingers flex against his thighs. He’s trying so hard not to react. Not to move. Not to give himself away.
But his body is already betraying him.
You tilt your head again.
“Say thank you.”
His throat bobs. He swallows.
“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse.
You give him a long, cool look.
“That’s not how you address me.”
His eyes flick up for a second, then drop again.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
That earns him a quiet hum. Pleased. Like he’s passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.
You let the pause settle. Then reach up, very lightly, and brush your fingers along his jaw.
Not a caress.
An inspection.
You meet his eyes for only a second.
Then smile.
“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”
You don’t look at the crowd. Not yet. You know they’re watching. You know he is watching.
You keep your focus on Spencer.
The tightness in his jaw. The heat rising in his neck. The flush that’s spread to the tips of his ears. He’s trying so hard to stay still. To hold onto the role. But it’s not a role for him anymore, not really.
You step in close again. The tips of your boots brush his toes. Your body lines up against his, just enough to let him feel the distance he’s not allowed to close.
You meet his eyes. They flicker up toward you, quick and questioning.
You hold his gaze, searching.
He gives you the smallest nod.
You reach between you, slow and unhurried, and let your palm drag along the front of his briefs.
He flinches like he’s been shocked.
Hard. He’s already so hard. The fabric is damp at the tip, tight and stretched across him, and your fingers are steady as you press in just slightly, enough to make his hips jerk before he reins it in.
A sound escapes him. Sharp, bitten off. Half a gasp.
You let your nails drag back across the same path, featherlight.
Then you glance up again.
He meets your eyes. His breath stutters but his nod is there, barely visible.
You move to his side and let your hand linger, fingers curving over the swell of him, thumb grazing the slick spot at the head through the fabric. His breath hitches again. His fists tighten. You feel the tension vibrating off him in waves.
“Look at you,” you say, louder now. “Shaking. Dripping. We haven’t even started yet.”
You step forward just enough for the crowd to see the outline of your hand on his cock.
“Surprised you're still standing,” you add, cool and unimpressed. “You’re so easy to manipulate it’s almost pathetic.”
He shudders.
You shift your focus outward now, scanning the faces for the unsub’s. Your fingers stay planted like a claim.
“Isn’t he precious? Can’t even stay dry from a few compliments. Maybe he is more pet than man.”
That draws a ripple through the room. Not laughter. Just quiet, approving heat. You know the unsub is watching now. You can feel it. A different kind of weight behind the attention. Fury.
You don't look at Spencer right away.
You face the crowd instead.
Your fingers stay on him, resting lightly over the thick shape of his cock where it’s stretched tight and twitching in his briefs. Just enough pressure to remind him it’s there. That you know it’s there. That everyone else does, too.
You lift your chin. Voice smooth. Calm. Cruel.
“Look at him.”
Some of the crowd shifts their attention fully toward you now. Others were already watching. Your tone makes sure of it.
“Can’t speak. Can’t move. So hard he’s throbbing just from the sound of my voice.”
Your hand slides up again, teasing a wet streak through the fabric.
“I haven’t even taken off his underwear. Haven’t touched his skin. And he’s leaking like a fucking faucet.”
You look back up at him, slow and dismissive. His cheeks are red now, his hair curling just slightly at his temples, damp with sweat. Still standing. Still trembling.
Still holding himself back.
You walk a half-circle around him again, letting your heels click across the wood of the platform. You know it draws attention. You know exactly where your unsub is now, tucked near the side, half in shadow, staring. Not with curiosity. With tension. Jaw tight. Arms folded. He’s listening to every word.
You speak louder.
“He’d let me do anything up here. Wouldn’t you, baby?”
Spencer lifts his eyes, just enough. His voice is a rasp.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The reaction in the crowd is audible. A ripple. Small, but noticeable.
You lean in close again, hand still pressed just under the waistband of his briefs, brushing just close enough to drive him wild.
“He’s not trained,” you tell them. “Not really. Not yet. But he’s obedient. And that’s what matters.”
You lift your eyes and find his.
The unsub.
Watching you with something more than anger now. Disgust. Revulsion.
You smile. Sweet. Sugar-laced venom.
“Don’t need to think. Don’t need to speak. Don’t need control. Just need to be used.”
You drag your nails along the back of Spencer’s neck lightly, then rest your hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. You see the twitch in his thighs, the way his breathing stutters.
You raise your voice.
“Pathetic.”
There’s a shift from the corner. The unsub’s arms drop. His hands flex at his sides.
You glance at Spencer again.
He looks at you, just for a moment. A subtle nod. Eyes glassy but focused. He’s with you.
You turn back to the crowd.
“You see that?” you ask the room. “He doesn’t even beg. Not without permission. He knows his place.”
You turn slightly, making sure he sees it.
“Isn’t that right?”
Spencer answers, breathless but loud enough.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The words land like a strike.
The unsub’s jaw moves. His eyes narrow. Something flashes just beneath the surface.
And you smile.
Because you’ve found the wound. Now all that’s left is digging in.
You glance down at Spencer’s flushed face, then look back out to the crowd, voice smooth as silk.
“How many times do you think I can edge him before he begs?”
A murmur rolls through the room. Some laugh, some smirk, others lean in to see what you’ll do next.
Spencer stays frozen. Breathing heavy. Hard as ever in his briefs, straining for friction, desperate for your touch.
You palm him through the fabric.
He jolts.
Not a flinch. Not quite. Just a quick, involuntary shift of his hips like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
“Be a good boy,” you murmur, loud enough for the front row to hear, fingers wrapping around him with firm pressure through the cotton. “Work yourself up for me.”
His breath punches out of him like you’d knocked the air from his chest.
And then he moves.
Hesitantly at first, rocking his hips into your hand with cautious rhythm. But it doesn’t take long for caution to fall away. He grinds against your palm with slow, desperate rolls of his hips, each motion a little more frantic than the last.
You keep your eyes on him. On the way his face crumples with effort. How his mouth parts like he might moan, but clamps shut at the last second
You lean close but loudly declare. “That’s it. Let them see how pathetic you are.”
A visible flinch from the unsub.
You turn your head toward the crowd and raise your voice again. “He’s humping my hand like a bitch in heat, and I haven’t even properly touched his cock.”
Spencer’s hips stutter. You tighten your grip, just enough to keep him grounded, and you see his eyes flutter. He’s close. Already.
“How many strokes do you think it’ll take before he starts to beg?” you ask again, sweeping your gaze over the audience.
“Ten?” You tilt your head. “Five?”
You glance at him.
“Maybe three.”
You lean in. “You hear that, baby? They don’t think you can handle more than three.”
His breath comes faster. His eyes are glassy.
And then your smile sharpens.
“You poor, pathetic thing.”
The unsub shifts sharply, fists clenched, chest rising.
You let your hand fall away, denying Spencer the last inch he needs. He gasps, stumbling forward half a step before catching himself.
You speak louder. For the room. For the unsub.
“You can't even hump right without supervision.”
He stands there shaking, cock visibly twitching in his briefs, body taut like a wire stretched too tight.
You cup his cheek with mock gentleness. He doesn’t pull away.
He looks at you like he’d do anything you asked.
And that look does something to you.
Your nipples tighten under the PVC. A pulse beats low in your belly. Your panties are soaked, slick against your skin, and you haven’t even touched yourself. Haven’t been touched. All you’ve done is humiliate him. Control him. Speak to him like he’s nothing more than your toy to use and discard.
But this—this is different.
It’s him.
Spencer standing there, undone and obedient, shaking with need. Spencer letting you use him. Wanting you to. Craving it.
And none of it is pretend.
You drag your thumb slowly along his cheekbone, letting your gaze trail back to the unsub. He’s still watching. Tense. Coiled. Like he’s waiting for a reason to explode.
You glance back at Spencer. His chest is rising fast. His fists are clenched, still trembling from the edge you’ve walked him to and left him on.
The ache between your thighs deepens.
You step closer again, close enough that he could feel the heat of you if he weren’t already lost in his own. Your hand settles over the bulge in his briefs once more, gentle but firm.
“Again,” you say softly, but the word cuts through the room.
He whimpers. Just once. Barely.
Then obeys.
Rocking forward into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath coming ragged, hips jerking faster with every pass. He’s already there, right on the edge, straining toward it with everything he has.
You press your palm harder against him. Just enough. Almost enough.
And then you pull away.
His knees nearly buckle.
“Pathetic,” you murmur. Your voice is still clear. Still level. But your heart is racing. Your skin hot under the PVC. You can feel your own slick coating the inside of your thighs, and you don’t even care. You want him ruined. Shaking. Crying from the ache of it.
And he is.
You just haven’t let him show it yet.
Not until the unsub is watching close enough to burn.
You press in close behind Spencer, your body aligned to his, and let your hands drift again over his bare chest. He’s warm and tense beneath your palms, holding himself still like it’s taking everything not to move.
Your fingers skim down, tracing the shape of his ribs, then lower. You don’t rush. You explore. Touching him like you’re deciding whether or not he’s earned what’s coming.
You thumb one of his nipples, slow and purposeful.
He twitches.
You do it again.
He sucks in a breath and stiffens, but doesn’t speak. He knows better.
Your hands move down again. Over his abdomen, fingers trailing just above the waistband of his briefs. You hook your fingers there. Let the moment build.
He leans forward ever so slightly, as if his body’s already trying to follow your touch.
And then you pull your hand away.
His whole body tenses.
You shift around to his side, still close, still touching. Your nails drag lightly along the path they just traced, up across his stomach, back to his chest. You do it again, slower this time, until he shivers.
His cock is hard, straining against his briefs, and he’s fighting not to thrust.
Your hand returns to his chest, tracing down once more. This time, your fingers linger. Slipping just under the waistband. Your knuckles brush the base of his cock.
He jerks, ever so slightly.
You slide your hand deeper.
Your fingers wrap around him, warm and steady, your palm pressed flat against the heavy weight of his cock.
Spencer's whole body tightens at the contact, his hips giving a shallow jerk forward before he locks them in place again. His breath breaks apart, quiet and shaky, and you don’t stop him this time. You stroke him once, slow and deliberate, and feel how hard he is. How sensitive.
How completely undone he already is.
You start to move your hand.
Measured, controlled strokes.
His body leans into it almost immediately, the rhythm drawing out a soft sound from his throat that he doesn’t quite manage to bite back. The moment stretches between you, charged and hot, humming with something reckless.
You know you shouldn’t want this as much as you do. But you do.
The way he reacts to your touch. The effort he’s putting into staying still for you. The sound of his breath catching every time your fingers tighten at the base. It all sinks under your skin and curls deep.
He thrusts into your hand now, small restrained movements, desperate for friction. You stroke him again, slower this time, forcing him to work for it. Your own breath catches just slightly. You’re wet. You’ve been wet since the beginning of this, but now you can feel it. The heat between your thighs growing, the tight ache of your nipples under the PVC, the pulse of arousal making it harder to play it like it’s only for the mission.
You lean in close to his ear, voice firm, a little breathless.
“When you're close, I want you to tell me.”
He shivers at your tone. Nods.
“Yes, Mistress.”
You hum, pleased, and stroke him again.
You can feel him responding to your voice as much as your hand. Every quiet command, every teasing word is soaking into him, driving him further. The tension in his body is mounting fast, his thighs tightening, his hips twitching against your palm.
You keep going. Drawing it out. Keeping him just shy of where he wants to be.
Both of you are trembling with it now. The line between performance and desire vanishing beneath your hands.
He’s panting now.
Soft, open-mouthed, desperate. His hips are moving without thought, thrusting into your fist in tight, restrained pulses. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut, trembling. His thighs, his abdomen, even the way his shoulders pull back against you like he’s bracing for something he knows is coming.
Your hand moves in steady strokes, twisting just enough at the tip to keep him right where you want him. You can feel how close he is. The tension vibrating through him, the involuntary twitches, the heat building faster than he can manage.
His voice is ragged. “Close. Please. So close.”
You stroke him a little faster. Just enough.
His breath breaks. “I’m going to—”
You let go.
Just like that.
He gasps, broken and wrecked, his whole body jolting forward as if the release was ripped out of him—but nothing comes. Nothing happens. He stands there, hard and aching, twitching in the open air, still leaking from the tip.
A sound punches out of him. Not loud. Not even fully voiced. Just air. Frustrated, devastated air.
His hips jerk again, empty. Needing something. Needing you.
You don’t move.
You let him stay there, suspended in the aftermath. His chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths, his cock flushed and dripping, denied. His muscles twitch again, as if his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm didn’t come. As if it’s still expecting release.
You circle around to face him again, keeping just enough distance that he can’t reach for you, even if he tried. Not that he would. He’s still too well-behaved for that. Too wrecked.
“Did I say you could cum?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head, sharp and shameful, eyes blinking too fast.
“Use your words.”
“No, Mistress,” he chokes out.
“Then why did you get so close?” You cock your head. “You were humping into my hand like some desperate little thing. Did you forget who you belong to?”
He closes his eyes like it hurts. “No, Mistress.”
“No,” you echo, letting the silence press down between you before leaning in slightly. “I think you did.”
You slide your fingers along his inner thigh, slow and deliberate. His hips twitch again, involuntary and so eager it borders on pathetic.
He stiffens the moment your fingers graze his cock again, breath catching hard in his throat.
But you’re not here to give him relief. Not yet.
Your hand moves lower, wrapping tight around the base of his cock. Firm. Controlling. He jerks forward instinctively, a strangled sound breaking in his chest, but you tighten your grip.
“No,” you murmur, just above his ear. “Not yet.”
He goes still.
You hand stays pressed at the base, holding him tight, denying the rush of pressure building in him. You can feel the tremble in his thighs, the twitch of his muscles trying to beg without words. His cock pulses in your grip, thick and hot and leaking against the inside of his briefs, aching to move.
But you wait.
You give him time to settle. Time to come back from the edge you dragged him to so cruelly. He breathes through his nose now, sharp and shaking, trying to focus on anything but your hand, your body, your voice.
Only when you feel his pulse steady, just enough, still needy, but not ready to tip over—you start to move your hand again.
Slow strokes at first. Barely there. Just your fingers gliding over the slick, sensitive head of his cock, coaxing more precum from the tip with every pass. You feel his thighs tighten beneath your touch, feel the twitch in his stomach as his breath stutters again.
He doesn’t moan yet. He’s trying not to. Trying to keep it in, to show some kind of control. But it’s useless. Not with you behind him. Not with your hand on him.
You stroke harder, your palm wrapping around the full length now, pulling him steadily. His cock throbs in your grip, flushed and soaked from the earlier denial, and already leaking again. You feel him swell even more, impossibly hard, so eager that every brush of your fingers has him twitching like he’s being shocked.
He breathes in through his teeth, sharp and hitched, hips jerking into your hand. You don’t stop him. You let him fuck your fist, sloppy and desperate, every thrust more frenzied than the last.
“Already?” you say against his ear, making sure the words travel. “I've only just started.”
He whines. A real, honest sound. Shame and hunger tangled together.
“You’re moaning again,” you say louder, for the room. “I thought I told you to act like you had some control.”
You stroke him harder, firmer now. His body shudders, helpless under your hand.
“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” Your voice cuts through the noise. “Putting on a show. Making those pathetic little noises just because I’m touching you. Like you’ve got no shame at all.”
His mouth opens. His eyes squeeze shut. You feel his cock jump in your hand.
“I—” he pants, voice ragged, wet at the edges, “I think I’m—”
His hips snap forward, breath caught. You feel him tense, every muscle locking down.
“Please,” he begs, head dropping. “Please, Mistress, I’m going to—”
You stop.
He chokes on a sob.
This one hits different. His knees give the slightest bend. His whole body curls in on itself, like he’s trying to disappear. A broken, wrecked sound falls from his lips. His cock kicks in the air, aching and useless, denied again, leaking and throbbing with no relief.
Tears spill now. Unchecked.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t plead.
Just breathes, shallow and frantic, trying to hold on.
You grip his shoulder, steadying him, then turn slightly toward the crowd, letting your gaze sweep the room. You don’t linger anywhere too long, but you feel the weight of his stare, sharp and burning, coming from the right side. You can’t look at him, not directly, but you can feel the hate building in his silence.
Only when his breathing evens out—just barely, just enough to function again—do you start to move your hand.
You stroke him slow. Cruel. He’s still so hard it must ache, the head flushed and leaking, the shaft slick and throbbing in your grip. You feel everything. The tension in his thighs, the way his muscles jump under your hand, the helpless twitch of his cock when you circle your thumb over the tip.
His whole body is strung tight like wire. It won’t take much now. You know that. But you’re not being merciful.
You work him just a little faster. Just a little tighter.
And he reacts instantly. The sound he makes is wrecked. Too loud. Too honest. A moan that cracks in his throat and dies on his lips. He’s past pretending now. Past playing the part. His hips twitch forward like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, like it’s the only way to survive what you’re doing to him.
“You’re not behaving very well, pet,” you say to no one in particular. You’re still behind him, body curved close but not touching, your voice steady like it’s nothing to you. Like this is just another night with a cock in your hand and a toy on display. “You’re making the same pathetic sounds you made the first time. And the second.”
Spencer’s breath catches, a full-body jerk shaking through him. He chokes on the next moan, trying to hold it back.
You don’t let him.
“You think holding back now is going to save you from what’s coming?”
You pump him harder. Faster. Your palm glides up the shaft and squeezes on the down stroke, giving just enough friction to make him crumble.
He gasps. Loud. Uncontrolled. “Mistress—please—I’m—”
“No,” you snap.
Your other hand leaves his hip and slides up his front. You don’t slow your stroke. You don’t give him a second to breathe. You drag your nails lightly up his stomach, over his ribs, across his nipples. You pinch one hard between two fingers and he sobs. Actually sobs. His body shakes in your grip, his cock twitching wildly like he’s right there again.
And he is.
“Please—please—Mistress—I can’t—”
He’s so close. You feel it. His thighs are trembling. His whole body locked up. His chest is heaving. His cock is pulsing so violently it’s a miracle he hasn’t come already. The heat under your palm is unbearable. And his face—
His eyes are glassy. His cheeks are flushed and damp. His mouth hangs open, working for air. He’s shaking with effort not to come without permission. And it’s killing him.
He doesn’t even notice the tears.
But you do.
And so does the unsub.
You see the movement, just barely, from the corner of your eye. Not enough to confirm. But enough.
Time to finish him off.
You turn your attention back to the man in your hands. Your toy.
You stroke him harder now. Faster. Relentless.
He cries out again, open and ruined. His thighs quiver. His hips jerk. His head drops forward like he’s trying to hide the tears but he can’t stop shaking.
“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” you sneer. “Being reduced to a trembling little mess in front of everyone. Crying like a needy whore because I won’t let you cum.”
You feel his body seize.
He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum without permission.
You stop instantly. Your hand drops from his cock and your other hand grips his shoulder, hard. Not to hurt—just to hold him still.
“No.”
He collapses forward with a noise like something torn out of him. His knees buckle just a little. He shudders, cock twitching wildly and leaking down his thigh. He was seconds away. Less. And you stopped him again.
He chokes on a sob. He can’t hide it now. His face is wet. His cock is painfully hard. His body is wrecked with denial. And the crowd sees all of it.
The unsub sees all of it.
And he’s livid.
His fists are clenched. His face is flushed red, the skin blotchy with rage. His jaw is locked tight and his shoulders are squared like he’s forcing himself not to move. Not to act.
You step in close again, not touching, just letting your presence hover like heat across his skin.
Spencer's body tightens, spine straightening as if pulled by a string. He’s trembling from head to toe, every inch of him flushed and open, his cock still hard and leaking against the inside of his briefs. The memory of your hand still lingers in his nerves. He’s straining for it again, barely breathing.
You let your fingertips ghost up his side, not quite touching. Let them hover near the waistband of his underwear, like you might finally slide your hand back inside. He gasps, body twitching, pressing helplessly toward the contact like he’s forgotten what it means to resist.
But you don’t touch him.
Instead, you smile—sharp and satisfied—and step back.
“No,” you say coolly. “Not tonight.”
His whole body jolts like you’ve slapped him.
“I was going to let you cum,” you continue, louder now, for the benefit of everyone listening. “But then you embarrassed me. Look at yourself. Leaking, shaking, falling apart over a little attention. You want to know what that earns you?”
His eyes flicker. His jaw trembles.
“Nothing,” you snap. “You don’t get to cum at all.”
The words hit him like a brick.
He stumbles, just a step, breath breaking in his chest. A soft, pained sound escapes him, something between a whimper and a sob. He shakes his head once, tiny, like he doesn’t believe you.
You take another step forward and lower your voice, still loud enough to carry.
“This is your punishment. You’ll stay hard for the rest of the night, aching and needy, with no one touching you. No one helping you. You’ll feel every second of it, and you’ll thank me for the chance to learn your place.”
He tries to answer, but the words catch. His lips part and nothing comes out. His eyes glisten now, wet and wide, his face a wreck of frustration and shame. His chest rises in shallow, rapid breaths, the fight to hold it together unravelling right in front of you.
You don’t soften.
You don’t reach for him.
You just stand tall, composed, cold, and turn your body slightly toward the crowd again. Not directly at the man on the right. But you don’t need to.
The unsub is nearly vibrating where he stands. Red in the face. Clenching his jaw so tight it looks painful. Every time Spencer flinches, every time you twist the knife of denial deeper, the unsub’s rage coils tighter and tighter.
You’ve got him. Now all that’s left is leading him out.
You glance down at Spencer, taking in the flushed skin, the unsteady rise of his chest, the way he hasn’t stopped trembling since you pulled your hand away.
“Get dressed.”
His breath catches, but he obeys. Still hard. Still leaking. He reaches for his jeans first, and the second the denim brushes against his cock, he shudders like he’s been slapped. It’s too much. The heat of his skin, the wetness pressed into cotton, the heavy drag of denim over something raw and desperate.
He fumbles with the waistband, struggling to button them, and when he finally gets the zipper up, it presses in cruelly, caging him in heat and friction. A soft, helpless whimper slips past his lips. He bites it back too late.
You say nothing.
