dove

𝐈 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

[trampleddoves]

✮ BLOODY VALENTINE EVENT ✮

✮ Dove. 26. Due to the mature nature of my fan fics, I ask that ageless blogs and minors please do not interact. I tackle questionable topics in my one shots, so please pay extensive attention to my content warnings. My posts are also tagged quite thoroughly; it should be easy to navigate my blog through the tags.

✮ Masterlist ✮ Requests ✮ Kinktober Event ✮

Feel free to send me asks as well. I promise I do not bite.

[trampleddoves]

Also not in an illegal way in case that’s not clear or a concern haha I was thinking reader is like 25 when I asked, also if it’s not too much could it not be professor/student? I just feel like it’s a little overdone I wanna see something new and a little freaky😋

I've gotten all your asks honey, thank you so much for sending them and being clear about what you want. I'll try to work on them soon! The no prof/student thing is making me laugh though, most people ask specifically for that. But don't worry, I'll honor it.

[trampleddoves]

Need like the freakiest Spencer stuff if you have any recs😅😛 like breeding spitting praise but also degradation a lil sprinkle of daddy or like sir stuff all of it feral and ovulating

I am so bad at keeping track of the things I've read. I know a few blogs who have written more explicit freaky things, though you'll have to go through their masterlists for specifics: @spenceloria @mariasont @minswriting @whisperedmeg @marcidstars

[trampleddoves]

hi, i miss your writing :) any chance we'll get the office siren oneshots soon?

-🪿

My first year of grad school is almost finished, so I am crossing my fingers I'll have some free time to work on them. Thank you for being here!

[trampleddoves]

Proof of life

[marcidstars]

like a heathen clung to the homily ⋆˚࿔ spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer returns home in the middle of the night, exhausted beyond words and in dire need of a snack. who are you to turn him down?

genre: smut (MDNI) word count: 2.9k

tags: fem!reader, oral (f receiving), munch!spencer, fingering, kissing, spencer is a tease, yes of course he's wearing glasses, title from a hozier song, written in a morrisons car park, proofread (please hold your applause)

notes: on god he's devouring that shit like it's his last meal

Coming home late is an art that Spencer Reid has learned to master. He’s studied which floorboards creek, which ones groan, and which ones scream bloody murder at the slightest misstep. He’s learned how to unlock and open every door without making a sound. He’s adapted to staying light on his feet and traversing the apartment, soundlessly, in complete darkness. 

Every inch of this place is memorised; every sharp corner, every piece of furniture, every lip of every thick woollen rug that he once would trip over almost every day. He even knows where you are most likely to leave your belongings, and he accounts for them, whether they are there or not, as he goes about his silent routine.

There used to be a time where he could make as much noise as he wanted to, within reason. A time where he could flick on the lights and hum a happy little tune to himself without fear of disturbing any sleeping lovers. But it isn’t just him anymore. His once solitary apartment—his bachelor pad, as Morgan used to call it—is now a shared space, and he wouldn’t change it for the world. He would happily spend the rest of his late nights fumbling around in the dark, holding his breath, if it meant that he got to return home to you.

But tonight, though he does continue with his usual dance in the dark, the last thing on Spencer’s mind is letting you sleep.

“Psst. Hey.”

You wake disoriented, half-buried among your hoard of soft pillows and softer blankets. You’re sprawled out like a starfish, limbs strewn across your shared bed, with your face partially obscured by your favourite purple and orange quilt—a birthday gift handmade by Spencer.

Leaning over you is Spencer himself. Hair tousled. Glasses sitting halfway down his nose. Backlit by the light of the moon peeking through the blinds and looking very much like a guardian angel.

All you manage in response is a low grumble. Words feel too far out of your reach as you squint up at him, face all scrunched up in this confused, sleep-riddled expression that is probably about as far from sexy as you can get. 

You’re dimly aware of the state of your hair, and of the fact that you’re sleeping in a shirt that very obviously isn’t yours; you like maths, sure, but not enough to parade yourself around in a shirt displaying a right-angled triangle with the words “I’m always right” printed under it in big, ugly lettering. You’ve told Spencer to throw this shirt out more times than you can remember, and yet here you are wearing it when he isn’t around. If he hasn’t already figured you’ve been missing him, then he’s bound to find out as soon as he sees that cursed shirt.

“…Spence?” you mumble, struggling to keep your eyes open.