He moves slower with his shirt, like even the air is too much. Each button seems to take concentration, fingers shaking so badly he misses one and has to start again. He gets it closed, but his collarbone stays flushed, his cheeks stained red.
He doesn't meet your eyes.
You step closer, reach for him, and hook your finger through the D-ring of his collar. The silver glints faintly under the lights.
You don’t say a word. Just give a slow, deliberate tug.
He follows. Oblivious to the crowd now. A mess of arousal and humiliation trailing behind you with his head bowed.
As you lead Spencer from the stage, the crowd shifts with interest, not surprise. A few approving nods. A soft chuckle from somewhere in the back. One woman murmurs, “Cruel thing,” with something like admiration in her voice. Another dominant leans toward his own submissive, tilting their chin to whisper, “That’s how you break them properly.” There's heat in their attention, not shock—just hungry satisfaction. The kind that says you gave them exactly what they came to see.
The foyer is quieter now, the crowd thinning just slightly, giving the illusion of calm after the scenes inside. You keep your expression smooth as you unhook your finger from Spencer’s collar and move to the coat check. They hand over your coats without question.
Spencer slides his on with stiff movements, the fabric dragging across skin still flushed and oversensitive. You see him wince, but he doesn’t complain. Just lowers his head slightly, letting the collar stay visible.
You step out the front door together, heels clicking softly on the smooth stone as you make your way down the steps and across the paved path. The air is cool, brushing your exposed skin like a shock. Spencer follows close, obedient and quiet.
You unlock the car. The interior light glows warmly as Spencer slides into the passenger seat. His eyes are still wide, lips slightly parted like he’s struggling to come back to himself. You lean down to tuck his coat properly around him.
“Stay here,” you whisper.
He nods without question.
You grab your phone from the console, slipping it into your palm as you shut the car door behind you. Spencer stays seated inside, still quiet, still wrecked, the collar peeking from beneath his shirt. You don’t look at him again. Not yet.
You walk toward the edge of the lot, far enough from the house lights to make yourself vulnerable but not so far that the team will lose visual.
You don’t dial. You don’t speak. You just walk like you’re waiting for someone to pick up. Like this is just a call, nothing more.
Then he grabs you.
A hand clamped around your arm, the other at your waist, pulling you back into the trees before you can even react. Your heel slips, shoulder colliding with bark, the phone tumbling from your fingers.
“I should slit your fucking throat.”
His breath is ragged, reeking of sweat and cigarettes. His eyes gleam in the dark, wide and rabid.
“You think you’re powerful? Walking around like that. Making him beg. Like it means something. Like you’re better than me.”
He slams you harder into the tree, bark biting into your back.
“You’re a disease. You’re fucking poison. Females like you ruin everything.”
You try to move, but he’s stronger than he looks. His forearm crushes your collarbone. A knee drives between your thighs, locking you in place.
“I’ve seen them. The men you break. I’ve seen what they become. Hollow. Obedient. Nothing. You take everything from them, and they thank you for it.”
He’s not looking at you anymore. Not really. He’s not here. He’s speaking to someone else, some woman from his past, some memory twisted by years of resentment.
His hand flies up. Something flashes.
“Had him whimpering like a little bitch. Thought that made you queen of the fucking world? I want to see you cry for me now.” he hisses.
The blade gleams cold and sharp in the dark.
“FBI! Drop the weapon!”
Voices crack through the night. Footsteps thunder.
The unsub turns but only for a second.
That’s all Morgan needs.
He tackles him to the ground, slamming him into the pavement with a grunt. The knife scatters across the lot. Prentiss kicks it away while Rossi drops to one knee, yanking the unsub’s arms back into cuffs as he writhes and screams.
“You fucking bitch! You did this to me! All of you—every goddamn one of you! I was fine before you!”
Morgan digs his knee into the unsub’s back, shoving his face into the pavement.
“You’re done talking,” he growls.
The unsub keeps thrashing, eyes wild, veins bulging with rage.
“You think this changes anything? There’s a million more like me. A million more who see what you really are.”
Hotch crouches beside you, hand on your arm.
“You alright?”
You nod. Just once.
Behind him, Spencer’s still in the car. Frozen. Watching you like he stopped breathing.
Hotch gives a curt nod as Prentiss and Morgan secure the scene, then turns to you with sharp, unreadable eyes.
"You and Reid can head out. We'll finish up here."
You straighten, still catching your breath. "Sir?"
"You've done your part. Go get some rest."
His tone leaves little room for argument. It isn't warmth exactly. It's protocol. Detachment. But it's the closest thing to care you'll get from Hotch in a moment like this.
You nod.
"Yes, sir."
He turns away without another word, already barking quiet instructions to the agents nearby. No one follows you as you make your way back to the car.
You open the driver's side door first, then move around to the passenger.
Spencer is still where you left him. Eyes wide and unfocused, hands slack in his lap. He doesn't speak. He just watches you.
You crouch slightly, one hand braced on the open door, the other on his knee.
"Spence," you murmur. "We're going now, okay?"
He blinks slowly, then gives a small nod. Like he's surfacing. Like he's still half inside something he hasn't quite shaken loose.
You help guide him just enough to shift so you can buckle him in, fingers gentle but quick. He leans into it, faint and pliant, but says nothing.
You circle back around, slide into the driver's seat, and start the car.
(Part 2)
@reidgif
Spencer Reid x Fem Reader
MDNI
Masterlist
CW: Smut, Undercover As Couple, Play Party, Sub Spencer, Collared Spencer, Dom Reader, BAU Reader, Impact Play, Suspension Play, Pet Play, Shibari, Orgasm Denial/Edging, Hand Job, Oral Sex, Vibrator, Catching an Unsub.
WC: 14,438
Reader and Spencer go undercover at a play party. Spencer takes to being a sub a little too well.
(Not Proof Read) (Part One of Two) (Part Two)
The hotel room is quiet but tense. Not tense like a briefing room or a takedown—tense like something coiled, waiting.
Spencer is standing near the window, arms crossed loosely, shoulders drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed with your phone screen still lit, the mansion’s invite-only guidelines pulled up for the fifth time.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Security’s going to be tight. They scan for electronics at the door. No comms. No cameras. No help unless we press the panic buttons..”
“Still don’t like this,” he mutters.
You glance up. “But you still volunteered.”
“I didn’t volunteer exactly. I said I was willing.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He makes a soft sound that could be a scoff, or a sigh. “You didn’t hesitate.”
You shrug. “Someone had to do it. And let’s be honest you're the obvious choice… Morgan in a collar? We’d lose the unsub in a heartbeat.”
That gets a short, surprised laugh out of him, and for a moment, the tension shifts.
“But that also means no one from the team’s going to see us like this.” Your voice was light, but there was an undercurrent there. Something just shy of a question.
He shifted his weight. “I’m… honestly relieved.”
Your smile flickered, quiet and genuine. “Me too.”
You set the phone down, letting the quiet settle. Spencer’s eyes are still on the window, but his fingers twitch against his bicep.
“You’ve never been to a play party before.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “No,” he says eventually. “Read about them. Studied them. The psychology, the community. But not in person.”
You nod slowly. “There’s not much difference between theory and practice. Except, you know… everything.”
He looks over at you, a little sheepish. “I just don’t want to look like I don’t belong.”
“You won’t.” You pause, then smile faintly. “And anyway, it’s not like anyone at the Bureau will ever know I’ve done this before.”
That startles him a little. “You have?”
You lift a brow. “You think I'm pulling all of this out of thin air?”
He flushes and looks down.
“I’m not broadcasting it,” you add, a little softer. “But it helps to know the rules when the place we’re walking into doesn’t have any posted on the wall.”
Spencer nods, still not quite meeting your eye. “That’s… kind of a relief, actually.”
You stand, walk over to where his small pile of neatly folded clothes sits on the dresser. “I know we don’t have much time, but let’s talk about what you’re wearing.”
He follows you with his eyes.
You pick up the black button-up. “This, obviously. Simple. Clean. It doesn’t scream anything. You can leave a couple buttons undone.”
He blinks. “How many is a couple?”
You tilt your head. “Four.”
He hesitates. “That’s… a lot of sternum.”
“You’ll survive. You should feel lucky that I’m not putting you in a harness.”
That earns you a quiet huff of air. Not quite a laugh, but close. He leans against the wall as you hold up the black jeans.
“These will work,” you nod. “Not tight, but they fit well. Comfortable, subtle. And if you have to take them off...”
His head jerks up slightly. “Wait—off?”
“Spencer,” you say, calm and steady. “It’s a possibility. If we’re going to stay in character. If someone pushes. You don’t have to let anyone touch you, and I won’t let it get anywhere near that far. But there’s a chance someone will expect a scene. Light restraint, service kneeling, maybe removing a shirt. Maybe pants. We have to blend in, or we’ll stand out.”
He swallows hard. “Okay.”
You meet his eyes. “You trust me?”
He nods. “Yeah. I do.”
You hold up the collar next. Simple, black leather with a silver D-ring. Clean stitching. Quiet elegance.
His gaze lingers on it. “That’s… not subtle.”
“No,” you agree. “But it tells the right story.”
You watch him stare at the collar.
Not glance. Not glance away. He stares, like he’s trying to work out what it means for him, what it will say to everyone else. What it already says between the two of you.
You let him have the silence. Let it stretch.
Spencer has always been good at dissecting symbolism. He knows what the collar represents. He knows what it marks him as. And right now, you can see the pieces moving behind his eyes, trying to figure out how to exist inside that symbol without falling apart.
He shifts his weight again, arms still crossed over his chest, but tighter now. Not protective, exactly. Contained. Like he's trying to keep something in.
You reach for the collar, letting the soft leather unwind in your hands. You’re not looking at him when you ask, “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to call me?”
That gets his attention.
His gaze flickers from the collar to your face, then away just as fast. A flush begins to rise under his collar.
“No,” he says, voice a little too fast. “I mean, yes. I’ve read… options. Common titles. But I didn’t know if you had something in mind.”
“I figured we should choose one that feels natural. Something you can say without stumbling.” You pause. “Too much.”
He exhales, clearly trying to collect himself. “Right.”
“Let’s rule out the obvious ones,” you offer gently. “Ma’am?”
His mouth twitches. “Too formal.”
“Miss?”
He shakes his head. “Too classroom.”
You let a little smile pull at the corner of your mouth. “Mistress?”
That one lands. You watch the word hit him like it has weight. He doesn’t recoil, but his breath hitches just slightly, and the blush spreads higher on his cheeks.
You give him a moment.
“Mistress is... fine,” he manages.
“Fine?”
“It’s good. I mean. It works.”
You tilt your head, enjoying the rare chance to watch him unravel. “You sure?”
He nods, still not looking directly at you. “It’s the most appropriate for the dynamic.”
You let the collar slip through your fingers until it rests flat in your palm. “Mistress it is, then.”
The flush on his face deepens. He doesn’t respond, but his hands curl slightly at his sides, like the word is still echoing inside him.
He looks like he wants to sink through the floor.
“And for you,” you continue smoothly, like you didn’t notice how red his ears are, “I need something I can say that sounds natural. Something that fits the space.”
He opens his mouth, then hesitates. “I don’t really… know what fits.”
“Let’s try a few.” You tilt your head. “Sweetheart?”
He blinks. “That’s very… tender.”
You nod. “Okay. Noted. Boy?”
His mouth tugs. “A bit on the nose.”
You hum. “I could just call you by your name.”
“You could.”
You smile faintly. “But it might be more fun to choose something else.”
He doesn’t disagree.
You let your gaze drop to the collar for a beat, then look back at him.
“What about Pet?”
Spencer goes still.
The blush creeps slowly from his neck up to his cheeks again. His mouth opens like he might protest, but then he closes it. And then, finally, he gives the smallest nod.
“Pet,” you say again, trying it out.
His throat works. He nods once more. “That’s… manageable.”
“You like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” you agree, watching him. “But you didn’t say no either.”
He exhales, soft and short. “It makes sense.”
“Pet, then.”
He nods. His hands are curled a little tighter now, and he won’t quite meet your eyes.
“Do you want to sit?” you ask softly.
He nods after a second, sits at the edge of the bed like it’s habit more than choice. You stay standing. Not looming over him. Just nearby. Steady.
“I can walk you through the rest of it,” you offer. “Before we get dressed and ready to go.”
His gaze flicks up. “Yeah. Please.”
You nod. “Once we’re inside, we’ll stick close. You’re my submissive, not a free agent. That means you don’t go anywhere alone. You don’t answer questions from anyone unless I nod first. And you don’t touch anything or anyone that isn’t me.”
He nods quickly. “Right. That’s one of the rules, right? Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.”
You give him a faint smile. “Exactly. And for tonight, that’s you. You belong to me.”
He feels those words sink into him like a stone in water.
You belong to me.
They shouldn’t affect him. Not like that. He’s heard lines like it in case files, read them in interviews, watched footage. They’re just part of the role, part of the world they’re stepping into. But something about the way you said it, steady and sure, no room for interpretation… it wedges itself under his skin and stays there.
His mind slips, just a little.
Not visibly. He keeps his face neutral, nods like he’s just processing. But inside, the shift is immediate and overwhelming. A scene playing out in full colour behind his eyes before he can stop it.
He imagines kneeling in front of you. Your hand in his hair, gently guiding him down, not harsh, not cruel—just commanding. Certain. Your voice low and warm when you tell him what a good boy he’s being. How proud you are of him for obeying. The approval in your tone curling under his skin and lodging in his chest like something vital.
He pictures your fingers under his chin, tilting his face up to meet your gaze. Your eyes heavy with authority, with knowledge, with that quiet, devastating focus only you have when you're in complete control. He imagines the collar around his neck, snug and unmissable. Your thumb brushing over the D-ring, anchoring him to you like it means something real.
Then he’s stripped down, hands behind his back, body exposed and offered. On display, not just to be seen, but to be claimed.
Not in front of strangers. Not for show.
For you.
Your mouth near his ear, breath warm against his skin as you tell him he's yours. That he doesn't have to think. That he doesn't have to speak unless you say so. That every part of him belongs to you tonight.
And maybe every night.
The thought lands hard in his chest. Too hard.
His breath catches. Not loud, but enough.
He shifts on the bed, uncrosses his legs, then crosses them again the other way. His palms press down against his thighs. His fingers twitch. He’s suddenly aware of the way his jeans fit. Of the subtle pressure building beneath the zipper.
No.
He clenches his jaw. Tries to breathe evenly.
You’ve just finished explaining the basic flow of the night when you notice it.
Spencer hasn’t said anything in a while, not since your last instruction. He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, posture tight. His hands are on his thighs, fingers rigid like he’s forcing them to stay still. His eyes are locked on the floor, and his breathing has gone shallow.
You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s spiralling.
Quietly, you set the shirt down on the dresser and turn toward him. You don’t walk over right away. You give him a second, then another.
“Spence,” you say gently. “What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look up. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are fixed on the carpet like if he moves, something might snap.
You take a step closer.
“Talk to me. You’ve been fine all day, and now you’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
His voice is hoarse. Immediate. Unconvincing.
You sit next to him on the bed, leaving space between you. Close enough to reach him if he needs it. Far enough not to crowd.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re not panicking. But something’s wrong.”
He shifts. Crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them like they’re too heavy. His whole body is wound up, too still in a way that feels brittle.
“I’m just thinking through the scenario,” he says.
You wait.
He glances at you, then away. The flush on his neck gives him away.
“I didn’t consider... until just now...” He stops. Swallows hard.
“Consider what?”
“That I might get an erection.”
The silence after it is immediate. Heavy.
He exhales like he’s just dropped something dangerous.
You don’t laugh. You don’t tease. You just nod once, slowly.
He stares ahead, not at you. “It’s not something I planned. It’s just… the environment. The psychology of it. Being surrounded by all of that.”
You nod again. “Arousal is a common response at these kinds of events.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that. I’ve read about it. I just didn’t think it would affect me. And now I’m realizing that it might. When we’re in there. When I’m in character.”
There’s shame in his voice, and tension in every inch of his posture. Like he’s waiting for you to recoil. To judge. Like the possibility alone is enough to undo everything you’ve built.
But you don’t flinch.
“It’s not something you need to apologise for,” you tell him. “You’re reacting to a high-stimulation environment. You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m...” He cuts himself off.
“I don’t,” you say before he can finish. “I don’t think anything bad about you. You’re being honest, and that helps me keep you safe.”
That startles him a little. His eyes flick to yours.
You offer the smallest smile.
“I’m the one bringing you in there,” you remind him. “You’re mine tonight. And it’s my job to know what’s going on with you.”
He nods, his throat tight, and looks away again. Still tense, but not frozen.
“Let’s keep going,” you say gently. “Only if you’re ready.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “I’m ready.”
But even as he says it, his hands are still trembling slightly against his legs.
You watch him for another moment, noting the tension still coiled beneath the surface but his breathing steadying.
“Before we move on,” you say gently, “do you have any more questions? About the dynamic, the rules, what to expect once we’re inside?”
He shakes his head slowly. Then hesitates.
You wait.
“I think I have the basics,” he says finally. “Stay with you. Don’t speak unless you prompt me. No touching anyone else. Consent is non-negotiable.”
You nod. “And if someone touches you without permission?”
“I let you handle it.”
“Good.” You pause. “Let’s talk through the profile again.”
You can tell his mind is working, already shifting back into case mode. The nervousness is still there, but now it’s more focused, more analytical.
You keep your voice even, clinical. “Three victims so far. All dominant women. Each one killed after attending private parties like this one.”
Spencer nods slowly. “No sexual assault, but all signs point to rage. Overkill. Personal.”
You sit back slightly. “The working theory is that these women are stand-ins.”
“For someone else in his life,” Spencer says.
“Right. Someone specific. Not a general hatred of women, but something... narrower.”
“Someone he knows. Or knew. A woman with authority over him.”
You nod once. “We think he’s submissive in his day-to-day life. Professionally. Personally. He’s used to being controlled.”
Spencer glances toward the collar still resting on the bed, then back at you. “So the party lets him be near that dynamic again. But on his terms. Where he can watch it. Choose his moment.”
“And target someone who reminds him of her. Whoever she is.”
You let that settle between you for a beat. It’s all theory. Probabilities. Patterns that might line up or might lead nowhere.
But the pattern of the victims makes something very clear.
“He’s not picking at random,” you say quietly. “So tonight, we need to pay attention to who’s watching.”
Spencer’s jaw tenses.
“Not just who’s active,” you clarify. “But who’s standing still. Who lingers. Who watches the women in charge too long, especially if they’re with a male submissive.”
He nods slowly. “He won’t be obvious.”
“No. He won’t risk it. But he’ll be there for a reason. And if we fit the image... we might be what draws him out.”
You don’t add that it’s why you were chosen. Why the two of you make the best bait.
You don’t have to.
Spencer’s already thinking it.
You reach for his shirt again, fingertips smoothing the folded edge. You keep your tone light as you ask, “You ready to get dressed?”
His gaze lingers on yours for a second longer.
Then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
You let out a slow breath and stand. The collar stays untouched on the bed, for now.
You step into the bathroom without a word, closing the door behind you. The light is harsh, clinical, but it doesn’t matter. You’re only in here to change, to breathe, to keep your balance.
The dress slides on like a second skin. Black PVC, glossy and tight, hugging every line of your body. It stops high on the thigh, the hem teasing more than it covers when you walk. The neckline dips deep, a plunging V that leaves your cleavage exposed and impossible to ignore. You smooth it down with steady hands, adjusting the straps where they cut in just slightly, then step into your heels. The extra height makes your legs look even longer, your stance more commanding.
You lean over the counter pull together a quick smoky eye. Nothing heavy, just enough to change the shape of your gaze. A swipe of bold lipstick follows. Something rich and red, deliberately striking. When you catch your own reflection in the mirror, there’s a flicker of recognition. It’s not exactly you. It’s the version you’ve built for tonight.
You open the bathroom door and step back into the room.
Spencer is already dressed. He’s seated at the edge of the bed, shirt clinging to him just right, black fabric soft and open enough at the collar to bare a stretch of skin you’ve never seen before. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The jeans mold to his frame, dark and neat and subtle until he shifts his weight and the way they stretch across his thighs makes your mouth go dry.
He looks up.
And freezes.
His eyes catch on the gleam of your dress. They flick down—slow, unwilling—and you feel it when they hit your legs. The short hem, the way the PVC hugs your hips, how your heels make your stride longer and more deliberate. Then higher, tracing the arch of your waist, the slick black curve of your breasts framed by the plunging neckline.
He doesn't speak.
His lips part, just slightly, but no sound follows. His throat bobs. His fingers flex faintly against his thighs, and for a beat, neither of you move.
The room is too warm all of a sudden.
You turn toward your coat just to stop yourself from staring outright, but you don’t make it two steps before you're glancing back over your shoulder. You catch him again, right in the act. Still looking. Trying not to, but failing.
He shifts like he’s trying to get comfortable. It only draws your attention again, down to where his legs are braced wide on the mattress. His jeans hug the shape of his thighs tightly, muscle drawn out and defined under the stretch of dark denim. You’ve never let yourself notice before, not like this. Not how thick his thighs are, how good they look under pressure, how easily your fingers could dig into them while you tease him with your tongue.
Your stomach twists with the thought. Heat ripples just under your skin.
And then your eyes lift, drawn to the open line of his shirt. His throat, pale and smooth, exposed and so fucking tempting. It’s unfair, how delicate he looks like this. Not fragile, but something softer. Skin that’s never been shown to you, on offer now without meaning to be.
You want to touch it.
You want to lean in close and bite.
You suck in a breath through your nose and look away, pulse thudding a little too loud in your ears.
Neither of you say a word.
But the air between you is thick with something you can’t name without giving yourself away. Something more than nerves. Something more than just the case.
Spencer stares down at the floor now like it's safer. Like if he looks at you again, he won't be able to stop himself.
And you’re not sure you would want him to.
You take the collar with you, slipping it into the inside pocket of your coat before either of you leave the room. Spencer doesn’t comment, and you don’t explain. It doesn’t need to be said. Once you’re inside the mansion, the collar will matter more than anything else.