He greets you with this huge smile, bright and excited in all the ways that are sorely inappropriate for such a late—or early—hour. 

“There she is.” He leans down to kiss your cheek, and he stays there for a moment, letting his words hit your skin as he murmurs, “there’s my angel.”

“You’re back,” you observe, stating the obvious. You rub your eyes, still trying to pull yourself out of your haze as he settles down beside you.

“I am.”

He sounds far more enthusiastic than you do, peppering your face with kisses like he’s been away for months, and not a week—six days, technically.

He was due to come home tomorrow night. At least, that’s what he told you. You wouldn’t put it past him to lie for the sake of surprising you like this.

“How did it go?” Your fingers find his face in the dark, and you cup his cheek. “The case. Did you—”

“Shh.” Spencer presses his lips to yours, silencing you with a kiss that seems to thrum with something more, something unspoken, but he pulls back before it can be explored. “Just let me kiss you.”

“Spence,” you whine, but your protests are quickly muffled as he kisses you again.

Still, despite your attitude, you lean into him. Your hands slip into his hair, and you thread your fingers into the silken brown strands as you pull him closer. You try to sit up, but he gently pushes you back down.

“It went well,” he eventually murmurs. “I missed you.”

“’Missed you, too. How well is ‘well’?”

Spencer sighs against your mouth, and he pulls away with a barely contained smile. He tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you, studying you in all of your sleep-ruffled glory. “We caught the unsub,” he says, “no one on the team got hurt, and Los Angeles can sleep well knowing they don’t have a serial killer to worry about.”

“Only paparazzi.”

“And celebrity stalkers.”

“Same thing.”

“Very true.” He kisses the tip of your nose. “But that’s enough about me. How have you been? Have you been sleeping okay?”

“Well, I was…”

He flashes you this faux-sympathetic pout. “Sorry.”

“Empty words,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I was having such a nice dream, too.”

“Oh?” Spencer shifts, bringing himself closer to you as he props his head up with his hand. “What were you dreaming about?”

You shrug. “Oh, you know…some pretty FBI agent, a queen-sized bed, and…” your voice trails off for a moment, and you puff air into your cheeks before adding, “whipped cream.”

Spencer’s brows shoot up, and he nods along animatedly as though you’ve just uttered something profound. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sounds like fun.” He trails his fingers, touch feather-light, along your jaw. His glasses continue to slip until they’re balancing precariously on the end of his nose, and you’re certain they’re about to fall right off and hit you in the face. “But I feel like whipped cream on a queen-sized bed would just result in quite a…sticky mess, right? I mean, the amount of laundry that would come of it—”

With your index finger, you push his glasses back into place. “Shh, let me have my fantasies.”

“Okay, okay,” he concedes with a sigh—light and breathy, almost like a laugh. “And I’m very sorry that I interrupted such an…interesting dream.”

“Very interesting,” you say.

“I’m sure it was.” His hand is holding your jaw, barely. He’s handling you with such an impossible gentleness, angling your face towards his with such subtlety, that you hardly even notice he’s doing it. “Let me make it up to you?”

“Hm…maybe.” You find yourself leaning into his touch instinctively, gazing up at him with love-laced curiosity as you ask, “what do you have in mind?”

Spencer purses his lips for a moment, pretending to be deep in thought as though it isn’t painfully obvious that he has, in fact, come in here with a plan. His hand leaves your face, and he begins carefully peeling away your blanket. “The same thing I’ve had in mind for the last week.”

“I’m listening.”

The words come out a fraction quieter than you had been intending. You try to bite back a smile, but your efforts prove futile as Spencer pushes the blankets aside to reveal you in just a t-shirt and underwear. Again, his t-shirt. One that he clearly recognises, because his face lights up with this stupidly smug grin. When you roll your eyes in response, he leans down to kiss your cheek.

"It suits you," he murmurs, almost whispers, and he follows it up with another quick kiss before sitting up. 

He nudges your knee, silently asking something of you. Your brain is, admittedly, still a little foggy, so there's a moment where you just stare at him, buffering, before you spread your legs and hope it's the correct move. Thankfully, it is. 

He settles between your legs, on his knees, and leans over you. One arm braced against the mattress, the other brushing hair from your face. He inches his face closer to yours, taking a long moment to just…look at you, admire you before (hopefully) kissing you again.