The team is waiting in one of the smaller conference rooms on the main floor. Final briefing. One last chance to go over the profile, the plan, every moving part before you disappear behind the doors of the mansion.
Everyone’s calm. Focused. It feels like standard protocol, even if this is anything but.
JJ goes over the plan again, voice low and steady.
“Security is going to be heavy at the door,” she says. “No cameras, no phones, no means of communication. Once you’re in, we’ll be dark until you signal us.”
“They scan everyone on entry,” Rossi adds. “No last-minute surprises. Anything unexpected gets you turned away.”
“We’ll already be in place by the time you get there,” Morgan says. “Unmarked cars, perimeter covered. If you see the unsub, make sure he sees you too. Try to get him to come to you.”
You nod once. Spencer follows your lead. His silence isn’t nervous now—it’s focused. He listens, absorbs, thinks.
The others leave ten minutes before you, SUVs pulling out in pairs to loop the back roads and slip into position without drawing attention. You and Spencer take your own car. Nothing flashy. Something expensive enough to pass but common enough not to stand out.
The ride is silent.
He sits beside you with his hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes fixed ahead, jaw tight. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. It’s all already there in the quiet. What’s waiting. What’s expected. What could happen.
When the mansion appears ahead, glowing in soft light, you don’t say anything. You pull up and park without fanfare.
You sit for a beat.
He looks at you without speaking.
You reach into your coat and draw out the collar.
The silence turns heavier.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes drop to the leather. He watches as you unbuckle it slowly, letting the ends part in your hands. His breathing stays steady, but something flickers in his expression. Not fear. Not resistance.
Anticipation. Something deeper.
“May I?” you ask, turning toward him.
He looks at it, then up at you. His voice is quiet.
“Yes.”
You lean in.
He tips his head without needing to be asked.
The collar slides easily around his neck, snug but not tight. Your fingers are steady as you fasten the buckle at the back, then smooth the leather once it’s in place. The silver D-ring catches in the light. You let your thumb brush it, once.
Then you sit back and look at him.
His eyes lift to meet yours. Quiet. Composed.
Owned.
You take a breath. So does he.
And then you open your door.
Time to go in.
You step out into the warm night. Spencer follows close behind.
The paved walkway stretches ahead, lined with soft lights that guide your path to the wide front entrance. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look around, just walks a step behind you, steady and quiet.
The mansion doors are already open. Two guards in fitted black attire wait just inside the threshold, neutral expressions in place. One gestures you forward without a word.
You stop when instructed.
“Names?” the man asks, tone efficient.
You give them, calm and clear. He checks a list, glances back up, and gives a short nod. “Step to the wall, please.”
Another staff member approaches for the pat-down. They start with Spencer, quick and thorough but never rough. His shoulders stay relaxed. He doesn’t flinch. He watches you while they work.
Then it’s your turn. Their hands move across your coat, along your waist and hips, respectful and practiced. You let it happen without comment.
“Thank you,” the staff says once finished. “You may enter.”
Inside, a woman steps forward, hands clasped politely in front of her. “Coats?”
Spencer shrugs his off first. The collar around his throat is revealed fully now, the silver D-ring gleaming against the open neck of his black shirt. The woman’s gaze lingers for only a moment before she hangs it on a rack behind the entryway.
You remove your coat next. The glossy black PVC catches the warm light, pulling attention across the room. The hem of your dress barely brushes the top of your thighs. The neckline dips low and unapologetic. You don’t flinch under the glances. They’re not inappropriate, just curious.
You thank the woman softly and move forward.
The foyer is expansive and bright. Soft music plays under the low hum of conversation. Crystal light fixtures glint overhead, casting warm reflections across marble floors. The air smells faintly of perfume and polished wood.
People are everywhere.
Some are dressed in elegant suits or sleek evening wear. Others wear lingerie or leather or just enough to cover their genitals. Some submissives kneel beside their partners with quiet focus, hands resting on their thighs or clasped behind their backs. Others move freely, laughing softly, sipping from glasses, speaking with ease.
The atmosphere is vibrant. Relaxed. Like any high-end social gathering, except for the honesty of the power dynamics laid bare in posture and proximity.
You pause just inside the threshold. Let your eyes move slowly across the space.
No one stares at you, but several notice.
Spencer stays close behind your shoulder, his gaze sweeping lightly across the crowd. His expression doesn’t shift, but you can feel the tension in him. Not discomfort. Just awareness.
You let your fingers brush his hand once. A silent cue.
He falls into step beside you.
You pause near one of the wide columns, letting the crowd move naturally around you. The foyer remains a steady hum of conversation, the air warm with body heat and quiet anticipation. Movement is fluid, unhurried. Groups form and shift, the social rhythm calm but deliberate.
Spencer stops just behind your right shoulder, quiet and still.
You glance down at him. Then lower your voice.
“Kneel.”
He obeys immediately.
His movements are smooth, practiced even if they’ve never been put into action like this before. He sinks down onto one knee first, then both. His hands settle palm-up on his thighs. His eyes drop in submission. No hesitation. No visible strain.
It sends a quiet hum through your blood.
He doesn’t overplay it. He doesn’t perform. He just waits there at your feet, calm and composed.
You let your hand rest lightly on the back of his head. A casual gesture of ownership. Grounding for both of you.
Then you scan the room again.
You look past the doms chatting in pairs and the couples trading soft laughter. You look for men standing alone, watching too intently, hovering without fully engaging. It’s early still, too soon to draw conclusions, but it’s enough to start building a sense of who’s there to play and who’s there to linger.
A few eyes move in your direction.
Your outfit demands attention, but it’s Spencer who earns it.
A woman in a long red gown passes with a glass of something dark in her hand. She slows as she catches sight of him at your feet.
“Well trained,” she murmurs as she walks by. Her eyes flick up to yours, amused and approving. “And pretty. I like that.”
You smile faintly but don’t respond. Just run your fingers through Spencer’s curls once before letting your hand fall away.
Another pair stops near you. The woman holds a leash but doesn’t tug on it. Her submissive, a tall man in silk shorts, kneels at her side and eyes Spencer like he’s sizing him up.
“You’ve had him long?” she asks you.
“Long enough,” you answer.
Her smile widens. “Lucky girl.”
They move on.
Spencer doesn’t react. He stays perfectly still. His breathing is steady. His posture doesn’t waver.
He doesn’t need instruction.
He belongs to you. And tonight, everyone here can see it.
You let the moment settle before finally turning your head, casting one last glance around the foyer. You’ve studied the crowd long enough to know your unsub isn’t here. Not yet. If he’s inside, he’s deeper in the house.
Time to keep moving.
You give Spencer a small gesture and head toward the hallway. He follows silently.
The hallway feels quieter than the foyer, more concentrated. The air has weight here, charged not with tension but with intention. Every step seems to matter more. Every glance feels heavier.
You come to a stop in front of the first room.
A small chalkboard is mounted beside the doorframe. The words Shibari have been written in soft white chalk, the letters neat but slightly smudged at the corners like someone wrote it quickly, with practiced ease. A delicate white line is drawn beneath it, almost decorative.
Spencer doesn’t speak, but you feel the shift in his posture beside you. His eyes are on the board too, processing what it means.
You glance at him. He meets your gaze, gives a small nod. He’s ready.
You open the door.
The room is dimly lit, the lighting warm but focused, pulled downward by a few directed spotlights that leave the corners in shadow. A long wooden beam has been mounted horizontally across one wall. Thick ropes hang in orderly loops from hooks. A single scene is already in progress.
A woman stands with her back to the audience, bare skin wrapped in a precise pattern of jute rope. The knots run across her shoulders, down her spine, looping around her breasts and thighs, snug but not harsh. Her arms are pulled behind her, wrists bound and anchored just above the curve of her waist. Her breathing is slow. Measured. Trusting.
The rigger moves with a quiet confidence, checking tension, adjusting placement. His expression is focused, reverent. He doesn’t rush.
You feel Spencer shift beside you.
His breath catches, so softly no one else would hear it. Not shock. Not discomfort. Just the involuntary response of someone new to seeing this up close for the first time. A naked woman bound in something beautiful. A kind of vulnerability that isn’t helpless, only offered.
He straightens subtly, weight adjusted, jaw tightening just slightly. He schools his features quickly, folding himself back into the role. You don’t look at him, but you feel the effort it takes.
Your eyes return to the knots.
They’re clean. Balanced. Every strand symmetrical. The lines across her thighs support rather than constrict. The wraps around her chest curve like sculpture.
A few others linger along the perimeter of the room, standing or seated in quiet observation. You count them without seeming to. Most are male. The power balance is quiet, but present.
You stay for another moment. Then you shift your stance.
“Come.”
Spencer follows you out without a word.
The next door is just a few paces down. Another blackboard hangs beside it, the chalk clean and bold.
Impact Play
Underlined twice, a small symbol of a paddle drawn beside it.
You glance at Spencer. He doesn’t hesitate this time, just follows silently as you push the door open and step inside.
The room is warmer than the last. The lighting lower. Shadows curve along the walls. A wide desk sits at the centre, heavy and dark-stained, angled slightly toward the small crowd lining the back and side walls.
A woman is bent over its surface completely naked. Her elbow braced against the desk. Her legs are parted, feet braced. Her body shudders slightly with each strike, tension rolling through her spine.
The man behind her is fully clothed in black slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His posture is casual but controlled, one hand resting at the small of her back, the other raised and coming down in steady, measured slaps against her ass. The sound echoes off the walls in crisp, regular rhythm.
Each hit sends a ripple down her frame. Her breasts swing forward with the movement, caught in the low light, the curve of her body fully visible from where you stand.
Spencer’s weight shifts beside you.
You glance at him once, just enough to see the way his throat works as he swallows. His jaw is set. His eyes are fixed forward, deliberate. Focused. He’s in control, but it’s costing him more here than in the last room.
The man delivering the spanking pauses, then turns his head toward the gathered guests.
“Any requests?” he asks lightly. “We’ve got time.”
A few chuckles rise. Someone suggests a paddle. Another calls for a crop. The dom smiles faintly.
“Generous crowd tonight.” He looks down at the woman, hand drifting slowly across the red bloom of her skin. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”
She moans quietly, barely audible. Her thighs tremble.
The dom picks up a leather paddle from the desk. Tests the weight. Turns slightly, letting the audience see his angle before lining up for the next strike.
You glance through the room. All men along the walls. All watching. Some with subs leaning into them, some alone.
You scan each face.
Spencer stays quiet at your side, hands loosely clasped behind his back now, the image of obedience.
You place your hand gently on his lower back.
“Follow,” you murmur.
And you both turn to leave.
The third door comes into view, just around the slight curve in the hallway. The blackboard next to it is marked in tall, slanted strokes of white chalk.
Suspension Play
You pause for only a second, your eyes on the lettering, then glance toward Spencer. His gaze is already there. You nod once and open the door.
The space inside is taller than the others, the ceiling reinforced with black steel rigging bolted deep into the beams. Thick rope hangs from above in long, weighted strands, the ends tied into carefully positioned harnesses that hold the woman suspended a few feet off the ground.
She’s completely nude, strung up by the hips and thighs, chest angled downward, arms drawn behind her. Her knees are bent, feet off the floor. The ropework bites cleanly into her skin, supporting her full weight, keeping her tilted in a vulnerable, open curve. Her head hangs low, hair swinging freely as she moans, the sound sharp and unrestrained.
The man behind her, also nude, is steady, hands gripping the rope for leverage as he thrusts into her with slow, brutal control. He uses the suspension to deepen his movement, pulling on the ties to drive into her harder. Every thrust rocks her forward in the air, her moans loud and unfettered, echoing off the walls.
Spencer freezes beside you.
Just for a breath. A blink. The shift is barely perceptible. But you see it.
You scan quickly, letting your gaze move from one face to the next, just long enough to read body language, power dynamics, placement. There’s curiosity here, arousal, focus—but nothing sharp. No anger hiding under the surface.
You conclude quietly that this isn’t the scene you’re looking for.
Whatever you’re meant to find tonight, it won’t be here.
Your hand finds Spencer’s wrist for just a second.
“Come.”
And you slip out together into the hallway.
The chalkboard outside the next room is drawn in rounded, playful letters. White on black.
Pet Play
You glance at Spencer once. His face is unreadable, jaw tight, arms loose at his sides like he’s trying not to clench his fists. You reach for the handle and open the door.
The air inside is warmer. Softer lighting. Plush rugs underfoot, thick enough to muffle the sound of movement. It’s quieter than you expect for a room hosting live sex.
Until you hear it.
A whimper, high-pitched and needy, followed by the rhythmic slap of skin.
Two couples occupy the centre of the space, lit gently from overhead. The scene is already in progress.
The female sub is bent low, her hands and knees pressed into the rug. Her hips are high, back arched, thighs spread wide enough to display everything. A tail plug shifts between her cheeks with every jerk of her body. She’s panting, flushed, her moans broken up by soft little yips that sound almost practiced.
Mounted behind her is the male sub. Also on all fours. His movements are erratic at first, shallow thrusts, his breath loud and wet. His cock slides between her thighs in frantic, eager bursts, guided loosely by instinct. He’s making small noises too. Not words. Whines and groans, completely lost in it.
Their doms are standing just behind them, watching.
The woman is tall, striking in a fitted red corset, heels sharp enough to pierce. Her hand rests on the back of her sub’s head, keeping him in place as he humps into the woman beneath him.
“Good boy,” she croons sweetly. “Such a good little mutt. Fuck her just like that.”
Her fingers tighten slightly in his hair. “Get that knot in. Breed her.”
The woman moans louder. Her breasts sway beneath her with every impact. Her knees scrape forward slightly across the rug as the male sub fucks into her harder, burying himself to the hilt, balls slapping wetly against her skin.
She cries out, eyes squeezed shut, drool slipping from the corner of her mouth. Her dom strokes her hair lazily, like petting a well-behaved dog.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, mock-soothing. “Good girl. Be a good bitch and let him fill you up. You don’t need to think, do you? You just need cock.”
Spencer sways almost imperceptibly at your side.
His breath isn’t steady now. Not quite. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way his body pulls tighter. The way his shoulders lock. His hands twitch once, then flex open again at his sides.
You stay close, eyes drifting casually along the perimeter. Watching. Cataloguing.
You can feel Spencer next to you, holding it together. Barely. His eyes stay on the scene in front of him, and you can almost hear the questions churning behind his gaze.
You don’t say anything.
He shifts, just a fraction. His eyes flick to the doms. Then to their subs. Then back to the space between them.
He doesn’t understand why this scene is getting to him. Pet play had sounded absurd when he read about it. Ridiculous. The ears, the tail plugs, the crawling. He thought it would feel like theatre.
But here it’s raw. Degrading. Intimate.
And something about it pulls at him.
His hands twitch again at his sides. He presses his thighs together slightly, like his body is trying to regulate itself. His jaw flexes.
Shame creeps in slow.
He doesn’t want to react to this. He doesn’t want you to know he’s reacting.
You don’t look at him. You give him that privacy.
You make a mental note of each man watching the female dom. No one lingers too long. No one yet sets off the instinct to look twice.
The male sub begins to rut harder now, erratic and desperate, hands fisting in the rug for leverage. The dom above him strokes down his spine.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “Breed her for me. Be a good little mutt and fill her up.”
You scan the room one last time. No lingering stares. No unusual interest.
Then you touch Spencer’s arm gently, just a brush of your fingers.
He exhales like he’d been holding his breath.
You turn for the door, and he follows without a word.
The chalkboard outside the room is filled in with sharp, deliberate handwriting.
Orgasm Control & Denial
Couples welcome to join
You open the door and step inside.
The space is larger than the others. Dim, but not dark. A low platform runs the length of the far wall with a few wide, padded benches spaced evenly apart. One is occupied. The others are open, waiting.
The energy in the room is different from the others. Louder. Not with talking, but with sound. Heavy breathing. Guttural moans. Sharp, strangled cries. The kind that come from being edged too long, held just out of reach.
It isn’t a stage show. No one’s performing. But the people here are watching, and they’re enjoying it. Heat in their eyes. Fingers curling into partners’ thighs. Everyone’s tuned to the same frequency.
Beside the occupied bench, a man kneels naked. His cock is flushed and twitching, painfully hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. He’s trembling. His dom is standing just behind him, holding a slim vibrator lazily in one hand.
She drags it along his shaft, featherlight. Barely touching. Just enough to make his hips jerk forward against his will.
“Still holding out?” she murmurs. “You’re really starting to leak now.”
He chokes on a moan, breath stuttering. “Ma’am—please—”
“I didn’t ask you to speak.”
He goes silent instantly. His thighs are shaking. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back even though every inch of his body is screaming for relief.
“You’re dripping all over my bench,” she says coolly. “Do you know how pathetic you look? Kneeling there, humping the air like a dog. Have some control.”
His whimper is immediate. High, needy, involuntary.
“Tell me what you are,” she murmurs.
He closes his eyes. “A needy, disobedient little slut.”
“For?”
“For you, Ma’am.”
You don’t move from your position near the wall. Neither does Spencer.
But you feel him beside you. You feel the heat radiating off him. The restraint, the tension, the confusion.
He’s breathing harder now, even though he’s trying to be subtle. His hands twitch at his sides. He shifts his weight again, then stops himself, like any movement might draw attention.
His reaction is visceral. Immediate.
It hits him harder than any other room. The command, the denial, the humiliation being folded gently into control—it breaks something open inside him. You can see it. His throat working. His jaw locked. His eyes wide and too bright.
You glance down, only for a second.
He’s hard. Undeniably.
He doesn’t even try to adjust himself. He just clenches his fists at his sides and keeps watching, flushed and frozen, like he’s terrified of what it means.
He swallows hard. His jaw is tight. Like he’s ashamed of how badly he wants this, how much it's affecting him. But he can’t tear his gaze away.
You shift your focus to the rest of the room. More people have entered since you arrived. Some paired off. Some standing alone. All absorbed in the scene playing out.
You scan slowly. Deliberately.
Not everyone is looking at the sub. Some are watching the dom with awe, admiration, arousal. A few even look inspired. But one stands out.
A man standing rigid. Alone. Eyes locked on the dom. Not the sub. Only her.
His arms are crossed. His shoulders drawn high, mouth a tight line.
Every time she denies her submissive, his body tightens. Each word of degradation seems to land directly on his skin. His stare never wavers. His anger simmers just beneath the surface, unreleased.
You’ve seen men like this before. But never quite like this.
This isn’t discomfort. It isn’t confusion.
It’s loathing.
And he hasn’t looked away from her once.
The dom settles into a chair behind her sub, her movements smooth and deliberate.
“Turn around,” she says softly, tapping his shoulder.
The sub scrambles to obey. He moves between her thighs, eager and desperate. She doesn’t touch him. She simply leans back, one leg crossing over the other, fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair as his mouth presses to her, eyes closed like it takes everything in him to keep from grinding himself into the bench.
“You want to cum?” she asks.
He moans something into her skin. She lets him keep going, doesn't bother waiting for a real answer.
“Then earn it.”
You flick your gaze to the man at the edge of the room.
Still watching. Still locked onto the dom and no one else.
He’s not angry now, but he’s not indifferent either. His jaw isn’t clenched anymore, but his arms are still crossed tight. He’s not fighting the scene, but he isn’t enjoying it either. His stare hasn’t moved from the dom’s face.
He’s studying her. Measuring her.
And that’s a problem.
You glance at Spencer.
“I think that’s him.”
Spencer’s eyes shift subtly, following your gaze.
“He hasn’t looked at the sub once,” you add. “He’s obsessed with her.”
He nods slightly, still flushed. “So what do we do?”
You hesitate for half a second.
Then you turn to him, more certain than before. “We give him something new to focus on.”
His breath catches. “You mean… us.”
You meet his eyes. “If we get up there, it might be enough to shift him. If he starts watching me instead of her, if he follows us when we leave—”
“Then we have him,” Spencer finishes.
You nod once. “Exactly.”
He glances toward the platform, then back to you. He knows what it would mean. What it would look like. He’d be undressed. Vulnerable. Exposed in front of strangers, with your body over his, your hands on him, your voice in his ear.
It should scare him.
And it does.
But it also sparks something else.
Something he’s tried not to name for months now. That pull toward you. The way he thinks about your hands on him when he shouldn’t. The ache in his chest when you smile at someone else. The secret hope that maybe, just once, you’d really want him like that. Not for the job. Not for a case.
But because you wanted him.
This won’t be real. It can’t be. But it might be the closest he ever gets.
His voice is quiet.
“Yes.”
You meet his gaze.
And your stomach flips.
Because you want it too.
But you nod like it means nothing. Like it’s just strategy.
“Do you trust me?” you ask, quiet and deliberate.
His breath is shallow, but his answer doesn’t waver.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The words slide out of him without hesitation. Not preformative. Not forced. A declaration.
Your fingers slide into the D-ring of his collar, hooking there with quiet control. You turn without another word, tugging gently to guide him toward the platform.
The moment you hit the edge of the stage, you feel the subtle shift in energy. A few heads turn. A few glances flick in your direction. But most of the room is still caught in the ongoing scene. That’s fine. You don’t need the whole room.
You just need one man’s attention to turn.
You lead Spencer to the far side of the stage, placing yourself between him and the man standing just off to the right. Close enough for him to see every detail.
You keep your tone light, calm, authoritative.
“Take off your shirt.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Spencer’s fingers immediately rise to the buttons of his shirt. They fumble just once before he catches himself. The fabric parts slowly, revealing the line of his throat, the soft skin of his chest, the curve of his waist. He shrugs it off and folds it once in his hands.
Your gaze skims over him, clinical and cold. You don’t let your expression give anything away, even as your stomach tightens at the sight of him like this. Bare. Willing. Obedient.
“Now your pants.”
He hesitates for only a moment, then obeys. The button pops. The zipper slides. He steps out of the jeans, leaving only his black boxer briefs. You note the line of his thighs, the quiet tension in his stance. He doesn’t cover himself. He doesn’t look away.
You step close.
And begin your circle.
One hand lightly grazes his shoulder, then drifts down his spine, unhurried and firm. You walk slowly around him, gaze cool and assessing, fingers brushing down his arm, across his lower back, skimming the side of his thigh.
You stop at his front and drag your eyes down the length of him, lingering on his stomach, the curve of his hips, the outline of his cock through his underwear.
You click your tongue once.
“Hm. You’re not much to look at, are you?”
Your tone is unimpressed. Cool.
Spencer flinches just slightly. You tilt your head, studying him
He doesn’t speak.
You let your fingers trail just above the waistband of his briefs.
“I expected more,” you say softly, as if to yourself. “For someone so eager to be owned.”
Your fingers skim across his stomach. His breath catches. You ignore it.
"I’m not even sure what use you’ll be to me tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll make you kneel in front of the whole room just so they can see how eager you are to be used.”
You glance to the side. Not directly at the unsub. But you can feel the weight of his stare now, aimed at you. Not the other dom. Not her sub.
You.
Good. Let him watch. Let him stew in it.
You take one more slow lap around Spencer, trailing your fingers along his skin like you’re still deciding if he’s even worth keeping.
Then you step in close behind him, voice low but sharp.
"You don’t get to cum tonight unless I say so. And if you’re lucky, I might let you beg."
Your fingers skim lightly along the small of his back. Not tender. Intentional. A show.
"But for now, you stand there. Hard. Humiliated. And you take it."
His breath catches.
And to the side, you feel it. That stare. Heavy. Burning. Locked on you.
Exactly what you wanted.
You stop at Spencer’s side and let the silence stretch just long enough to press on him. His breathing is quiet but quick, just barely. You tilt your head.
“Hard already?” you murmur, just loud enough to carry. “I’ve barely even touched you.”
He doesn't respond. He knows better than to speak without permission.
You let your eyes travel downward, pausing where his cock presses thick and obvious against the front of his briefs. You don’t reach for him. Not yet. You just stare. Then slowly turn away with a small, unimpressed sound.
“Desperate,” you say coolly. “And untouched. That’s almost impressive.”
You step behind him and lean in close to his ear. “Is this what gets you going? Standing still, surrounded, humiliated?”
His breath stutters, but he keeps his body locked in place.
You move in front of him again. His gaze doesn’t move from the fixed point on the wall. His fists are clenched at his sides now, tight with effort.
You raise your voice, just a little. “I wonder what they’d all think if I picked someone else. Someone who could keep their cock soft unless told otherwise.”
That lands. His jaw tightens. His cheeks flush.
You don’t give him a moment to recover. Just let the words hang there while you slowly pace behind him again, heels sharp on the platform.
“Maybe I should ask for volunteers,” you say, smooth and loud enough for the room. “Find someone who actually knows how to behave.”
You don’t mean it. Not even a little. But the unsub doesn’t know that. And Spencer—Spencer’s shoulders twitch, almost imperceptibly.
You slow your step. Pause at his back.
Then lean in close again, low enough for only him.
“But that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it?”
A full shiver runs through him. You can see it travel down his spine.
You step around to face him again, standing just outside his reach. You tip your head slightly as your eyes drop back to the thick outline in his briefs.
“That’s what I thought,” you murmur, softer now. “So easy to control.”
You take another step forward. Just one. Close enough that he can feel the heat of your body. You watch the tension in his arms, the way his fingers flex against his thighs. He’s trying so hard not to react. Not to move. Not to give himself away.
But his body is already betraying him.
You tilt your head again.
“Say thank you.”
His throat bobs. He swallows.
“Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse.
You give him a long, cool look.
“That’s not how you address me.”
His eyes flick up for a second, then drop again.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
That earns him a quiet hum. Pleased. Like he’s passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.
You let the pause settle. Then reach up, very lightly, and brush your fingers along his jaw.
Not a caress.
An inspection.
You meet his eyes for only a second.
Then smile.
“Good,” you murmur. “You’re learning.”
You don’t look at the crowd. Not yet. You know they’re watching. You know he is watching.
You keep your focus on Spencer.
The tightness in his jaw. The heat rising in his neck. The flush that’s spread to the tips of his ears. He’s trying so hard to stay still. To hold onto the role. But it’s not a role for him anymore, not really.
You step in close again. The tips of your boots brush his toes. Your body lines up against his, just enough to let him feel the distance he’s not allowed to close.
You meet his eyes. They flicker up toward you, quick and questioning.
You hold his gaze, searching.
He gives you the smallest nod.
You reach between you, slow and unhurried, and let your palm drag along the front of his briefs.
He flinches like he’s been shocked.
Hard. He’s already so hard. The fabric is damp at the tip, tight and stretched across him, and your fingers are steady as you press in just slightly, enough to make his hips jerk before he reins it in.
A sound escapes him. Sharp, bitten off. Half a gasp.
You let your nails drag back across the same path, featherlight.
Then you glance up again.
He meets your eyes. His breath stutters but his nod is there, barely visible.
You move to his side and let your hand linger, fingers curving over the swell of him, thumb grazing the slick spot at the head through the fabric. His breath hitches again. His fists tighten. You feel the tension vibrating off him in waves.
“Look at you,” you say, louder now. “Shaking. Dripping. We haven’t even started yet.”
You step forward just enough for the crowd to see the outline of your hand on his cock.
“Surprised you're still standing,” you add, cool and unimpressed. “You’re so easy to manipulate it’s almost pathetic.”
He shudders.
You shift your focus outward now, scanning the faces for the unsub’s. Your fingers stay planted like a claim.
“Isn’t he precious? Can’t even stay dry from a few compliments. Maybe he is more pet than man.”
That draws a ripple through the room. Not laughter. Just quiet, approving heat. You know the unsub is watching now. You can feel it. A different kind of weight behind the attention. Fury.
You don't look at Spencer right away.
You face the crowd instead.
Your fingers stay on him, resting lightly over the thick shape of his cock where it’s stretched tight and twitching in his briefs. Just enough pressure to remind him it’s there. That you know it’s there. That everyone else does, too.
You lift your chin. Voice smooth. Calm. Cruel.
“Look at him.”
Some of the crowd shifts their attention fully toward you now. Others were already watching. Your tone makes sure of it.
“Can’t speak. Can’t move. So hard he’s throbbing just from the sound of my voice.”
Your hand slides up again, teasing a wet streak through the fabric.
“I haven’t even taken off his underwear. Haven’t touched his skin. And he’s leaking like a fucking faucet.”
You look back up at him, slow and dismissive. His cheeks are red now, his hair curling just slightly at his temples, damp with sweat. Still standing. Still trembling.
Still holding himself back.
You walk a half-circle around him again, letting your heels click across the wood of the platform. You know it draws attention. You know exactly where your unsub is now, tucked near the side, half in shadow, staring. Not with curiosity. With tension. Jaw tight. Arms folded. He’s listening to every word.
You speak louder.
“He’d let me do anything up here. Wouldn’t you, baby?”
Spencer lifts his eyes, just enough. His voice is a rasp.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The reaction in the crowd is audible. A ripple. Small, but noticeable.
You lean in close again, hand still pressed just under the waistband of his briefs, brushing just close enough to drive him wild.
“He’s not trained,” you tell them. “Not really. Not yet. But he’s obedient. And that’s what matters.”
You lift your eyes and find his.
The unsub.
Watching you with something more than anger now. Disgust. Revulsion.
You smile. Sweet. Sugar-laced venom.
“Don’t need to think. Don’t need to speak. Don’t need control. Just need to be used.”
You drag your nails along the back of Spencer’s neck lightly, then rest your hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move. You see the twitch in his thighs, the way his breathing stutters.
You raise your voice.
“Pathetic.”
There’s a shift from the corner. The unsub’s arms drop. His hands flex at his sides.
You glance at Spencer again.
He looks at you, just for a moment. A subtle nod. Eyes glassy but focused. He’s with you.
You turn back to the crowd.
“You see that?” you ask the room. “He doesn’t even beg. Not without permission. He knows his place.”
You turn slightly, making sure he sees it.
“Isn’t that right?”
Spencer answers, breathless but loud enough.
“Yes, Mistress.”
The words land like a strike.
The unsub’s jaw moves. His eyes narrow. Something flashes just beneath the surface.
And you smile.
Because you’ve found the wound. Now all that’s left is digging in.
You glance down at Spencer’s flushed face, then look back out to the crowd, voice smooth as silk.
“How many times do you think I can edge him before he begs?”
A murmur rolls through the room. Some laugh, some smirk, others lean in to see what you’ll do next.
Spencer stays frozen. Breathing heavy. Hard as ever in his briefs, straining for friction, desperate for your touch.
You palm him through the fabric.
He jolts.
Not a flinch. Not quite. Just a quick, involuntary shift of his hips like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
“Be a good boy,” you murmur, loud enough for the front row to hear, fingers wrapping around him with firm pressure through the cotton. “Work yourself up for me.”
His breath punches out of him like you’d knocked the air from his chest.
And then he moves.
Hesitantly at first, rocking his hips into your hand with cautious rhythm. But it doesn’t take long for caution to fall away. He grinds against your palm with slow, desperate rolls of his hips, each motion a little more frantic than the last.
You keep your eyes on him. On the way his face crumples with effort. How his mouth parts like he might moan, but clamps shut at the last second
You lean close but loudly declare. “That’s it. Let them see how pathetic you are.”
A visible flinch from the unsub.
You turn your head toward the crowd and raise your voice again. “He’s humping my hand like a bitch in heat, and I haven’t even properly touched his cock.”
Spencer’s hips stutter. You tighten your grip, just enough to keep him grounded, and you see his eyes flutter. He’s close. Already.
“How many strokes do you think it’ll take before he starts to beg?” you ask again, sweeping your gaze over the audience.
“Ten?” You tilt your head. “Five?”
You glance at him.
“Maybe three.”
You lean in. “You hear that, baby? They don’t think you can handle more than three.”
His breath comes faster. His eyes are glassy.
And then your smile sharpens.
“You poor, pathetic thing.”
The unsub shifts sharply, fists clenched, chest rising.
You let your hand fall away, denying Spencer the last inch he needs. He gasps, stumbling forward half a step before catching himself.
You speak louder. For the room. For the unsub.
“You can't even hump right without supervision.”
He stands there shaking, cock visibly twitching in his briefs, body taut like a wire stretched too tight.
You cup his cheek with mock gentleness. He doesn’t pull away.
He looks at you like he’d do anything you asked.
And that look does something to you.
Your nipples tighten under the PVC. A pulse beats low in your belly. Your panties are soaked, slick against your skin, and you haven’t even touched yourself. Haven’t been touched. All you’ve done is humiliate him. Control him. Speak to him like he’s nothing more than your toy to use and discard.
But this—this is different.
It’s him.
Spencer standing there, undone and obedient, shaking with need. Spencer letting you use him. Wanting you to. Craving it.
And none of it is pretend.
You drag your thumb slowly along his cheekbone, letting your gaze trail back to the unsub. He’s still watching. Tense. Coiled. Like he’s waiting for a reason to explode.
You glance back at Spencer. His chest is rising fast. His fists are clenched, still trembling from the edge you’ve walked him to and left him on.
The ache between your thighs deepens.
You step closer again, close enough that he could feel the heat of you if he weren’t already lost in his own. Your hand settles over the bulge in his briefs once more, gentle but firm.
“Again,” you say softly, but the word cuts through the room.
He whimpers. Just once. Barely.
Then obeys.
Rocking forward into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath coming ragged, hips jerking faster with every pass. He’s already there, right on the edge, straining toward it with everything he has.
You press your palm harder against him. Just enough. Almost enough.
And then you pull away.
His knees nearly buckle.
“Pathetic,” you murmur. Your voice is still clear. Still level. But your heart is racing. Your skin hot under the PVC. You can feel your own slick coating the inside of your thighs, and you don’t even care. You want him ruined. Shaking. Crying from the ache of it.
And he is.
You just haven’t let him show it yet.
Not until the unsub is watching close enough to burn.
You press in close behind Spencer, your body aligned to his, and let your hands drift again over his bare chest. He’s warm and tense beneath your palms, holding himself still like it’s taking everything not to move.
Your fingers skim down, tracing the shape of his ribs, then lower. You don’t rush. You explore. Touching him like you’re deciding whether or not he’s earned what’s coming.
You thumb one of his nipples, slow and purposeful.
He twitches.
You do it again.
He sucks in a breath and stiffens, but doesn’t speak. He knows better.
Your hands move down again. Over his abdomen, fingers trailing just above the waistband of his briefs. You hook your fingers there. Let the moment build.
He leans forward ever so slightly, as if his body’s already trying to follow your touch.
And then you pull your hand away.
His whole body tenses.
You shift around to his side, still close, still touching. Your nails drag lightly along the path they just traced, up across his stomach, back to his chest. You do it again, slower this time, until he shivers.
His cock is hard, straining against his briefs, and he’s fighting not to thrust.
Your hand returns to his chest, tracing down once more. This time, your fingers linger. Slipping just under the waistband. Your knuckles brush the base of his cock.
He jerks, ever so slightly.
You slide your hand deeper.
Your fingers wrap around him, warm and steady, your palm pressed flat against the heavy weight of his cock.
Spencer's whole body tightens at the contact, his hips giving a shallow jerk forward before he locks them in place again. His breath breaks apart, quiet and shaky, and you don’t stop him this time. You stroke him once, slow and deliberate, and feel how hard he is. How sensitive.
How completely undone he already is.
You start to move your hand.
Measured, controlled strokes.
His body leans into it almost immediately, the rhythm drawing out a soft sound from his throat that he doesn’t quite manage to bite back. The moment stretches between you, charged and hot, humming with something reckless.
You know you shouldn’t want this as much as you do. But you do.
The way he reacts to your touch. The effort he’s putting into staying still for you. The sound of his breath catching every time your fingers tighten at the base. It all sinks under your skin and curls deep.
He thrusts into your hand now, small restrained movements, desperate for friction. You stroke him again, slower this time, forcing him to work for it. Your own breath catches just slightly. You’re wet. You’ve been wet since the beginning of this, but now you can feel it. The heat between your thighs growing, the tight ache of your nipples under the PVC, the pulse of arousal making it harder to play it like it’s only for the mission.
You lean in close to his ear, voice firm, a little breathless.
“When you're close, I want you to tell me.”
He shivers at your tone. Nods.
“Yes, Mistress.”
You hum, pleased, and stroke him again.
You can feel him responding to your voice as much as your hand. Every quiet command, every teasing word is soaking into him, driving him further. The tension in his body is mounting fast, his thighs tightening, his hips twitching against your palm.
You keep going. Drawing it out. Keeping him just shy of where he wants to be.
Both of you are trembling with it now. The line between performance and desire vanishing beneath your hands.
He’s panting now.
Soft, open-mouthed, desperate. His hips are moving without thought, thrusting into your fist in tight, restrained pulses. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut, trembling. His thighs, his abdomen, even the way his shoulders pull back against you like he’s bracing for something he knows is coming.
Your hand moves in steady strokes, twisting just enough at the tip to keep him right where you want him. You can feel how close he is. The tension vibrating through him, the involuntary twitches, the heat building faster than he can manage.
His voice is ragged. “Close. Please. So close.”
You stroke him a little faster. Just enough.
His breath breaks. “I’m going to—”
You let go.
Just like that.
He gasps, broken and wrecked, his whole body jolting forward as if the release was ripped out of him—but nothing comes. Nothing happens. He stands there, hard and aching, twitching in the open air, still leaking from the tip.
A sound punches out of him. Not loud. Not even fully voiced. Just air. Frustrated, devastated air.
His hips jerk again, empty. Needing something. Needing you.
You don’t move.
You let him stay there, suspended in the aftermath. His chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths, his cock flushed and dripping, denied. His muscles twitch again, as if his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm didn’t come. As if it’s still expecting release.
You circle around to face him again, keeping just enough distance that he can’t reach for you, even if he tried. Not that he would. He’s still too well-behaved for that. Too wrecked.
“Did I say you could cum?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head, sharp and shameful, eyes blinking too fast.
“Use your words.”
“No, Mistress,” he chokes out.
“Then why did you get so close?” You cock your head. “You were humping into my hand like some desperate little thing. Did you forget who you belong to?”
He closes his eyes like it hurts. “No, Mistress.”
“No,” you echo, letting the silence press down between you before leaning in slightly. “I think you did.”
You slide your fingers along his inner thigh, slow and deliberate. His hips twitch again, involuntary and so eager it borders on pathetic.
He stiffens the moment your fingers graze his cock again, breath catching hard in his throat.
But you’re not here to give him relief. Not yet.
Your hand moves lower, wrapping tight around the base of his cock. Firm. Controlling. He jerks forward instinctively, a strangled sound breaking in his chest, but you tighten your grip.
“No,” you murmur, just above his ear. “Not yet.”
He goes still.
You hand stays pressed at the base, holding him tight, denying the rush of pressure building in him. You can feel the tremble in his thighs, the twitch of his muscles trying to beg without words. His cock pulses in your grip, thick and hot and leaking against the inside of his briefs, aching to move.
But you wait.
You give him time to settle. Time to come back from the edge you dragged him to so cruelly. He breathes through his nose now, sharp and shaking, trying to focus on anything but your hand, your body, your voice.
Only when you feel his pulse steady, just enough, still needy, but not ready to tip over—you start to move your hand again.
Slow strokes at first. Barely there. Just your fingers gliding over the slick, sensitive head of his cock, coaxing more precum from the tip with every pass. You feel his thighs tighten beneath your touch, feel the twitch in his stomach as his breath stutters again.
He doesn’t moan yet. He’s trying not to. Trying to keep it in, to show some kind of control. But it’s useless. Not with you behind him. Not with your hand on him.
You stroke harder, your palm wrapping around the full length now, pulling him steadily. His cock throbs in your grip, flushed and soaked from the earlier denial, and already leaking again. You feel him swell even more, impossibly hard, so eager that every brush of your fingers has him twitching like he’s being shocked.
He breathes in through his teeth, sharp and hitched, hips jerking into your hand. You don’t stop him. You let him fuck your fist, sloppy and desperate, every thrust more frenzied than the last.
“Already?” you say against his ear, making sure the words travel. “I've only just started.”
He whines. A real, honest sound. Shame and hunger tangled together.
“You’re moaning again,” you say louder, for the room. “I thought I told you to act like you had some control.”
You stroke him harder, firmer now. His body shudders, helpless under your hand.
“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” Your voice cuts through the noise. “Putting on a show. Making those pathetic little noises just because I’m touching you. Like you’ve got no shame at all.”
His mouth opens. His eyes squeeze shut. You feel his cock jump in your hand.
“I—” he pants, voice ragged, wet at the edges, “I think I’m—”
His hips snap forward, breath caught. You feel him tense, every muscle locking down.
“Please,” he begs, head dropping. “Please, Mistress, I’m going to—”
You stop.
He chokes on a sob.
This one hits different. His knees give the slightest bend. His whole body curls in on itself, like he’s trying to disappear. A broken, wrecked sound falls from his lips. His cock kicks in the air, aching and useless, denied again, leaking and throbbing with no relief.
Tears spill now. Unchecked.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t plead.
Just breathes, shallow and frantic, trying to hold on.
You grip his shoulder, steadying him, then turn slightly toward the crowd, letting your gaze sweep the room. You don’t linger anywhere too long, but you feel the weight of his stare, sharp and burning, coming from the right side. You can’t look at him, not directly, but you can feel the hate building in his silence.
Only when his breathing evens out—just barely, just enough to function again—do you start to move your hand.
You stroke him slow. Cruel. He’s still so hard it must ache, the head flushed and leaking, the shaft slick and throbbing in your grip. You feel everything. The tension in his thighs, the way his muscles jump under your hand, the helpless twitch of his cock when you circle your thumb over the tip.
His whole body is strung tight like wire. It won’t take much now. You know that. But you’re not being merciful.
You work him just a little faster. Just a little tighter.
And he reacts instantly. The sound he makes is wrecked. Too loud. Too honest. A moan that cracks in his throat and dies on his lips. He’s past pretending now. Past playing the part. His hips twitch forward like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, like it’s the only way to survive what you’re doing to him.
“You’re not behaving very well, pet,” you say to no one in particular. You’re still behind him, body curved close but not touching, your voice steady like it’s nothing to you. Like this is just another night with a cock in your hand and a toy on display. “You’re making the same pathetic sounds you made the first time. And the second.”
Spencer’s breath catches, a full-body jerk shaking through him. He chokes on the next moan, trying to hold it back.
You don’t let him.
“You think holding back now is going to save you from what’s coming?”
You pump him harder. Faster. Your palm glides up the shaft and squeezes on the down stroke, giving just enough friction to make him crumble.
He gasps. Loud. Uncontrolled. “Mistress—please—I’m—”
“No,” you snap.
Your other hand leaves his hip and slides up his front. You don’t slow your stroke. You don’t give him a second to breathe. You drag your nails lightly up his stomach, over his ribs, across his nipples. You pinch one hard between two fingers and he sobs. Actually sobs. His body shakes in your grip, his cock twitching wildly like he’s right there again.
And he is.
“Please—please—Mistress—I can’t—”
He’s so close. You feel it. His thighs are trembling. His whole body locked up. His chest is heaving. His cock is pulsing so violently it’s a miracle he hasn’t come already. The heat under your palm is unbearable. And his face—
His eyes are glassy. His cheeks are flushed and damp. His mouth hangs open, working for air. He’s shaking with effort not to come without permission. And it’s killing him.
He doesn’t even notice the tears.
But you do.
And so does the unsub.
You see the movement, just barely, from the corner of your eye. Not enough to confirm. But enough.
Time to finish him off.
You turn your attention back to the man in your hands. Your toy.
You stroke him harder now. Faster. Relentless.
He cries out again, open and ruined. His thighs quiver. His hips jerk. His head drops forward like he’s trying to hide the tears but he can’t stop shaking.
“Oh, you like this, don’t you?” you sneer. “Being reduced to a trembling little mess in front of everyone. Crying like a needy whore because I won’t let you cum.”
You feel his body seize.
He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum without permission.
You stop instantly. Your hand drops from his cock and your other hand grips his shoulder, hard. Not to hurt—just to hold him still.