You decide he's taking too long, so you cup his cheeks and pull him down until his lips meet yours, and it seems that every ounce of restraint he had been exercising thus far dissolves in a matter of seconds. He kisses you like he's been starved of oxygen, need-driven and thoughtless—as thoughtless as Spencer Reid can get, that is—like he'd devour you whole, if physics allowed it. 

His glasses, no longer in place on his nose, press against your browbone, and you break the kiss just long enough to take them off and set them aside, out of harm's way, before turning back to him. Lips still parted, ready for him to dive back into you.

But Spencer's focus has now shifted to your neck. He trails his lips down until they meet the junction between your neck and shoulder, where he knows you're most sensitive. He nips lightly at the skin, and you feel him smile, proud, as your breath catches. Then, he works his way back up until his teeth find your earlobe.

"You know, it's a generally accepted theory that erotic dreams may be representative of latent non-sexual desires, or needs, that aren't being met," he explains in this soft, honeyed tone as he pulls back. His hands travel down your body, palms brushing over your curves through your (his) shirt. "They can come about as a result of loneliness, or a need for safety—even low self-esteem."

His fingers hook under the band of your underwear, and you raise your hips without hesitation. He pulls them down slowly, so slow it’s almost hard to watch, because he just loves making you wait, skimming the fabric along your legs before casting them aside. 

"There's also a possibility that you may see qualities in this pretty FBI agent that you lack in yourself," he continues, lifting your leg to press a kiss to the inside of your knee before progressing, steadily, down your thigh, "such as…attention to detail, maybe. Or perhaps…orderliness…a level head…"

"Spence…"

At the sound of your voice, Spencer looks up at you, brown eyes wide. Almost innocent-looking. You never should have told him that those eyes, and that damn deer-in-headlights look, were your weakness—all he’s done since then is use them against you.

"Mhm?"

"We agreed to keep Freud out of the bedroom," you say.

Spencer grins, baring his teeth against your thigh as he chuckles softly. "I know, but it's kind of difficult. He's so relevant."

"I’m sure he is," you mutter, doing your best to look unamused despite the smile tugging at your lips. "I have an idea."

"And what would that be?"

"Stop talking."

He gasps, faking offence as his hands squeeze your thighs. "I thought you liked my ramblings."

"I do," you say, "when we're not…like this."

"Oh, I see…you're getting impatient."

You stay quiet, denying him the satisfaction of a response. If you disagree, then odds are he'll drag this out even longer. And if you agree, if you validate him, then it'll just go straight to his head. And his ego is already big enough as it is.

"I could be a lot worse," he adds with an unassuming smile, "if you—"

"Spencer."

"Yes?"

"…please."

The word is an admission in itself, but it beats the alternative.

Spencer sighs. "Well…if you insist." He lowers himself, settling fully between your legs as he brushes his nose against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him to be. "I suppose I won't boreyou with all the dreams I’ve had while I’ve been away…"

"Wait, what—"

A sharp gasp cuts through your words as Spencer's mouth finds your clit, and any coherent thought vanishes, replaced with hot static and an overflow of need that has built up in his absence. His fingers press divots into your thighs, keeping them open as he works you with a proficiency that only he could manage; that eidetic memory serves him well when it comes to memorising you. Your body, your essence, your nuances; all the little things he can play to that have you writhing beneath him, forgetting everything that isn't the way his mouth feels, and the hunger that it ignites within you.

Need mounts almost to desperation as you lift your hips in a silent plea for more, and you whine when he gently presses you back down against the mattress. Your fingers find their way into his hair, curling into the chestnut strands as you push his face deeper into you. He makes this noise in response; a low, pleased hum, and it reverberates through you in a way that has you fucking reeling with pleasure. 

He releases his grip on one of your tensed thighs, and the next thing you know he's slipping a finger inside you with ease. A second finger follows and, before you know it, you're arching your back and trying to stifle moans in the hopes that the neighbours won't hear you as Spencer finger fucks you with practiced, calculated precision, hitting that sweet spot repeatedly and bringing you closer and closer to the edge at a carefully controlled pace. He knows you, inside and out, probably better than you know yourself—no, definitely better than you know yourself, because not once have you managed to achieve this kind of high when you've flown solo. It's second nature to him, something he can do without thinking—something he needs, just as much as you do, after such a long week.

His name tumbles from your lips, whispered like a prayer between hymnal moans. He looks up at you and, for a moment, his gaze locks onto yours. What you see in those dark eyes in that split-second is nothing short of worship. Tainted around the edges with a smugness that he can never quite hide when he has you like this, especially when you start to devolve into helpless whines and whimpers and choked, breathless curses. The way you always do just before he brings you over the edge.

The orgasm hits you right when he wants it to; halfway through whining his name, so all you can manage is a weak “Spence-” before the tension snaps and you lose yourself completely. You moan into your hand, and your thighs clench around his head—not that he seems to mind—as he continues guiding you through it, squeezing every ounce of bliss out of you before it all subsides, and you melt beneath him, dazed and drunk on your own ecstasy.

Spencer sits up, red face glazed with a thin sheen of sweat, and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. He watches you for a moment, gaze travelling across your form like you're a work of art in his stupid t-shirt, and he allows you to catch your breath before leaning down and capturing your still-parted lips in a slow, tender kiss. Your hands return to his hair, and you pull him that little bit closer, unable to stop yourself from moaning softly as you taste yourself on his tongue.

You trail a hand down his body until your fingers brush against his prominent erection and, when you do, Spencer breaks the kiss with a gentle shake of his head. His fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls your hand away even as you whine in protest.

"Not tonight, sweetheart," he whispers.

"Why not?"

"Because," he punctuates his words with a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I just want this to be about you."

You pout. "Why can't it be about both of us?"

All Spencer does in response is flash you a knowing smile—one that raises far more questions than it answers—before lowering himself until he's lying flush against your body, being careful not to put too much weight on you. 

"You're weird," you mumble.

"You like it."

"I do."

Spencer nestles his face in the crook of your neck, and you can still feel him smiling against your skin as you run your fingers through his hair. It's hard to believe that he's only been gone for a week; it feels like it's been so much longer than that. Too long. 

You'd ask him to never leave again, if you thought you could. But you know exactly what his answer would be; soft-spoken, sympathetic, disappointing. He can't be here every night, not without giving up his job, and you'd never ask him to do that. 

Instead, you go a different direction.

"So…" you murmur, "about those dreams you mentioned…"

He lifts his head. Eyes narrowed; brow raised. "Oh, now you want to hear about them?"

"Yes. I’m curious."

He purses his lips for a long moment, keeping you on edge until he finally shrugs and says, "no."

You frown. "No?"

Spencer nods, and that smug, knowing little smile returns. Only now it's tinged with a hint of something disconcerting—something sinister, almost. He kisses your cheek once, then your nose, and then, finally, your lips.

"I think it'll be better if I show you," he says, keeping his voice light and innocent. "Tomorrow."

[marcidstars]

i think the spirit of mephi herself possesses me when i'm writing nycto. i keep having to pause and rethink what i'm writing and whether i really want this to be part of my legacy

[trampleddoves]

already salivating

[trampleddoves]

I am very close to reaching 1k and my 26th birthday is coming up, does anyone have any ideas/requests on what I can do for a celebration event? I'm thinking of posting the Office Siren one shots in succession, from Monday to Friday, but I am also open to ideas 🙂

[trampleddoves]

i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave

Spencer Reid intercepts one of your kills, leading to a late-night surprise visit in his apartment.

Pairing: afab!unsub!reader x unsub!Spencer  Contents: smut, 2.6k words, DDDNE, brief blood play, they threaten each other with a gun, post prison unsub!Spencer, unsub!reader, brief mentions of violence, fingering, hand job, unprotected penetrative sex.   Notes: Combined this request with this, although I took some liberties. This is not part of the Marionette, Unbound series, but it is post prison Spencer–turned unsub. The plot is mostly vibes, please don’t look too deeply into it.

He meets you officially, for the first time, in a museum. Of course it’s a museum, like some fucked up cliche. Life has been known to play games with him. Attending an exhibit on Renaissance anatomical sketches—the artistry of dissection—where he senses your presence like it’s in his blood, instinct sharpened by years of both survival and training. 

Four feet to his left, there you are, studying a rendering of a heart. He inches closer, casual and aloof, wondering if his eventual proximity will get a reaction. 

You remain calm. A beat passes. Two, and then,

“You’re standing too close.”

Spencer tilts his head, but refuses to turn and look. “The average personal space boundary in North America between two adults having a conversation is approximately eighteen inches. I’m at twenty-seven.”

“Maybe between friends.” From his periphery, your lips lift into a ghost of a smile. “We’re strangers.”