“No.”
He collapses forward with a noise like something torn out of him. His knees buckle just a little. He shudders, cock twitching wildly and leaking down his thigh. He was seconds away. Less. And you stopped him again.
He chokes on a sob. He can’t hide it now. His face is wet. His cock is painfully hard. His body is wrecked with denial. And the crowd sees all of it.
The unsub sees all of it.
And he’s livid.
His fists are clenched. His face is flushed red, the skin blotchy with rage. His jaw is locked tight and his shoulders are squared like he’s forcing himself not to move. Not to act.
You step in close again, not touching, just letting your presence hover like heat across his skin.
Spencer's body tightens, spine straightening as if pulled by a string. He’s trembling from head to toe, every inch of him flushed and open, his cock still hard and leaking against the inside of his briefs. The memory of your hand still lingers in his nerves. He’s straining for it again, barely breathing.
You let your fingertips ghost up his side, not quite touching. Let them hover near the waistband of his underwear, like you might finally slide your hand back inside. He gasps, body twitching, pressing helplessly toward the contact like he’s forgotten what it means to resist.
But you don’t touch him.
Instead, you smile—sharp and satisfied—and step back.
“No,” you say coolly. “Not tonight.”
His whole body jolts like you’ve slapped him.
“I was going to let you cum,” you continue, louder now, for the benefit of everyone listening. “But then you embarrassed me. Look at yourself. Leaking, shaking, falling apart over a little attention. You want to know what that earns you?”
His eyes flicker. His jaw trembles.
“Nothing,” you snap. “You don’t get to cum at all.”
The words hit him like a brick.
He stumbles, just a step, breath breaking in his chest. A soft, pained sound escapes him, something between a whimper and a sob. He shakes his head once, tiny, like he doesn’t believe you.
You take another step forward and lower your voice, still loud enough to carry.
“This is your punishment. You’ll stay hard for the rest of the night, aching and needy, with no one touching you. No one helping you. You’ll feel every second of it, and you’ll thank me for the chance to learn your place.”
He tries to answer, but the words catch. His lips part and nothing comes out. His eyes glisten now, wet and wide, his face a wreck of frustration and shame. His chest rises in shallow, rapid breaths, the fight to hold it together unravelling right in front of you.
You don’t soften.
You don’t reach for him.
You just stand tall, composed, cold, and turn your body slightly toward the crowd again. Not directly at the man on the right. But you don’t need to.
The unsub is nearly vibrating where he stands. Red in the face. Clenching his jaw so tight it looks painful. Every time Spencer flinches, every time you twist the knife of denial deeper, the unsub’s rage coils tighter and tighter.
You’ve got him. Now all that’s left is leading him out.
You glance down at Spencer, taking in the flushed skin, the unsteady rise of his chest, the way he hasn’t stopped trembling since you pulled your hand away.
“Get dressed.”
His breath catches, but he obeys. Still hard. Still leaking. He reaches for his jeans first, and the second the denim brushes against his cock, he shudders like he’s been slapped. It’s too much. The heat of his skin, the wetness pressed into cotton, the heavy drag of denim over something raw and desperate.
He fumbles with the waistband, struggling to button them, and when he finally gets the zipper up, it presses in cruelly, caging him in heat and friction. A soft, helpless whimper slips past his lips. He bites it back too late.
You say nothing.
He moves slower with his shirt, like even the air is too much. Each button seems to take concentration, fingers shaking so badly he misses one and has to start again. He gets it closed, but his collarbone stays flushed, his cheeks stained red.
He doesn't meet your eyes.
You step closer, reach for him, and hook your finger through the D-ring of his collar. The silver glints faintly under the lights.
You don’t say a word. Just give a slow, deliberate tug.
He follows. Oblivious to the crowd now. A mess of arousal and humiliation trailing behind you with his head bowed.
As you lead Spencer from the stage, the crowd shifts with interest, not surprise. A few approving nods. A soft chuckle from somewhere in the back. One woman murmurs, “Cruel thing,” with something like admiration in her voice. Another dominant leans toward his own submissive, tilting their chin to whisper, “That’s how you break them properly.” There's heat in their attention, not shock—just hungry satisfaction. The kind that says you gave them exactly what they came to see.
The foyer is quieter now, the crowd thinning just slightly, giving the illusion of calm after the scenes inside. You keep your expression smooth as you unhook your finger from Spencer’s collar and move to the coat check. They hand over your coats without question.
Spencer slides his on with stiff movements, the fabric dragging across skin still flushed and oversensitive. You see him wince, but he doesn’t complain. Just lowers his head slightly, letting the collar stay visible.
You step out the front door together, heels clicking softly on the smooth stone as you make your way down the steps and across the paved path. The air is cool, brushing your exposed skin like a shock. Spencer follows close, obedient and quiet.
You unlock the car. The interior light glows warmly as Spencer slides into the passenger seat. His eyes are still wide, lips slightly parted like he’s struggling to come back to himself. You lean down to tuck his coat properly around him.
“Stay here,” you whisper.
He nods without question.
You grab your phone from the console, slipping it into your palm as you shut the car door behind you. Spencer stays seated inside, still quiet, still wrecked, the collar peeking from beneath his shirt. You don’t look at him again. Not yet.
You walk toward the edge of the lot, far enough from the house lights to make yourself vulnerable but not so far that the team will lose visual.
You don’t dial. You don’t speak. You just walk like you’re waiting for someone to pick up. Like this is just a call, nothing more.
Then he grabs you.
A hand clamped around your arm, the other at your waist, pulling you back into the trees before you can even react. Your heel slips, shoulder colliding with bark, the phone tumbling from your fingers.
“I should slit your fucking throat.”
His breath is ragged, reeking of sweat and cigarettes. His eyes gleam in the dark, wide and rabid.
“You think you’re powerful? Walking around like that. Making him beg. Like it means something. Like you’re better than me.”
He slams you harder into the tree, bark biting into your back.
“You’re a disease. You’re fucking poison. Females like you ruin everything.”
You try to move, but he’s stronger than he looks. His forearm crushes your collarbone. A knee drives between your thighs, locking you in place.
“I’ve seen them. The men you break. I’ve seen what they become. Hollow. Obedient. Nothing. You take everything from them, and they thank you for it.”
He’s not looking at you anymore. Not really. He’s not here. He’s speaking to someone else, some woman from his past, some memory twisted by years of resentment.
His hand flies up. Something flashes.
“Had him whimpering like a little bitch. Thought that made you queen of the fucking world? I want to see you cry for me now.” he hisses.
The blade gleams cold and sharp in the dark.
“FBI! Drop the weapon!”
Voices crack through the night. Footsteps thunder.
The unsub turns but only for a second.
That’s all Morgan needs.
He tackles him to the ground, slamming him into the pavement with a grunt. The knife scatters across the lot. Prentiss kicks it away while Rossi drops to one knee, yanking the unsub’s arms back into cuffs as he writhes and screams.
“You fucking bitch! You did this to me! All of you—every goddamn one of you! I was fine before you!”
Morgan digs his knee into the unsub’s back, shoving his face into the pavement.
“You’re done talking,” he growls.
The unsub keeps thrashing, eyes wild, veins bulging with rage.
“You think this changes anything? There’s a million more like me. A million more who see what you really are.”
Hotch crouches beside you, hand on your arm.
“You alright?”
You nod. Just once.
Behind him, Spencer’s still in the car. Frozen. Watching you like he stopped breathing.
Hotch gives a curt nod as Prentiss and Morgan secure the scene, then turns to you with sharp, unreadable eyes.
"You and Reid can head out. We'll finish up here."
You straighten, still catching your breath. "Sir?"
"You've done your part. Go get some rest."
His tone leaves little room for argument. It isn't warmth exactly. It's protocol. Detachment. But it's the closest thing to care you'll get from Hotch in a moment like this.
You nod.
"Yes, sir."
He turns away without another word, already barking quiet instructions to the agents nearby. No one follows you as you make your way back to the car.
You open the driver's side door first, then move around to the passenger.
Spencer is still where you left him. Eyes wide and unfocused, hands slack in his lap. He doesn't speak. He just watches you.
You crouch slightly, one hand braced on the open door, the other on his knee.
"Spence," you murmur. "We're going now, okay?"
He blinks slowly, then gives a small nod. Like he's surfacing. Like he's still half inside something he hasn't quite shaken loose.
You help guide him just enough to shift so you can buckle him in, fingers gentle but quick. He leans into it, faint and pliant, but says nothing.
You circle back around, slide into the driver's seat, and start the car.
(Part 2)
Apperently we really do because I have at LEAST more 4 requests of this lol. So I might do a continuation to supress the demand.
Anyway, here it is! I am sorry that it's taking me 5 to 7 business days to posts the requests.
Obs: this was harder than I thought it would be and I probly should read more of dom!reader so if you guys have any recomendations I'll be forever grateful lol. Also, I didn't got a beta for this.
Sumary: Even the charming Dr. Wilson isn’t immune when someone else holds the reins.
Word count: 5.120 -way too many, lol
Read at AO3 | Masterlist | Masterpost
Wilson is calm and collected. Some might even say meticulous. He thinks before he acts, about everything: his job, his patients, his life… and his lovers. Rumors travel fast at Princeton-Plainsboro, and though he’s discreet, those caught in his web can’t help but brag afterward.
So, yes. James Wilson has become a subject of fascination, even curiosity, among the girls, the gays, and the theys.
“Sex with him is an out-of-body experience,” one lucky woman once claimed. “No one tries harder to please a woman than James Wilson.”
And then she’d describe how he’d pin her to the bed and become an inexplicable, feral thing.
Listening to those stories, a quiet spectator couldn’t help but laugh to herself. Excuse me, what? That’s literally the most submissive behavior possible. Anyone that looked at him could see, it was transparent: he was competent, nice, polite and, honestly, could be called a good boy.
Poor oncologist. Trapped in the role of the perfect dominant, when all she could see was a man who needed to let go. And she’d be more than happy to give him that release, should the opportunity ever arise.
So, the moment she caught him sneaking those quick glances in her direction, she smiled to herself.
Alright. Game on.
🌡️
She could feel his eyes burning into the back of her neck. Okay, technically, she could see him through the reflection on the glass door in front of her. But she didn’t need confirmation to know he was staring.
The low-rise skinny jeans she’d chosen carefully that morning hugged her legs way too well for him not to notice. Especially with the heels giving her that little extra “up.”
She let him look. After all, it wouldn’t last long. Once she put on her white coat, James Wilson would have only his memory and imagination to rely on.
Still, she wanted to make him squirm.
She turned around, meeting the oncologist’s gaze head-on, catching him in the act. The reaction was instant: a flush creeping up his neck, cheeks reddening, those big brown puppy eyes widening in surprise and guilt.
Adorable.
The corner of her mouth curved upward. She didn’t bother to hide it. Let him know he’d been caught. “Is everything alright, my dear?”
Wilson blinked, startled. Baffled, even. Then he cleared his throat, doing his best to recover his composure. “Yes,” he managed, polite as ever. “I beg your pardon. I just… needed to say, you look very beautiful today.”
Then came that smile, the prince-charming one.
Damn, he was good.
She lowered her gaze just enough, smiling with feigned modesty, hoping he’d take the bait and not notice how deliberate it was. “You’re being sweet,” she murmured.
James Wilson loved a damsel in distress. The best way to accomplish what she wanted was to make him feel in his comfort zone for now.
And that little gesture was all the encouragement he needed to puff up, confidence returning with a breath. “No, truly…” Wilson bit his lip, looking at his sides before taking another step towards her. “I… Would you… go out with me?”
Ding, ding, ding! Cassino bells rang inside her head. That was just too easy.
She lifted her gaze, locking eyes with him. The smirk on her lips a perfect mirror of his. She dropped her voice a few tones, deliberately sensual. “Like a date?”
Once again, he flushed, but there was amusement in the way he nodded. “Yes. I mean… if you want to, of course.”
“I do.”
Her hand rose to straighten his tie - not that it needed fixing. The man was always immaculate. Wilson was the type who pressed his shirts, polished his shoes, and chewed the same brand of gum every day to maintain that respectable image.
But she needed to touch him, to start claiming the ground she wanted.
He glanced down at her hand resting on his chest and swallowed hard. “So… Saturday works for you?” he asked, voice a touch unsteady.
“It does. How about seven p.m.?”
He smiled, relieved, and that tiny flicker of boyish joy made her chest tighten just a little. Dangerous.
“Good,” he said softly, still standing closer than necessary. “Then it’s a date.”
“It’s a date,” she echoed, letting her fingers drag lightly down the front of his tie before stepping back.
She left him there, flushed, blinking, trying to remember how to breathe.
🌡️
The next days at Princeton-Plainsboro were mercilessly slow. Every time she crossed paths with Wilson in the hallway, the cafeteria or outside an exam room, he straightened up like a schoolboy caught daydreaming. His tie seemed tighter. His posture a little too perfect.
And every time, she let her gaze linger just a second too long. The tease needed to be enough to start breaking his posture.
Once, passing behind him in the doctors’ lounge, she brushed a hand across his shoulder as if by accident. The small, startled sound he made, a sharp inhale swallowed into a polite cough, was enough to make her smile for hours.
He was unraveling beautifully.
Another time, she built up enough courage to touch his waist while slipping through a narrow doorway, gently pushing him aside. Honestly, that small act of manhandling made her a little proud, as if she were paying back every woman in history at once, a personal act of historical reparation.
“Excuse me, beautiful,” she whispered.
He stammered, completely caught off guard. She didn’t stay to hear his answer, just walked away, smiling to herself.
By Thursday, Wilson couldn’t even see her across the hall without turning crimson. He tried to avert his eyes, but once House noticed, the mockery was merciless.
“What’s this?” House said, eyes flicking from Wilson’s pink ears to the doctor who’d just brushed past him. “You look like someone just told you to sit and stay.”
“House,”
“No, no, don’t tell me. You finally found someone who reads you like a chart. You blush, she smirks, you stammer, she wins. I’m impressed.”
Wilson sighed, trying to walk away. “Can we not—”
“Oh, I’m all for it,” House interrupted. “It’s nice seeing you on the receiving end of authority for once.”
“Oh, please. It’s not like that. I was the one who invited her on a date. I don’t think she is the authority of the night.” Wilson dismissed.
“Oh, right. I am pretty sure you only are taking her out because she wants you to.” House tipped his cane “But it’s not all bad news, Jimmy. I am pretty sure you are going to enjoy being her dinner.”
That sat with Wilson for the rest of the day. Was she actually…? No. He remembered it perfectly. The coy smile at the reception… She couldn’t just fake all that, right?
🌡️
Friday morning came, and she was as enthusiastic about the next day as she was afraid she might’ve scared him off. So, to make things crystal clear, she decided to go after him.
Knocking lightly on his door, she opened it slowly after the faint “Come on in.”
James was immersed in a pile of paperwork, so he didn’t even look up.
“Morning, Dr. Wilson.”
His head snapped up instantly at the sound of her voice. Oh, Jesus. She felt her heart clench, a little from guilt, a little because it was just too cute.“I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to, you know, confirm our date tomorrow?”
“Oh.” Wilson exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Of course. I mean… you didn’t change your mind, right?”
“No, I did not.” She bit her lip and, with cautious steps, entered his office. She needed to be careful not to embarrass him; she’d ambushed him enough this week. “So, what’s tomorrow’s plan?”
“Surprise,” Wilson replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, no, come on. I need to know, otherwise, how am I supposed to dress up?” she teased, bargaining but not pleading.
“Alright, alright.” He raised his hands in surrender. “Truth is, I haven’t decided yet. I’m afraid of failing in the choice.”
She raised a brow and took deliberate steps toward him. “I don’t think you would. But if it makes you feel better, I can guide you through it.”
He straightened up in his chair, finally facing her. “I thought about the movies…”
She pondered, nodding. “It’s cozy. Intimate. Not much of a talk place, though, is it?”
He gulped, caught by the way she was looking at him. “I could take you to Heaven’s.”
“Oh, I bet you could.”
He choked, cheeks reddening, but then his shoulders began to shake with laughter. “I meant the restaurant,” he said, grinning.
That’s one tense man.
“That’s fancy. We can talk,” she said, half-sitting on his desk, one side of her hip resting while the other leg dangled. “But less cozy. What else you got?”
James took his time, watching her with a fascination that almost made her blush. “I could…” he started, voice dropping low as if afraid to say it aloud, “make you dinner myself.”
Her eyebrows shot up, surprised. That was the best possible outcome. “Didn’t know you were skilled like that.”
“Is that an approval?” Wilson asked, hopeful. “I’m running out of options.”
“Text me your address,” was all she said before leaving his office. A million ideas flooding her mind.
🌡️
Wilson had gone overboard. There was no other word for it. The dining table looked like a catalog spread: wine already breathing, candles at strategic intervals, a soft jazz playlist looping in the background. The kind of effort that said please like this, please like me.
It was charming, sure.
Even his neatly pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up from making dinner let her know. It’s all for her, not out of ego.
That devotion is the first “tell.” Sure, she had spent some time figuring out the perfect outfit too. The mid-length, figure hugging black dress had just enough cleavage and a backless form that she hoped would take his breath away.
“Wow,” he said before he could stop himself as soon as he opened the door.
“Is that your medical assessment, doctor?” she teased, stepping in. “Patient appears to be in mild shock?”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “More like cardiac arrest.” he eased out.
“You are not too bad yourself, you know?” She smiled, lips blood-red and he swore she would devour him.
“I… Well, thank you. Can I take your coat?” Wilson portrays the perfect gentleman with ease, even under all his nervousness. She nodded, turning his back at him so James would help her out of it.
His fingertips brushed gently down her arms, and once she was free, he hung it by the hack. “This looks… beautiful,” she murmured to him, indicating the atmosphere of the kitchen. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
“I wanted to.” He looked up at her, voice softer now. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
Oh dear lord. The word disappoint coming out of his lips gave her every confirmation she needed. He just needed desperately to please.
Dinner passed in light conversation: cases, travel, pets (Sara was too adorable, after all), random bits of trivia he loved to collect. She let him talk, and every time he gestured with enthusiasm, she leaned in just a little closer, watching him unravel with every small, innocent touch.
When he poured her another glass of wine, she tilted her head. “You know, for someone with a reputation, you’re… different than I expected.”
He blinked. “Reputation?”
“Hospital gossip,” she said airily. “Apparently, you’re a bit of a heartthrob.”
He laughed a short, nervous sound. “Oh, that. Mostly exaggeration.”
“I don’t know…” she mused, watching him. “You seem like a man who tries very hard to… satisfied others”
That definetly took him by surprise. He froze mid-sip, then lowered the glass carefully, eyes flicking away. “Is that… a bad thing?”
“Not at all,” she said softly. Then, standing, she crossed to where he sat, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder.
Those puppy brown eyes looked up to her, unsure written all over his face. Still, he put his hand on top of hers. It was warm, but a little shaky.
“You know,” she said, accepting it, “for someone who invited me to dinner, you’re awfully easy to fluster.”
He huffed out a laugh. “I’m not flustered. I just…”
“Get shy when a woman looks you in the eye?” she finished for him, her voice soft but edged with amusement.
That earned her a actual flush, but also a smile. “You enjoy doing that, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Taking over the room.” His comment made her smirk.
“Only when someone’s trying too hard to control it.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Touché.”
That little moment seemed to ease him enough that he suggested a change of rooms, and they both moved to his living room.
🌡️
Carrying the bottle, Wilson introduced her into the living room. It was wide open, with big windows and a nice view. The fireplace crackled low, adding half-light to the ambiance. She followed close behind, holding their glasses, but once he gestured to the sofa for her, she broke his rhythm and sat on the carpet, using the couch as a backrest.
“You have the need to be disruptive, don’t you?” James said, humor in his voice, but he squatted down beside her nonetheless.
“What? This carpet is just so nice…” she said, letting her fingers glide through the plush fabric. She tilted her head, watching him adjust his posture, his eyes flicking toward hers before darting away again.
He smiled nervously. “It is more comfortable than it looks.”
She started to feel a little self-conscious about all his nerves. Yeah, she’d suspected James Wilson might be more of a cutie-pie than the “man who ruins women for lesser mortals” as gossip claimed — but still, that reputation had to come from somewhere. And right now, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might actually be making him uncomfortable.
“Did I… do something wrong?” she asked softly.
His eyes widened. “No! Not at all. Why would you say that?”
She shrugged, her voice gentle. “You just seem kind of… on edge. I don’t know, I was worried I might be making you uncomfortable.”
He sighed. “Crap. I’m the one who’s sorry.” He took a long gulp of wine, then turned back toward her. In a careful motion, he reached for one of her hands. “Okay… you do make me a little nervous.”
She blinked, surprised, and immediately started apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to—”
“You make me nervous because I don’t know how to act with you,” he interrupted, voice earnest. “Usually I… I know what to do, what a woman wants.” He flushed instantly, hearing himself. “Oh god, that sounded awful. You probably think I’m a womanizer. The point is, you just don’t let me-”
“Lead?” she finished for him, a spark returning to her eyes.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That.”
She tilted her head, a half-smile curving her lips. His cheeks were pink, his lips tinted by red wine, his expression caught somewhere between despair and fascination. And deep down in those big brown eyes, a flicker of something warmer burned hotter than the fireplace.
“Would you mind if I slip these off?” she asked suddenly, pointing to her feet. The red scarpins made her legs look fantastic, but they were killing her. “My feet are angry at me.”
“Oh, of course not. Be my guest.”
She slipped them off in one smooth, deliberate motion, sinking deeper into the carpet with a sigh of relief, stretching her legs lazily. Wilson watched her, so completely at ease, a perfect picture of comfort, and bit his lip, an idea forming.
“You know…” he began tentatively, “maybe I can help you.”
She straightened slightly, intrigued. “Help me how, exactly?”
He gave a small, bashful grin. “Fortunately for you, one of the perks of dating a three-time divorcé is that I have excellent foot massage skills.” He patted his thighs lightly. “Professional-grade, even.”
She raised an eyebrow, amusement sparking in her eyes. “That’s a very bold claim, Doctor.”
“Guess you’ll have to test the theory,” he said, voice soft but playful.
She turned a little, resting her lower legs in his lap. That small, deliberate contact made his breath hitch before he caught himself.
“Okay…” he murmured, taking her foot gently in his hands and began to work.
Wilson’s fingers moved cautiously at first, unsure of the right pressure. She let out a soft sigh, the kind that makes someone both proud and flustered at the same time.
His eyes flicked up to hers, wide and earnest, as if seeking confirmation. “That’s… okay?”
“Perfectly okay,” she said, a teasing curve to her lips. “In fact, it’s… kind of adorable how focused you are.”
He swallowed, pink rising again in his cheeks, and resumed with slightly more confidence, pressing a little firmer, finding a rhythm. Each movement was careful but deliberate, a mirror of his desire.
She let herself enjoy it. The warmth of his hands, the sound of the fire, the gentle crackle of his uncertainty dissolving into care. Her laughter bubbled up occasionally, soft, approving, guiding him without needing to say a word.
“You weren’t lying,” she whispered, leaning back, letting the tension leave her shoulders. “I might need to take advantage of this skill more often.”
Wilson choked on a laugh, biting his lip to hide it, then relaxed slightly, the first real ease she’d seen from him all night. “I… I’d be honored,” he said, voice soft and honest, eyes never leaving hers. “you know, a lot of your pain could come from your calves being too tight.”
“Is that right? Oh, my work requires long hours on my feet. I’m a doctor, could you imagine?” she teased playfully. He let himself laugh. “Do you offer calves massages too in your service?”
“Actually, it is included in the pack.”
“Good,” and with that, she lifted the hem of her dress just enough to expose her knees.
For a second, by the way James’s body language responded, she might as well have flashed him. He froze, eyes wide, caught off guard.
She had to fight hard not to laugh, suddenly feeling like a Victorian woman driving high-society men insane just by showing a hint of her ankles.
Thankfully, he soon returned to the task at hand, fingers pressing carefully along her legs. She bit her lip, watching the effort he put into it, and couldn’t help thinking how she’d love to see that same focus applied… elsewhere.
Meanwhile, Wilson’s mind was racing, House’s voice echoing in the back of his head. God, he actually wanted that woman. He wanted her with the same desperate curiosity he felt she could turn on him, to see what she would do if he let her lead. If he didn’t already mess it up by acting like a damn virgin.
“I don’t think I want this to stop,” she breathed out, voice low, almost a dare.
“That’s totally fine…” He shot her a sideways glance, courage already built before continuing, “I can always expand my services to full body.”
She turned her head toward him, surprised but amused. “Is that so?”
“I aim to please,” he confirmed, fingers moving deliberately now, reading her every reaction as though waiting for permission.
Her lips curved. “Oh? And how far does that aim go?”
James didn’t look away. His touch stayed firm and precise, but every movement carried a subtle question: Do you want me to go further?
Her answer came wordlessly: she lifted one leg and ran her foot along his thigh, slow, deliberate, teasing him just short of where he wanted her most.
Wilson’s breath hitched, but his eyes glinted with something dangerous, amused, and alive.
“Oh, well,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Guess that’s my cue to find out.”
Once again, she lifted the hem of her dress. More this time, except Wilson didn’t even have the time to appreciate the vision of her thighs, or the quick glance of her lace underwear. She straddled him, adjusting herself comfortably in the top of his lap.
“Still comfortable, doctor?” she murmured, voice low and deliberate.
Wilson tilted his head, a spark of defiance lighting behind his composure. “Perfectly. You?”
The challenge was there, quiet but real. So she leaned forward, her breasts close to his face, but his eyes never left hers. “Getting there,” With that his hand flew to her waist, griping in a possessive way that made her arch before finally sealing their lips. Jame’s hands tangled in her hair, making her match his rhythm in the kiss. As a response, she grasped the hairs in his nape, pulling in an intriguing manner just to show who was in charge.
Now she was starting to understand his fame.
Too bad this role wasn’t going much further
She rolled her hips against his groin, he gasped, ready to combust. He tried to sneak one of his hands under her dress but she gripped his pulse.
“Ah-ah” she warned. He looked at her, slightly confused.
“Oh, I am sorry, I-I thought we were…”
“We are,” she agreed, to ease his nerves “But I’ll be taking care of you.”
His brows arched, still, he was curious about it. Wilson placed them gently on the curve of her back, a feather-like touch. She moved her hands down his chest, playing with the buttons, until meeting his belt, which was already hiding a significant amount of volume. She smiled to herself, satisfied.
Once his trousers were undone, she gave her hips another roll and he sucked in a breath. His hands slid till he found the zipper in her back and pulled it down.
“Oh, thank you. That was very helpful,” She said, letting the straps slip down her arms. Her breast became bare and he could not not look at her “But, hands… where I tell you,” she whispered, voice a mix of command and tease. Wilson’s pulse thudded painfully in his ears. He obeyed without hesitation, letting her move his hands, place them, guide them. Every touch was electric, every instruction a thrill he craved.
She pinned both of his hands to the sofa behind them, his arms raised and taut. Leaning close, half-bent above him, he drank in the intoxicating scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the heat radiating from her body.
“I need you to keep them here. Can you be good and do this for me?”
“Yes… ma’am,” he gasped, the words tasting like complete surrender, a delicious blend of restraint and desire. His chest rose and fell rapidly, heat pooling low, every nerve alight. She only had to smile, and she started to mark his body with kisses: neck, chest, a tantalizing trail all the way down.
She gripped the fabric at the sides of his hips, and Wilson shifted slightly, eager to accommodate her movements. The moment he was free, she bit her lip, assessing him, delight shining in her eyes. She could see his body responding. Breath hitching, abdomen muscles tightening, hands itching to reach for her.
She started with gentle kisses along him, teasing just enough to make him writhe. Her tongue followed, and Wilson couldn’t help the low, ragged grunt that escaped him.
“I-I…”
She silenced him without a word. Putting him in her mouth, taking control fully. Her hand guided him, gripping the base with skillful authority, eliciting sounds from him that were sheer heaven to her ears. Every movement, every flick of her tongue, every deliberate pull of her hand had him completely at her mercy.
Her head bobbed in rhythm, and a thin line of saliva traced down her chin. A sign of her own hunger and the thrill of having him entirely in her grasp.
Head moving faster now, a controlled, teasing rhythm that made his breath catch in short, ragged gasps. The hollow of her cheeks drew tighter, her tongue pressed and dragged along his member with deliberate, aching slowness. The friction of velvet heat had him clutching the sofa cushions, muscles taut, desire burning through him like wildfire.
Wilson’s mind was a storm of desire and helplessness. He wanted to move, to pull her closer, to take control but every nerve screamed Obey her. The sound of his own groans only fueled her, and he felt the delicious torment of being vonluntarily helpless.
When she sensed he was at the edge, she stopped. Pulling away, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand, the other still holding his throbbing shaft.
She leaned closer, letting her warm breath brush against his lips and chin, watching him with an intensity that made his heart pound like a drum. “Is everything ok, love?” There was care in her voice.
He only nodded, words tangled in his throat. “I want to touch you,” he managed, the plea heavy with need.
A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Then ask.”
James wetted his lips, glancing at her face. Gosh, she was beautiful. “Can I touch you, please?”
She took his hands and guided to her chest “You may."
Like a kid with his favorite, he took them in his hands, squeezing, grasping, and, good lord, he wanted to taste them. Could he? He looked up, the woman mouthed Easy and he understood.
She pushed his chest so his back leaned against the sofa. Hand on his shoulders to steadied herself as she pushed her underwear to the side. She pressed closer, hips gliding over him with deliberate slowness, testing the heat he carried. Wilson’s breath hitched with every small movement, chest rising and falling unevenly, hands still pinned but yearning to roam, to feel her completely. “What do you want, James? Can you show me?” she tempted.
He only nodded again, his hands went to her hips, positioning her just right. “I… want… whatever you decide,” he breathed, letting the words spill freely. She smiled and shifted again, pressing herself down fully into him, the curve of her hips perfectly aligned with his groin.
She moaned, probably louder than him. The delicious stretch this position gave her goosebumps and fogged her mind. Ok, miss, keep your head clear.
She looked at him: head thrown back, eyes shut with force, mouth agape. His fingers on her hips dug into the skin, a clear sign he was fighting his demons. She was proud knowing it was her do.
Her pace was slow at first, deliberate, a rhythm meant to test him… and herself. Each glide down drew a sharp breath from his lips, each lift made his hands twitch with the urge to grab her again.
He looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, utterly undone. “You’re… incredible,” he rasped, the words catching on a moan.
Her answer came in movement, not speech: rolling her hips, finding that precise angle that made them both shudder. The squelching sound was obscene, making her clutching her insides at that. James felt it, he felt it all. The way her juices were soaking his thighs and already dripping his pants. The way her center was warm - actually, it was burning hot. How her legs were becoming wobbly and inconsistent.
He hugged her waist with one arm, hoping it would not get in the way of her movements and put his mouth on the soft flesh that was bouncing tentatively in front of his eyes.
She groaned a sound so beautiful it made him twitch inside her. He let go of her breast and looked at her again: the way her forehead had little droplets of sweat, the blush that was sure matching his. She leaned forward until their foreheads touched. The heat between them was almost unbearable, but it wasn’t just lust. It was need, trust, devotion forged in breathless surrender.
“James…” she whispered, voice trembling against his lips. “Are you close?”
He nodded, barely finding the words “Can I come inside you?”
That was a satisfying moment. Her lashes fluttered, a small smile curving her lips, not from control, but tenderness. She didn’t induce him and yet he sought it. “You can.”
And then everything dissolved. His release came first, a low, guttural sound pulled from deep inside him, the kind that vibrated against her skin. Hers followed, rippling through her body in a quiet quake, stealing her breath, leaving her trembling in his arms.
She stayed there, forehead pressed to his, the world slowing to the sound of their shared heartbeat. The faint stickiness of their skin, the warmth, the silence after the storm. His hands found her back again, moving slowly, reverently, as if memorizing the calm that followed the chaos.
They stayed wrapped together on the carpet, firelight flickering across their skin. The heat between them had softened into a warm, lingering glow, a pulse that seemed to sync with the rhythm of their breathing. Wilson’s arms remained securely around her, hands roaming lightly over her back, tracing slow circles, feeling her relax and shiver in equal measure.
“You’re… amazing,” he murmured, voice low and husky, brushing his nose against hers. “I don’t even know how to…” His words trailed off, but the sentiment was clear: awe, tenderness, and devotion all rolled into one.
“You weren’t too bad yourself, Wilson,” she replied, trying to maintain her teasing composure. “I’m glad I didn’t scare you.”
Wilson laughed and bit his lip, like he had something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how. She caught on immediately. “It’s okay, you can ask.”
“Where…” he started, clearing his throat, “where did that come from?”
Of course.
“I just had this… urge,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “An impulse to do very nasty things with this gentle, puppy-eyed oncologist, you know?”
He raised an eyebrow, both amused and intrigued.
She continued, leaning slightly closer. “I could tell all that tension you were holding could just… vanish if you let someone else take the lead. And I think… I was right.”
“Oh? Is that so?” he dared, his tone teasing, breath catching slightly.
“It is.” She shook her head, a playful smirk on her lips. “Your posture just dropped, James Wilson. I had you right there, in the palm of my hand.”
“You make it very hard to stay composed,” he admitted, a faint laugh in his throat.
“I am at your service, there’s plenty more where that came from. Now, Doctor… how about we finish that wine?”
Apperently we really do because I have at LEAST more 4 requests of this lol. So I might do a continuation to supress the demand.
Anyway, here it is! I am sorry that it's taking me 5 to 7 business days to posts the requests.
Obs: this was harder than I thought it would be and I probly should read more of dom!reader so if you guys have any recomendations I'll be forever grateful lol. Also, I didn't got a beta for this.
Sumary: Even the charming Dr. Wilson isn’t immune when someone else holds the reins.
Word count: 5.120 -way too many, lol
Read at AO3 | Masterlist | Masterpost
Wilson is calm and collected. Some might even say meticulous. He thinks before he acts, about everything: his job, his patients, his life… and his lovers. Rumors travel fast at Princeton-Plainsboro, and though he’s discreet, those caught in his web can’t help but brag afterward.
So, yes. James Wilson has become a subject of fascination, even curiosity, among the girls, the gays, and the theys.
“Sex with him is an out-of-body experience,” one lucky woman once claimed. “No one tries harder to please a woman than James Wilson.”
And then she’d describe how he’d pin her to the bed and become an inexplicable, feral thing.
Listening to those stories, a quiet spectator couldn’t help but laugh to herself. Excuse me, what? That’s literally the most submissive behavior possible. Anyone that looked at him could see, it was transparent: he was competent, nice, polite and, honestly, could be called a good boy.
Poor oncologist. Trapped in the role of the perfect dominant, when all she could see was a man who needed to let go. And she’d be more than happy to give him that release, should the opportunity ever arise.
So, the moment she caught him sneaking those quick glances in her direction, she smiled to herself.
Alright. Game on.
🌡️
She could feel his eyes burning into the back of her neck. Okay, technically, she could see him through the reflection on the glass door in front of her. But she didn’t need confirmation to know he was staring.
The low-rise skinny jeans she’d chosen carefully that morning hugged her legs way too well for him not to notice. Especially with the heels giving her that little extra “up.”
She let him look. After all, it wouldn’t last long. Once she put on her white coat, James Wilson would have only his memory and imagination to rely on.
Still, she wanted to make him squirm.
She turned around, meeting the oncologist’s gaze head-on, catching him in the act. The reaction was instant: a flush creeping up his neck, cheeks reddening, those big brown puppy eyes widening in surprise and guilt.
Adorable.
The corner of her mouth curved upward. She didn’t bother to hide it. Let him know he’d been caught. “Is everything alright, my dear?”
Wilson blinked, startled. Baffled, even. Then he cleared his throat, doing his best to recover his composure. “Yes,” he managed, polite as ever. “I beg your pardon. I just… needed to say, you look very beautiful today.”
Then came that smile, the prince-charming one.
Damn, he was good.
She lowered her gaze just enough, smiling with feigned modesty, hoping he’d take the bait and not notice how deliberate it was. “You’re being sweet,” she murmured.
James Wilson loved a damsel in distress. The best way to accomplish what she wanted was to make him feel in his comfort zone for now.
And that little gesture was all the encouragement he needed to puff up, confidence returning with a breath. “No, truly…” Wilson bit his lip, looking at his sides before taking another step towards her. “I… Would you… go out with me?”
Ding, ding, ding! Cassino bells rang inside her head. That was just too easy.
She lifted her gaze, locking eyes with him. The smirk on her lips a perfect mirror of his. She dropped her voice a few tones, deliberately sensual. “Like a date?”
Once again, he flushed, but there was amusement in the way he nodded. “Yes. I mean… if you want to, of course.”
“I do.”
Her hand rose to straighten his tie - not that it needed fixing. The man was always immaculate. Wilson was the type who pressed his shirts, polished his shoes, and chewed the same brand of gum every day to maintain that respectable image.
But she needed to touch him, to start claiming the ground she wanted.
He glanced down at her hand resting on his chest and swallowed hard. “So… Saturday works for you?” he asked, voice a touch unsteady.
“It does. How about seven p.m.?”
He smiled, relieved, and that tiny flicker of boyish joy made her chest tighten just a little. Dangerous.
“Good,” he said softly, still standing closer than necessary. “Then it’s a date.”
“It’s a date,” she echoed, letting her fingers drag lightly down the front of his tie before stepping back.
She left him there, flushed, blinking, trying to remember how to breathe.
🌡️
The next days at Princeton-Plainsboro were mercilessly slow. Every time she crossed paths with Wilson in the hallway, the cafeteria or outside an exam room, he straightened up like a schoolboy caught daydreaming. His tie seemed tighter. His posture a little too perfect.
And every time, she let her gaze linger just a second too long. The tease needed to be enough to start breaking his posture.
Once, passing behind him in the doctors’ lounge, she brushed a hand across his shoulder as if by accident. The small, startled sound he made, a sharp inhale swallowed into a polite cough, was enough to make her smile for hours.
He was unraveling beautifully.
Another time, she built up enough courage to touch his waist while slipping through a narrow doorway, gently pushing him aside. Honestly, that small act of manhandling made her a little proud, as if she were paying back every woman in history at once, a personal act of historical reparation.
“Excuse me, beautiful,” she whispered.
He stammered, completely caught off guard. She didn’t stay to hear his answer, just walked away, smiling to herself.
By Thursday, Wilson couldn’t even see her across the hall without turning crimson. He tried to avert his eyes, but once House noticed, the mockery was merciless.
“What’s this?” House said, eyes flicking from Wilson’s pink ears to the doctor who’d just brushed past him. “You look like someone just told you to sit and stay.”
“House,”
“No, no, don’t tell me. You finally found someone who reads you like a chart. You blush, she smirks, you stammer, she wins. I’m impressed.”
Wilson sighed, trying to walk away. “Can we not—”
“Oh, I’m all for it,” House interrupted. “It’s nice seeing you on the receiving end of authority for once.”
“Oh, please. It’s not like that. I was the one who invited her on a date. I don’t think she is the authority of the night.” Wilson dismissed.
“Oh, right. I am pretty sure you only are taking her out because she wants you to.” House tipped his cane “But it’s not all bad news, Jimmy. I am pretty sure you are going to enjoy being her dinner.”
That sat with Wilson for the rest of the day. Was she actually…? No. He remembered it perfectly. The coy smile at the reception… She couldn’t just fake all that, right?
🌡️
Friday morning came, and she was as enthusiastic about the next day as she was afraid she might’ve scared him off. So, to make things crystal clear, she decided to go after him.
Knocking lightly on his door, she opened it slowly after the faint “Come on in.”
James was immersed in a pile of paperwork, so he didn’t even look up.
“Morning, Dr. Wilson.”
His head snapped up instantly at the sound of her voice. Oh, Jesus. She felt her heart clench, a little from guilt, a little because it was just too cute.“I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to, you know, confirm our date tomorrow?”
“Oh.” Wilson exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Of course. I mean… you didn’t change your mind, right?”
“No, I did not.” She bit her lip and, with cautious steps, entered his office. She needed to be careful not to embarrass him; she’d ambushed him enough this week. “So, what’s tomorrow’s plan?”
“Surprise,” Wilson replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, no, come on. I need to know, otherwise, how am I supposed to dress up?” she teased, bargaining but not pleading.
“Alright, alright.” He raised his hands in surrender. “Truth is, I haven’t decided yet. I’m afraid of failing in the choice.”
She raised a brow and took deliberate steps toward him. “I don’t think you would. But if it makes you feel better, I can guide you through it.”
He straightened up in his chair, finally facing her. “I thought about the movies…”
She pondered, nodding. “It’s cozy. Intimate. Not much of a talk place, though, is it?”
He gulped, caught by the way she was looking at him. “I could take you to Heaven’s.”
“Oh, I bet you could.”
He choked, cheeks reddening, but then his shoulders began to shake with laughter. “I meant the restaurant,” he said, grinning.
That’s one tense man.
“That’s fancy. We can talk,” she said, half-sitting on his desk, one side of her hip resting while the other leg dangled. “But less cozy. What else you got?”
James took his time, watching her with a fascination that almost made her blush. “I could…” he started, voice dropping low as if afraid to say it aloud, “make you dinner myself.”
Her eyebrows shot up, surprised. That was the best possible outcome. “Didn’t know you were skilled like that.”
“Is that an approval?” Wilson asked, hopeful. “I’m running out of options.”
“Text me your address,” was all she said before leaving his office. A million ideas flooding her mind.
🌡️
Wilson had gone overboard. There was no other word for it. The dining table looked like a catalog spread: wine already breathing, candles at strategic intervals, a soft jazz playlist looping in the background. The kind of effort that said please like this, please like me.
It was charming, sure.
Even his neatly pressed shirt with sleeves rolled up from making dinner let her know. It’s all for her, not out of ego.
That devotion is the first “tell.” Sure, she had spent some time figuring out the perfect outfit too. The mid-length, figure hugging black dress had just enough cleavage and a backless form that she hoped would take his breath away.
“Wow,” he said before he could stop himself as soon as he opened the door.
“Is that your medical assessment, doctor?” she teased, stepping in. “Patient appears to be in mild shock?”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “More like cardiac arrest.” he eased out.
“You are not too bad yourself, you know?” She smiled, lips blood-red and he swore she would devour him.
“I… Well, thank you. Can I take your coat?” Wilson portrays the perfect gentleman with ease, even under all his nervousness. She nodded, turning his back at him so James would help her out of it.
His fingertips brushed gently down her arms, and once she was free, he hung it by the hack. “This looks… beautiful,” she murmured to him, indicating the atmosphere of the kitchen. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
“I wanted to.” He looked up at her, voice softer now. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
Oh dear lord. The word disappoint coming out of his lips gave her every confirmation she needed. He just needed desperately to please.
Dinner passed in light conversation: cases, travel, pets (Sara was too adorable, after all), random bits of trivia he loved to collect. She let him talk, and every time he gestured with enthusiasm, she leaned in just a little closer, watching him unravel with every small, innocent touch.
When he poured her another glass of wine, she tilted her head. “You know, for someone with a reputation, you’re… different than I expected.”
He blinked. “Reputation?”
“Hospital gossip,” she said airily. “Apparently, you’re a bit of a heartthrob.”
He laughed a short, nervous sound. “Oh, that. Mostly exaggeration.”
“I don’t know…” she mused, watching him. “You seem like a man who tries very hard to… satisfied others”
That definetly took him by surprise. He froze mid-sip, then lowered the glass carefully, eyes flicking away. “Is that… a bad thing?”
“Not at all,” she said softly. Then, standing, she crossed to where he sat, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder.
Those puppy brown eyes looked up to her, unsure written all over his face. Still, he put his hand on top of hers. It was warm, but a little shaky.
“You know,” she said, accepting it, “for someone who invited me to dinner, you’re awfully easy to fluster.”
He huffed out a laugh. “I’m not flustered. I just…”
“Get shy when a woman looks you in the eye?” she finished for him, her voice soft but edged with amusement.
That earned her a actual flush, but also a smile. “You enjoy doing that, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Taking over the room.” His comment made her smirk.
“Only when someone’s trying too hard to control it.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Touché.”
That little moment seemed to ease him enough that he suggested a change of rooms, and they both moved to his living room.
🌡️
Carrying the bottle, Wilson introduced her into the living room. It was wide open, with big windows and a nice view. The fireplace crackled low, adding half-light to the ambiance. She followed close behind, holding their glasses, but once he gestured to the sofa for her, she broke his rhythm and sat on the carpet, using the couch as a backrest.
“You have the need to be disruptive, don’t you?” James said, humor in his voice, but he squatted down beside her nonetheless.
“What? This carpet is just so nice…” she said, letting her fingers glide through the plush fabric. She tilted her head, watching him adjust his posture, his eyes flicking toward hers before darting away again.
He smiled nervously. “It is more comfortable than it looks.”
She started to feel a little self-conscious about all his nerves. Yeah, she’d suspected James Wilson might be more of a cutie-pie than the “man who ruins women for lesser mortals” as gossip claimed — but still, that reputation had to come from somewhere. And right now, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might actually be making him uncomfortable.
“Did I… do something wrong?” she asked softly.
His eyes widened. “No! Not at all. Why would you say that?”
She shrugged, her voice gentle. “You just seem kind of… on edge. I don’t know, I was worried I might be making you uncomfortable.”
He sighed. “Crap. I’m the one who’s sorry.” He took a long gulp of wine, then turned back toward her. In a careful motion, he reached for one of her hands. “Okay… you do make me a little nervous.”
She blinked, surprised, and immediately started apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to—”
“You make me nervous because I don’t know how to act with you,” he interrupted, voice earnest. “Usually I… I know what to do, what a woman wants.” He flushed instantly, hearing himself. “Oh god, that sounded awful. You probably think I’m a womanizer. The point is, you just don’t let me-”
“Lead?” she finished for him, a spark returning to her eyes.
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That.”
She tilted her head, a half-smile curving her lips. His cheeks were pink, his lips tinted by red wine, his expression caught somewhere between despair and fascination. And deep down in those big brown eyes, a flicker of something warmer burned hotter than the fireplace.
“Would you mind if I slip these off?” she asked suddenly, pointing to her feet. The red scarpins made her legs look fantastic, but they were killing her. “My feet are angry at me.”
“Oh, of course not. Be my guest.”
She slipped them off in one smooth, deliberate motion, sinking deeper into the carpet with a sigh of relief, stretching her legs lazily. Wilson watched her, so completely at ease, a perfect picture of comfort, and bit his lip, an idea forming.
“You know…” he began tentatively, “maybe I can help you.”
She straightened slightly, intrigued. “Help me how, exactly?”
He gave a small, bashful grin. “Fortunately for you, one of the perks of dating a three-time divorcé is that I have excellent foot massage skills.” He patted his thighs lightly. “Professional-grade, even.”
She raised an eyebrow, amusement sparking in her eyes. “That’s a very bold claim, Doctor.”
“Guess you’ll have to test the theory,” he said, voice soft but playful.
She turned a little, resting her lower legs in his lap. That small, deliberate contact made his breath hitch before he caught himself.
“Okay…” he murmured, taking her foot gently in his hands and began to work.
Wilson’s fingers moved cautiously at first, unsure of the right pressure. She let out a soft sigh, the kind that makes someone both proud and flustered at the same time.
His eyes flicked up to hers, wide and earnest, as if seeking confirmation. “That’s… okay?”
“Perfectly okay,” she said, a teasing curve to her lips. “In fact, it’s… kind of adorable how focused you are.”
He swallowed, pink rising again in his cheeks, and resumed with slightly more confidence, pressing a little firmer, finding a rhythm. Each movement was careful but deliberate, a mirror of his desire.
She let herself enjoy it. The warmth of his hands, the sound of the fire, the gentle crackle of his uncertainty dissolving into care. Her laughter bubbled up occasionally, soft, approving, guiding him without needing to say a word.
“You weren’t lying,” she whispered, leaning back, letting the tension leave her shoulders. “I might need to take advantage of this skill more often.”
Wilson choked on a laugh, biting his lip to hide it, then relaxed slightly, the first real ease she’d seen from him all night. “I… I’d be honored,” he said, voice soft and honest, eyes never leaving hers. “you know, a lot of your pain could come from your calves being too tight.”
“Is that right? Oh, my work requires long hours on my feet. I’m a doctor, could you imagine?” she teased playfully. He let himself laugh. “Do you offer calves massages too in your service?”
“Actually, it is included in the pack.”
“Good,” and with that, she lifted the hem of her dress just enough to expose her knees.
For a second, by the way James’s body language responded, she might as well have flashed him. He froze, eyes wide, caught off guard.
She had to fight hard not to laugh, suddenly feeling like a Victorian woman driving high-society men insane just by showing a hint of her ankles.
Thankfully, he soon returned to the task at hand, fingers pressing carefully along her legs. She bit her lip, watching the effort he put into it, and couldn’t help thinking how she’d love to see that same focus applied… elsewhere.
Meanwhile, Wilson’s mind was racing, House’s voice echoing in the back of his head. God, he actually wanted that woman. He wanted her with the same desperate curiosity he felt she could turn on him, to see what she would do if he let her lead. If he didn’t already mess it up by acting like a damn virgin.
“I don’t think I want this to stop,” she breathed out, voice low, almost a dare.
“That’s totally fine…” He shot her a sideways glance, courage already built before continuing, “I can always expand my services to full body.”
She turned her head toward him, surprised but amused. “Is that so?”
“I aim to please,” he confirmed, fingers moving deliberately now, reading her every reaction as though waiting for permission.
Her lips curved. “Oh? And how far does that aim go?”
James didn’t look away. His touch stayed firm and precise, but every movement carried a subtle question: Do you want me to go further?
Her answer came wordlessly: she lifted one leg and ran her foot along his thigh, slow, deliberate, teasing him just short of where he wanted her most.
Wilson’s breath hitched, but his eyes glinted with something dangerous, amused, and alive.
“Oh, well,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Guess that’s my cue to find out.”
Once again, she lifted the hem of her dress. More this time, except Wilson didn’t even have the time to appreciate the vision of her thighs, or the quick glance of her lace underwear. She straddled him, adjusting herself comfortably in the top of his lap.
“Still comfortable, doctor?” she murmured, voice low and deliberate.
Wilson tilted his head, a spark of defiance lighting behind his composure. “Perfectly. You?”
The challenge was there, quiet but real. So she leaned forward, her breasts close to his face, but his eyes never left hers. “Getting there,” With that his hand flew to her waist, griping in a possessive way that made her arch before finally sealing their lips. Jame’s hands tangled in her hair, making her match his rhythm in the kiss. As a response, she grasped the hairs in his nape, pulling in an intriguing manner just to show who was in charge.
Now she was starting to understand his fame.
Too bad this role wasn’t going much further
She rolled her hips against his groin, he gasped, ready to combust. He tried to sneak one of his hands under her dress but she gripped his pulse.
“Ah-ah” she warned. He looked at her, slightly confused.
“Oh, I am sorry, I-I thought we were…”
“We are,” she agreed, to ease his nerves “But I’ll be taking care of you.”
His brows arched, still, he was curious about it. Wilson placed them gently on the curve of her back, a feather-like touch. She moved her hands down his chest, playing with the buttons, until meeting his belt, which was already hiding a significant amount of volume. She smiled to herself, satisfied.
Once his trousers were undone, she gave her hips another roll and he sucked in a breath. His hands slid till he found the zipper in her back and pulled it down.
“Oh, thank you. That was very helpful,” She said, letting the straps slip down her arms. Her breast became bare and he could not not look at her “But, hands… where I tell you,” she whispered, voice a mix of command and tease. Wilson’s pulse thudded painfully in his ears. He obeyed without hesitation, letting her move his hands, place them, guide them. Every touch was electric, every instruction a thrill he craved.
She pinned both of his hands to the sofa behind them, his arms raised and taut. Leaning close, half-bent above him, he drank in the intoxicating scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the heat radiating from her body.
“I need you to keep them here. Can you be good and do this for me?”
“Yes… ma’am,” he gasped, the words tasting like complete surrender, a delicious blend of restraint and desire. His chest rose and fell rapidly, heat pooling low, every nerve alight. She only had to smile, and she started to mark his body with kisses: neck, chest, a tantalizing trail all the way down.
She gripped the fabric at the sides of his hips, and Wilson shifted slightly, eager to accommodate her movements. The moment he was free, she bit her lip, assessing him, delight shining in her eyes. She could see his body responding. Breath hitching, abdomen muscles tightening, hands itching to reach for her.
She started with gentle kisses along him, teasing just enough to make him writhe. Her tongue followed, and Wilson couldn’t help the low, ragged grunt that escaped him.
“I-I…”
She silenced him without a word. Putting him in her mouth, taking control fully. Her hand guided him, gripping the base with skillful authority, eliciting sounds from him that were sheer heaven to her ears. Every movement, every flick of her tongue, every deliberate pull of her hand had him completely at her mercy.
Her head bobbed in rhythm, and a thin line of saliva traced down her chin. A sign of her own hunger and the thrill of having him entirely in her grasp.
Head moving faster now, a controlled, teasing rhythm that made his breath catch in short, ragged gasps. The hollow of her cheeks drew tighter, her tongue pressed and dragged along his member with deliberate, aching slowness. The friction of velvet heat had him clutching the sofa cushions, muscles taut, desire burning through him like wildfire.
Wilson’s mind was a storm of desire and helplessness. He wanted to move, to pull her closer, to take control but every nerve screamed Obey her. The sound of his own groans only fueled her, and he felt the delicious torment of being vonluntarily helpless.
When she sensed he was at the edge, she stopped. Pulling away, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand, the other still holding his throbbing shaft.
She leaned closer, letting her warm breath brush against his lips and chin, watching him with an intensity that made his heart pound like a drum. “Is everything ok, love?” There was care in her voice.
He only nodded, words tangled in his throat. “I want to touch you,” he managed, the plea heavy with need.
A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Then ask.”
James wetted his lips, glancing at her face. Gosh, she was beautiful. “Can I touch you, please?”
She took his hands and guided to her chest “You may."
Like a kid with his favorite, he took them in his hands, squeezing, grasping, and, good lord, he wanted to taste them. Could he? He looked up, the woman mouthed Easy and he understood.
She pushed his chest so his back leaned against the sofa. Hand on his shoulders to steadied herself as she pushed her underwear to the side. She pressed closer, hips gliding over him with deliberate slowness, testing the heat he carried. Wilson’s breath hitched with every small movement, chest rising and falling unevenly, hands still pinned but yearning to roam, to feel her completely. “What do you want, James? Can you show me?” she tempted.
He only nodded again, his hands went to her hips, positioning her just right. “I… want… whatever you decide,” he breathed, letting the words spill freely. She smiled and shifted again, pressing herself down fully into him, the curve of her hips perfectly aligned with his groin.
She moaned, probably louder than him. The delicious stretch this position gave her goosebumps and fogged her mind. Ok, miss, keep your head clear.
She looked at him: head thrown back, eyes shut with force, mouth agape. His fingers on her hips dug into the skin, a clear sign he was fighting his demons. She was proud knowing it was her do.
Her pace was slow at first, deliberate, a rhythm meant to test him… and herself. Each glide down drew a sharp breath from his lips, each lift made his hands twitch with the urge to grab her again.
He looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, utterly undone. “You’re… incredible,” he rasped, the words catching on a moan.
Her answer came in movement, not speech: rolling her hips, finding that precise angle that made them both shudder. The squelching sound was obscene, making her clutching her insides at that. James felt it, he felt it all. The way her juices were soaking his thighs and already dripping his pants. The way her center was warm - actually, it was burning hot. How her legs were becoming wobbly and inconsistent.
He hugged her waist with one arm, hoping it would not get in the way of her movements and put his mouth on the soft flesh that was bouncing tentatively in front of his eyes.
She groaned a sound so beautiful it made him twitch inside her. He let go of her breast and looked at her again: the way her forehead had little droplets of sweat, the blush that was sure matching his. She leaned forward until their foreheads touched. The heat between them was almost unbearable, but it wasn’t just lust. It was need, trust, devotion forged in breathless surrender.
“James…” she whispered, voice trembling against his lips. “Are you close?”
He nodded, barely finding the words “Can I come inside you?”
That was a satisfying moment. Her lashes fluttered, a small smile curving her lips, not from control, but tenderness. She didn’t induce him and yet he sought it. “You can.”
And then everything dissolved. His release came first, a low, guttural sound pulled from deep inside him, the kind that vibrated against her skin. Hers followed, rippling through her body in a quiet quake, stealing her breath, leaving her trembling in his arms.
She stayed there, forehead pressed to his, the world slowing to the sound of their shared heartbeat. The faint stickiness of their skin, the warmth, the silence after the storm. His hands found her back again, moving slowly, reverently, as if memorizing the calm that followed the chaos.
They stayed wrapped together on the carpet, firelight flickering across their skin. The heat between them had softened into a warm, lingering glow, a pulse that seemed to sync with the rhythm of their breathing. Wilson’s arms remained securely around her, hands roaming lightly over her back, tracing slow circles, feeling her relax and shiver in equal measure.
“You’re… amazing,” he murmured, voice low and husky, brushing his nose against hers. “I don’t even know how to…” His words trailed off, but the sentiment was clear: awe, tenderness, and devotion all rolled into one.
“You weren’t too bad yourself, Wilson,” she replied, trying to maintain her teasing composure. “I’m glad I didn’t scare you.”
Wilson laughed and bit his lip, like he had something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how. She caught on immediately. “It’s okay, you can ask.”
“Where…” he started, clearing his throat, “where did that come from?”
Of course.
“I just had this… urge,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “An impulse to do very nasty things with this gentle, puppy-eyed oncologist, you know?”
He raised an eyebrow, both amused and intrigued.
She continued, leaning slightly closer. “I could tell all that tension you were holding could just… vanish if you let someone else take the lead. And I think… I was right.”
“Oh? Is that so?” he dared, his tone teasing, breath catching slightly.
“It is.” She shook her head, a playful smirk on her lips. “Your posture just dropped, James Wilson. I had you right there, in the palm of my hand.”
“You make it very hard to stay composed,” he admitted, a faint laugh in his throat.
“I am at your service, there’s plenty more where that came from. Now, Doctor… how about we finish that wine?”
Remember how all of his wives said that nobody does so much to please a woman (in bed) as James Wilson
Well I wish I could break this pattern for him myself I would do so so so much to please him first I would literally have him trembling and moaning and begging for more and sure I won't leave my sweet pretty baby unsatisfied I would do whatever he asks and knowing that he might be shy in bed and would be creative and do something myself to see if he likes it and I would do everything possible doing to a man in bed and even get him pregnant if I could (lmao) and he would lie there covered in sweat and his own release his hair stuck to his forehead his neck and chest blooming with hickeys his nipples and stomach covered in my saliva and he would be absolutely undone panting and feeling like he's in heaven and I would lie beside him on my stomach kissing his temple and playfully whispering in his ear something like "baby wanna go for another round" and he would just mumble something incoherent like "yeah but you haven't even come once gimme a couple of minutes i'll just catch my breath and return the favor" and I would just chuckle and nibble on his ear and nuzzle his jaw and maybe pin him to the bed and do all the work myself just so he can enjoy being pampered in bed a little more
"soobin," you whisper to him, breaking the kiss. soobin was breathless as he hopelessly chased after you, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you. his cheeks were flushed and lips swollen, he looked so pretty. "do you want to take this to my room?" you ask, bringing your hand around to trace your thumb along his bottom lip, soobin's tongue sneakily licking your finger as he nods.
── synopsis: i needed to request sub!soobin whos ur best friend and has had a big fat massive crush on you for the longest time and you’re having a little house party with you and the rest of txt and you’re playing truth or dare and beomgyu is asking all kinds of freaky questions and soobin gets insanely flustered and the rest of the group knows about soobs crush on you so someone dares you to kiss him and you do and it gets pretty steamyyyyyyyy and then the rest of them make an excuse to leave so that soobin can get railed! i love soobin.
⋆˚꩜｡ pairing: sub!soobin x dom!reader
⋆˚꩜｡ genre & word count: smut || 4.8k+
⋆˚꩜｡ tags: friends-to-lovers, soobin likes you a lot, whiny soobin, he blushes a bunch, kissing, some praise, riding (wrap it up!), etc.
˚꩜｡ notes: a request that took wayyyy to long (i apologize !!!), but i'll be honest the smut is pretty short cause i had so much fun writing the pre-smut than the actual thing.
“how about truth or dare,”
it’s been about an hour into the small party that you and your friends decided to have on a whim. finals were coming up and you figured a small gathering could help relieve some stress from constantly studying. it wasn’t much anything major, just a little drinking, munching on some snacks, and catching up on any daily happenings that we happened to miss.
you were all standing around in the kitchen, sipping on different flavors of soju. once the alcohol started to hit is when beomgyu got bored of conversation and wanted to play a game, “guys, let's do something funnn.” he whined into yeonjun’s ear, poking him in his side from where they were leaned against the counter.
yeonjun scowled, raising his hand in a threatening manner but didn’t harm the boy. he just rolled his eyes and sighed, “what's your idea of 'fun'?”
beomgyu pushed himself off the counter and smiled, his eyes locking onto an abandoned bottle next to the stove. he grabbed it and headed towards the living room, motioning for us to join him as he goes. he claims his spot on the floor in front of the couch.
with weary glances towards each other, you reluctantly shrug and go along with beomgyu's shenanigans. you locked eyes with soobin last, he was huddled by the fridge across from you, his bottle of soju almost gone. he blushes profusely when you make eye contact with him and shoot a small smile at him. he hurriedly follows behind taehyun who walked between the two of you, breaking the moment.
everyone gathers to sit in a circle, soobin timidly takes a spot between you and beomgyu. you could feel soobin’s eyes on you so you turn to say something, but he quickly looks away with dusty pink cheeks. you don't question it, you don't even get the time to as beomgyu begins talking.
“so,” beomgyu starts with a clap, he then holds up the empty bottle of soju. “we’ll spin the bottle and whoever it lands on blah blah blah, we all know how truth or dare works, right?”
kai jokingly raises his hand, “i don’t…” but quickly drops it with a laugh when beomgyu shoots daggers at him. he places the bottle on the floor and points at himself.
“i’ll spin first.” he twists the bottle and you all watch as it goes around twice before landing on you. everyone turns in your direction and you smile.
“truth or dare?” beomgyu asks.
you quickly reply, “truth.”
beomgyu puts on an exaggerated thinking face, tapping a finger against his mouth as he formulates a question. “mm, how many people have you kissed?”
the whole circle erupts in “ooohs”, except for soobin who slowly drew his legs up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he stares at you. he waits expectantly for an answer, eyes wide and nibbling on his bottom lip.
“only two,” you say confidently and look at soobin. you don't know why that was your first instinct, but you couldn't bother to wonder when he reacted so cutely. he quietly gasped, pushing his head into his knees, hiding his face. he mumbles something that you couldn’t quite hear, the furrow to his brow adorable.
you reach in to spin the bottle, this time it lands on beomgyu, funnily enough, and he chooses dare. you dared him to chug an entire bottle of soju, and he did in record speed. he hiccups as he yells, “my turn again!” this time it lands on soobin.
“soobin soobin soobin,” beomgyu says, eyeing soobin with squinted eyes. “truth or dare?”
“t-truth…” he pretty much whispers, his fingers drumming against himself. he was scared admittedly, beomgyu was always up to something. beomgyu smiles, a knowing one before he asks his question.
“when was the last time you masturbated?” beomgyu asks and makes everyone laugh. it was like a joke that you weren't in on, confusion apparent on your face. soobin flusters, stammering and fumbling over his words as he shifts, crossing his legs in front of him and he flails his hands.
“i-i don’t wanna answer that…” his eyes cut to yours before he quickly looks away, blushing furiously now.
“come on soobin, it’s a simple question.” taehyun teases, he was sat across from soobin and he reached over to hit him on his leg. soobin shakes his head and wishes that he could get out this, what felt like to him, interrogation.
it wasn’t until you placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed it, you were going to tell him that he didn't have to answer and it was just a game. soobin tensed under you and his eyes widened before he blurted out, “y-yesterday.” slapping his hands to his face as he said it and everyone erupts into laughter. you didn’t though, instead you softly smiled and rubbed along his thigh.
“ya soobin, i didn’t know you were so naughty-” kai teases.
“did you have someone in mind?” beomgyu pushes further, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. soobin looks at him, eyes going wider and shaking his head wildly, causing another eruption of giggles from the others.
“t-that’s two questions,” he argues and takes the initiative by grabbing the bottle and spinning it, it lands on yeonjun. he picks truth, and like the sweet boy he is, soobin simply asks him what his biggest pet peeve was.
yeonjun rolled his eyes and called soobin a buzzkill before saying, “people who chimp out while playing truth or dare.” and grabs the bottle for the next round.
as the game continues, you noticed that whenever beomgyu got the bottle he would ask more provocative questions than the rest of the group. especially towards soobin, who now sat cross-legged with his hands in his lap. his face was red from alcohol and the excessive amounts of blushing he's been doing all night. his neck, exposed by the loose shirt he wore, had a layer of sweat on it and glistened in the light of the living room. his hair attractively messy, eyes crinkled in the corners, and smile wide as he laughed at something taehyun did.
it's not like you haven't noticed soobin before. you knew he was handsome, you always thought he was ever since you became friends. but looking at him now, you can't help but want to grab him by the face and kiss him, mess up his hair that looked too perfect and make his eyes crinkle with another kind of feeling…it must be the alcohol making you think this way.
you're brought back to reality by taehyun, who spins the bottle and it lands on soobin. he sighs, all laughter gone from his face as he tilts his head back and waits for another absurd question that would no doubt make him nervous.
soobin was having a hard time right now. between this stupid game that he swears beomgyu only wanted to play to torture him and the way he's trying to ignore how you have been staring at him all night, he's struggling. he's trying his best to not to make eye contact as you bore holes into the side of his head. he didn't understand why you were staring at him so intensely, but he wished you would stop.
not because he didn't like it, but because he loved it. a lot.
it's not a hidden fact, at least to the guys, that he has a crush on you. they have known since the beginning, claiming that he always get googly eyes when you're around, which he didn't believe at all.he wasn't that weak, was he? but it got so bad that taehyun, yeonjun, beomgyu, and kai came up to him one day and simply asked the big question, "you have a crush on her, don't you?"
he couldn't even deny it if he wanted to. his face instantly turning pink as he turned his head, the rest of them laughing in his face, he didn't even have to say anything for them to know the answer. and since that day, they have made it their duty to tease and make fun of him for his crush, this game of truth or dare being no exception.
so getting this much attention from you, even if it was just staring, was making him delusional. he couldn't stop himself from getting just a little bit flustered.
when beomgyu asked him, "what's your biggest turn on?" he had to bite his lip to hold back what he wanted to say, which was when you looked at him, touched him, spoke to him… he could feel his pants getting a little tight at his thoughts and he had to place his hands in his lap to cover his growing hard-on.
he would take the safe route and just say, "kissing." looking at you, eyes drifting to your parted lips. it was a vague enough answer to get past the group and makes beomgyu hum. he would quickly look away from your mouth, embarrassed that he was getting turned-on just from his active imagination. maybe it was the alcohol…
soobin would then spin the bottle and have it land on kai, who chooses dare and he makes him grab him a water bottle from the kitchen. kai huffs, but a dare is a dare and he does it. it was really for soobin to wet his dry throat and cool down his heating body, pressing the cold drink against his skin.
when soobin gets another turn, after beomgyu admits that he has in fact accidentally sent a nude to someone and yeonjun gets dared to serenade the person to his left, which was kai, he's tense when he gets asked:
"soobin, is there anybody that you've thought about kissing?" he fights the urge to look at you, your eyes already on him. he swallows and his hands fidget where they rest in his lap. he doesn't have to answer who the person is, just if he has ever thought about it.
so he nods, face on fire and he slaps the cold bottle to his face and hopes it will bring the color down that he knows rose on his cheeks.
the boys all share a collective look, one that soobin isn't sure what it means but he gets nervous. his eyes flittering between their faces as they come to some sort of agreement. when soobin reaches for the bottle to spin, beomgyu grabs it before he could wrap his fingers around it.
"i want to spin again, just because it's fun!" he says, making soobin raise an eyebrow but he shrugs it off, thinking it's just beomgyu being drunk and lets him take his spin.
it felt almost calculated as he spun it, the bottle only turning once before it comes to a stop in front of you. he notices beomgyu crossing his fingers in hopes of something, when he asks if you would pick truth or dare. and he whispers a "yes" when you reply dare.
you were a little taken aback at first, that was the last thing you were expecting beomgyu to say. your mouth dropped open in shock and your head immediately looked over to soobin whose expression matched yours.
"i dare you to kiss soobin." he had said with a smirk on his face.
"ya, b-beomgyu!" he shouts, looking at him with his jaw tense and a question in his eyes that you couldn't comprehend. beomgyu only smiles and leans over to pat soobin on the shoulder. you were honestly a little offended at soobin's reaction.
"okay," you say and soobin's head snaps towards you, his mouth opening and closing and eyes flittering as he tries to come up with words to say. "unless you don't want to, i won't make you do it."
"no, i-!" he starts, jumping in his spot and turning his body towards you before he lowers his voice, taehyun snickering at his outburst. "i-i just wasn't expecting him to say that…" he whispers this time, bowing his head to hide his embarrassment.
you turn your body to face him and reach a hand out, hooking a finger under his chin and lifting his head so he is looking at you. soobin's breath hitches and his cheeks felt like they were on fire. your eyes drift down to his pink lips that were parted, soobin's soft breathing could be felt on your fingers. everyone's eyes were on you, you could feel it, but you couldn't look away from soobin who looked absolutely fuckable right now.
soobin swallows when you lean in, mouths inches apart, his eyes squeezing tightly shut as he waits for you to make the next move. his heart is hammering in his chest, his whole body felt hot and his hands are shoved into his lap where his dick twitches. is he dreaming?
when your lips touch, tingles go down soobin's spine and it makes his back arch into the kiss. he pliantly opens his mouth and tilts his head, allowing your mouths to slide together. his lips were plush and soft against yours. you wanted to taste them.
tentatively, as to not scare soobin, you allow your tongue to trace along his bottom lip. when he quietly moans at the lick, you take the opportunity to shove your tongue into his mouth. the kiss was getting heated and quickly, as a sudden rush of need spreads through you.
you bring your other hand around soobin's neck and slot your fingers into his nape, not allowing him to push away from you.
and soobin is absolutely gone. he felt weak, his body like jello as he lets you attack his mouth, licking around and swirling your tongue with his. his hard-on in his jeans was almost painful as it pushed against the zipper. it was taking everything in him not to grind up into the palm of his hand. it wasn't until he let out a tiny whimper when you bit his lip gently that someone decided to say anything.
beomgyu cleared his throat, making soobin startle with his eyes flying open. when he comes back to reality, rapidly blinking his eyes and looking around, he's mortified when he remembers that he was a party, playing truth or dare…and he moaned, like an idiot, in front of his friends.
you let him go, removing your hands from his hair and face and awkwardly laugh. beomgyu and the others either had a blush on their face or where looking with mouths agape.
"hey, so i just remembered we had another exam to study for and i think we should go and get some rest so we can do that tomorrow," beomgyu explains as he stands up and gestures to the others with his eyes, eyes darting from them to the door. you miss the way kai, taehyun, and yeonjun all nod at him as they also start to get up.
"wait-so suddenly?" you ask, getting up and walking to beomgyu.
"uhh, yeah! we totally forgot about it and don't wanna fail, you know?" he scratches the back of his neck as he speaks, avoiding eye contact with you. all you could do was nod, since you understood, you also had exams to study for.
they all make their way to the door and put their shoes on, soobin trails slowly behind them. you stop him before he could bend down to put his on, placing a hand on his arm. "you're leaving too?" you look at him with faux sadness on your face.
soobin flusters, his face once again going pink as he pauses, his eyes sliding over to his friends who were all shaking their head in unison. beomgyu making an 'x' with his arms in exaggeration.
"i-i don't have to, i'm not in that class with them…" he says.
you reach up and brush some hair that had fallen into his dark brown eyes, making soobin's heart race and his legs feel like jello, "i don't want you to go." you almost whisper and soobin bites his lip to hold back a whine that was crawling up his throat.
"okay, we're gonna head out now! see you guys later!" yeonjun says before speeding off, the others close behind as they make way to their respective cars. you can hear some claps and snickering as you close the door and turn back to soobin.
he was rocking on his heels, fiddling with his fingers. he cheeks were puffed out and his eyes dart everywhere around the room. you saunter towards him, getting close enough to where your bodies were pressed together and he had no choice but to acknowledge your presence. he angles his hips back a bit as he felt his dick throb at the feeling of your breasts pushing against him.
he was taller than you when standing so you had to tilt your head back when you asked, "shall we continue where we left off, i was really enjoying that kiss…" softly smiling and sliding your fingers up his arm, leaving a trail a goosebumps behind.
soobin couldn't believe this was happening, it was all he has ever longed for. he never thought he would get to this point. he was content with being a hopeless loser, never confessing as he was too shy to speak about his feelings. there was no words in his brain, he couldn't think with you this close to him. he instead would nod, his breath stutters as he did so.
wrapping your arms around his neck, you rise up on your tippy toes to be able to reach his mouth. your lips finding each other easily, kissing like you never even stopped.
it didn't take long for tongues to be swapped and the wet sounds of your lips smacking against eachother become almost obscene in the quiet house. soobin's hands eventually find your waist and every now and then his fingers would tangle in the fabric of your shirt, when he felt a little too dizzy.
he would bring you almost impossibly closer, hips against hips… his hard-on rubbing against you as he gently rolls them forward with a breathy moan into your mouth.
"soobin," you whisper to him, breaking the kiss. soobin was breathless as he hopelessly chased after you, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you. his cheeks were flushed and lips swollen, he looked so pretty. "do you want to take this to my room?" you ask, bringing your hand around to trace your thumb along his bottom lip, soobin's tongue sneakily licking your finger as he nods.
no time was wasted as you take him by the hand and walk him down the hall to your bedroom. you were glad that you decided to clean the space earlier this week, you weren't expecting company in here. you especially weren't expecting the company to be your long-time friend.
he follows your footsteps, stumbling a little in excitement. he can hardly contain himself. his heart was beating wildly and his dick painfully hard.
once in the room, you whirl soobin around and gently push him onto the bed, he lands with a grunt. you climb and hover over him, sliding your hands up his body as you make your way up to find his mouth again. as you clash lips, you bring a hand down to place it over his bulge. soobin's hips twitch into your touch, his breath getting caught in his throat as you run your fingers along his prominent length.
with the same hand you unzip his jeans and before you make the next move you ask soobin, "is this okay?"
his eyes were glazed over and he slowly blinked, shaking his head and saying, "you have no idea how long i've been wanting this." you don't quite understand what he means, but he gave you the consent you needed to continue. you were a little too impatient so you pull soobin's dick from the pocket of his boxers, instead of completely stripping him, and start to stroke him slowly, spreading the pooling precum down his length.
"fuck," soobin hisses, thrusting his hips up into your hand to get more friction. his hands flying to rest on your waist, his hold on your tight. he tilts his head back, his eyes fluttering from the pleasure.
just watching him makes the ache between your legs intense, it was becoming hard to ignore and soobin looked so good under you that you wanted more…
you stop touching him, earning a whine from the boy, but you ignore him as you strip out of your bottoms. soobin watches with wide eyes, his cheeks getting darker as you take off your pants. you would've laughed at how his dick twitched at the sight of you if you weren't trying to be on top of it.
once off, you climb back over him and hover just above his tip. soobin lets out a needy moan when his tip drags along the wetness of you, grinding up against you.
"ready?" you ask, aligning him with you. he eagerly nods, his hands on your hips and he was almost tempted to push you down himself, but he could be patient. he didn't want to ruin a moment he thought he would never get. bit by bit you sink onto his dick. he loudly gasps when he first enters, eyes rolling back at how warm and tight you felt around him.
it's everything he's been wanting since he first met you and he… he was about to blow it! as soon as you reached the base of his cock, ready to move he could feel his orgasm fast approaching. if you move so suddenly, too quickly, he'll…
"wait!" he shouts, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he taps his fingers against your skin and wiggling his toes as a distraction so he wouldn't completely ruin the moment.
you look at him and then at his hands, puzzled. you tilt your head, asking what's wrong with a slight movement of your hips that makes soobin whine. he doesn't speak right away, he takes a second to calm his breathing down. he cracks his eyes open when he thinks he's chilled out enough, but it's quickly lost when he catches sight of you on him, looking down at him with that worried expression that for some reason turned him on and made him aware that his dick was currently deep inside you.
"just… give me a second." he quietly says, slipping his eyes back shut.
you catch on as you feel him continuously twitch inside of you. you have to hold back a laugh as the realization hits you. "are you…close to cumming already?" you tease him, a little laugh escaping. soobin lets out a sound between a groan in embarrassment and a moan of pleasure as your laughing caused you to move slightly.
you get close to his face and poke him on the cheek, right where his dimple would be. he opens an eye and gets startled by how close you were. you laugh, smiling widely and soobin has to turn away, biting his lip and praying that he wouldn't cum.
"so, what did you mean earlier?"
"hm?" he hums.
"when you said 'you have no idea how long you've been wanting this'?" you quote him and watch as soobin's face gets visibly pink. he brings his hands up to cover his face, orgasm forgotten as he gets shy. you move his hands from his face, grabbing them by his wrists and holding them above his head.
he mumbles at first, turning his face into the pillow and letting his voice get muffled through the fluffy material.
"what was that?"
he huffs, squeezing his shut once again. "i said, i may have had a crush on you…for a while now." he whispers the last part.
you were taken aback. soobin had a crush on you? how did you not find out about it, how did you not notice, how did the others not tell you they are terrible at holding secrets?! you think back to when you first met soobin and how he would act towards you leading up to this moment and gasp. even tonight, during the party, the way gets timid around you, always following you or stealing glances in your direction. but that would also mean…
"so when beomgyu asked who you thought about when ma-"
soobin cuts you off, "when i masturbated, yes it was you…" he confesses.
your heartbeat picked up and you felt tingles spread down to your toes. soobin worried his bottom lip as he tried to read your reaction. were you upset or angry with him? he wishes he could hide or runaway right now, but he can't when he's trapped under you and his hands were still pinned above his head.
he starts to get worried and goes to say something, an apology first. but gets shocked when you lean down to kiss him once again. even if his lips hurt from all the kissing, he wouldn't complain. a loud moan gets poured into your mouth when you start to move, raising your hips and slamming them back down onto soobin. you start to move in a constant rhythm, each roll of your hips driving both you and him crazy.
"s-so good, it's so good…" he constantly moans out, his own hips starting to move upwards and meeting yours. his hard thrusts punch out tiny moans from you that only spur him on.
you let go of his wrists and place them on his shoulders from stability as you fuck him, his hands flying to caress your sides and breasts. the combination of soobin thrusting into you, reaching the deepest parts of you and his hands rubbing along your body brings you close to your orgasm.
you look down at soobin, he looked so lewd. all messy and losing himself under just from some riding, it was huge turn. "you're making me feel so good, soobin," you moan into his ear.
soobin could feel himself getting closer and quickly, his thrusts getting sloppier and his moans sounding more desperate. "fuck, 'm gonna cum…" he brokenly moans.
his eyes don't leave you, watching every expression that passes across your face. he doesn't want to miss any part of this, focused on making you feel as good as you were making him feel.
"me too, you're fucking me so good." you moan out, kissing him once again and letting him take control, pounding into you quicker and harder. it only took one particularly hard thrusts for you to cum and the sound of you loudly moaning makes soobin reach his orgasm, his breath hitting your face aggressively. his hips twitch as he fills you with ropes of cum, his legs shaky underneath you.
"holy shit…" he sighs as he comes down from his high, still thrusting weakly into you even though he was sensitive. he didn't want it to end, it felt so good.
you breathily laugh, catching your breath while massaging soobin's shoulders. you peck his face, making him smile and so you leave a kiss on his dimples. god, how you loved his dimples.
you pause and lean back to stare at him. soobin mouths 'what' still smiling.
"i like you too." you say what soobin couldn't, brushing soobin's hair back gently as you say it. soobin's eyes brighten up and his smile grows wider at your words, his dick twitching while still inside you. "maybe i always have…" you add.
soobin brings you down into a hug, pressing your body tightly against his in a tight embrace. you both laugh and then freeze when the movement brings you both back to the position you were currently in.
you look at each other.
"want to go again?" he asks with a smirk, rocking his hips up into you.
SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).
──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.
Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly. Mention of past drug addiction.
w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)
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Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.
You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.
Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.
The list stretches on.
But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—
Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.
The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”
“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“
“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”
“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“
“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.
“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.
“The case.” you agree.
You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.
The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.
Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.
“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.
Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.
It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.
Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”
“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.
Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.
Anything to gain the upper hand.
You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”
“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.
“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”
“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.
Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?
You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.
Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”
Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.
The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”
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Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.
You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.
The hostility has mounted to new levels now.
It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.
South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.
Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.
You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.
The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”
You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.
“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.
Control. All you do is reach for the blade.
“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”
Well that’s certainly unlikely.
“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?
“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”
This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.
Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.
There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”
Spencer falters.
It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.
That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?
He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.
Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.
“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”
“You started this—“
“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”
When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.
“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.
“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.
It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.
“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.
You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.
Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.
All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.
All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.
It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.
He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.
You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.
“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.
The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.
God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.
“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.
You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?
It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.
What is sickness without pleasure?
He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.
“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.
People like him don’t get that.
He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.
He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.
But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”
Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.
“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.
He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.
He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“
He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.
“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.
“Eyes on me, boy genius.”
He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.
“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.
Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.
He always wanted to be seen.
He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.
You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.
“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.
He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.
“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.
It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.
“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”
Spencer sobs.
“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.
His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.
The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.
“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.
“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”
“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“
You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”
He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.
Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?
Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.
“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.
“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.
“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”
He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.
A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.
“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”
He walks out on you and it’s fine.
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Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.
Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.
When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).
Everything is fine. To reiterate.
It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?
Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.
And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.
In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.
“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.
As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.
“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)
You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.
“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”
“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”
It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.
He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).
“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.
“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).
Focus.
You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He can see everything.
Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.
He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.
But it’s not good enough.
“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.
But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.
He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.
But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).
The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.
“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.
Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.
Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”
And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.
But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”
Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“
“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.
────────────
French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.
The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”
You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.
No big deal!
“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.
There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.
He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.
“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“
Spencer breaks.
“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.
“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”
“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.
You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.
“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.
It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.
“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”
You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”
He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.
Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”
You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.
Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.
It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.
His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.
Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.
He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.
And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.
The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.
“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”
You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.
But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?
He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.
Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.
It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.
You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.
“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.
So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,
And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.
His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.
“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.
“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.
Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.
“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.
Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.
“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.
You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.
“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”
“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“
“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”
“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).
“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.
And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.
Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.
You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.
You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.
Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.
“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.
“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”
“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”
Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.
“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.
It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.
You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.
Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.
“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”
No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.
“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.
Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?
Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.
“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.
“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”
He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.
“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.
“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.
He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.
He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.
He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.
He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.
He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.
“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.
“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“
“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”
When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.
“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”
“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”
“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”
“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”
He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.
“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.
You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.
He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”
And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.
It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”
Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.
He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.
He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.
Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.
The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.
And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.
“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”
“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.
“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”
“I’m not torturing you—“
You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.
It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.
His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.
You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.
“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”
It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.
And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.
It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.
“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”
“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”
“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.
“Says you.”
“Says me.”
You fuck him harder.
“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.
And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“
Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.
“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.
He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”
“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.
“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.
He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”
What about a loud and goofy boy that completely shuts down at the first sign of affection????
A golden retriever that turns into a whimpering mutt as soon as you reach to pet him???
A brave boy, pretending to be a functional adult, all the while secretly begging to become a drooling slut for the one person who makes his heart and his brain melt?????
Please just choose me already I have no other analogies 😔😔😔😔😔
I enjoy seeing your post and sometimes I almost reblog until I read your endings that have "poggers" or "skibidi" and it ruins your hot posts and gives me the ick. Everything else is so good though so I can't bring myself to unfollow you.
LMFAOOOO
AH FUCK IM GONNA DIE THIS IS MAKING ME LAUGH SO MUCH
I do that on purpose 😭 i feel like sometimes my thoughts are pretty fweaking outrageous so like. The skibidi or awesome sauce or whatever is to remind everyone that i know what im saying is crazy 💔
thinking of sukuna and bimbo!reader who people assume are a pair of kinky fucks. They see Sukuna’s aggressive demands and your quickness to follow them and think he’s the meanest dom and you his pretty little sub. His to tie up, spank and berate while you mewl and whimper pathetically for more.
well, the two of you are definitely kinky…
…no one would believe that the huge and terrifying Ryomen Sukuna liked to be used and tied up. With pretty pink ropes that you use to bind his thick muscular thighs to his ankles and his arms to his wrists. They wouldn’t believe the way your pretty doe eyes light up sadistically as you edge him till he growls, promising vengeance.
“you wanna cum, ‘kuna?” You ask sweetly, dragging the sparkly peach acrylic of your nail up his twitching, leaking cock. “if I don’t get a response, I’ll leave you here and you’ll have to find your own way out of these ropes.”
“you wouldn’t fucking dare.” He snarls, red eyes leering at you as best as he could in his position. “I’ve had enough, make me come. Now.”
what a brat, you think, though this is standard for him, his dominant attitude and general sense of authority and entitlement. Despite the fact that he was literally trembling with need, cock forming a pool of pre all over his stomach.
“now that’s not nice, ‘kuna,” you pout, nails digging firmly into the hardened length of his cock. Sukuna jolts and grumbles out a curse, come spurting out of his abused cock pathetically. You watch it all with a tight smile, as he comes ropes and ropes all over himself all the while grunting and groaning your name.
“awww, you came,” you coo, loosening your grip around him, “without my permission.” Sukuna could still see your smile through his blurry gaze as he came down from his high, the crazy sort of look in your eyes. He’d done it now.
“just from the feeling of my fingers digging into your cock.” You trace the fading crescent imprints of your nails along his veiny length, humming at the sight, “such a slut for pain aren’t you, ‘kuna? Despite how much you pretend you’re not.” Your right hand once again circles his cum-soaked cock, left stuffing fingers into his mouth to silence him as you stroke him through overstimulation. He immediately bites down on your fingers and growls, straining against the ropes binding him as his cock aches deliciously.
“you asked to come, didn’t you?” You say, “I’m letting you come, ‘kuna.” You giggle as he thrashes against you, drooling all over your fingers as he tries and fails to glare at you through the intertwining pain and pleasure ebbing through him. the ropes feel too tight but the chaffing against his skin only makes his cock harder. he wants to stop—no, he needs to come.
his second orgasm tears through him, his groans soothing out into pathetic muffled moans. But of course you don’t stop, crazy woman. Your hands tighten and squeeze as you stroke him with no remorse. It hurts so good and you fucking know it, know he can’t resist his bottomless need to feel pain.
“do you want me to stop, ‘kuna?” Usually his pride would keep his lips sealed shut, but you’ve fucked everything out of him, loosened his sharp mouth. He doesn’t know how many times he’s come at this point. “Be good and ask nicely.”
you take your fingers out of his mouth and he hates the way he misses the fullness, “don’t…” he croaks, “stop.”
“god, you’re a freak.” You giggle, resuming your movements, relishing the slight whimper in his voice as your hand circles his throat, nails digging into his neck, and force another impossible orgasm out of him.