“Are we?” He holds out a wooden chess piece–a pawn, common and nondescript, if it isn’t for the four tipped star engraved at the bottom. You’d left it in the hands of the last victim. Gloating. A signal, telling him I was here first, you’re too slow. He has two others hidden in a hollow book, from the two other times you’d been faster than him. 

Spencer knows what trophies mean, has spent years learning and studying the type of individual sick enough to collect them. Told himself once he started taking matters into his own hands that he'd never imitate that. Wouldn't keep mementos and collect them, foolishly believing it would set him apart from the rest.

Somehow, when it comes to your tokens, he tells himself they don't count.

You turn then, finally, eyes exaggerated and wide to convey innocence, but he sees the sharpness twinkling just beneath the surface. 

He waits for you to deny. To call him crazy. Threaten to call security. He hopes, for a singular moment, to see a flicker of panic, any hint of fear. Anger at being bested—he did find you, after all, no matter how embarrassing the resources he'd had to use.

Instead, you smile. "I see you got my gift."

“You’re escalating,” he says simply. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"

"The overkill from the last victim."

"I'm offended you're calling that an escalation, I did that for you." you bat your lashes at him, sweet as honey. "Mister…?"

"Spencer Reid." he reliquishes his name without hesitation. After all, he knows nearly everything about you at this point. It only seems fair.

"Spencer Reid." you repeat, lips curling as you introduce yourself.

"I know."

"So you've looked into me."

"As I'm sure you've done with me."

You laugh, light and airy. To onlookers, the two of you must seem like you're flirting. Maybe you are. He certainly gets a reaction from that laugh, like something pulling in his stomach.

"But I didn't get as far as your name." you say finally, smirking at him.

They stand there, two ghosts in a building dedicated to preserved bodies.

“You’re going to get caught,” Spencer murmurs, slipping the pawn back in his pocket.

"Why? Are you turning me in?"

He shakes his head. "You're growing reckless. People are onto you."

"There's an easy fix to that—I'll pin it on you."

Something in him flashes, quick as a whip, memories of prison. Of Cat Adams. His posture straightens, carefully neutral and forcefully serene, but you catch it. The shift, the discomfort. You've hit a nerve.

"Ah," you smirk, "Touchy subject?"

He doesn't answer, lets you mull over and make whatever conclusions you wished. Despite the years, the framed murder still makes his jaw tick.

You step back, clearly pleased. "I won't get caught, Spencer Reid. If you aren't fast enough to keep up with me, then I doubt they will." You brush past his shoulder as you walk away, smelling of camellias and, if you lingered too close, the underlying rust of blood.

—

Six months. Two more kills, both of whom you got to before he does. Spencer isn't that miffed anymore, finds himself chuckling when he finds the crime scene and rummages for the chess piece he knows is waiting for him.

He can't quite decide if this twisting of your paths is fate, or coincedence, or something you'd orchestrated without his knowledge. At some point, his work must have reached you—he had been targetting the same type of men you had. Rich, lonely men who abuse their money and influence, but irrelevant enough to avoid suspicion.

Spencer still remembers the first time he'd found his target already dead. You'd used poison then. Left the chess piece for him. That pawn is the only confirmation of your presence—you never use the same method twice. You're smart, effective, but you're growing bold. Showing off. Bleeding out victims, leaving more mementos that investigators could potentially trace back to you.

Thus, his planning shifts from getting to the targets before you out of the spirit of competition, to getting there to make sure he kills them first and somehow cease your streak.

So far, he's been unsuccessful.

Until today. He's let the last two victims go, a necessary sacrifice to his ego, in order to study your habits.

You blend in. That's your advantage. Beautiful in that nondescript way, adjusting your appearance to fit the setting, that's how you're able to slip in and out of situations.

His advantage is this: he's trained to catch people like you. By tracking your patterns, he comes to the conclusion that you'll be at a gala that Trevor Parker is attending. He doesn't know what your disguise will be, only that he wants to get to this target before you.

So he attends. Dons a pressed shirt and tie, mingles with the crowd, disappearing under the revered title of Doctor Spencer Reid abd pretending everything is all right.

He tries to scope the crowd for you, to no avail. Once the night slows, and Trevor Parker leaves, Spencer tails him discreetly, wondering when you'll show up.

You don't.

Or, you do. But only when he's in the comfort of his own home, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Trevor Parker had been surprisingly stubborn, forcing Spencer closer. He'd planned a quick slit to the throat, but Trevor Parker's life ended with multiple stab wounds, bleeding on his bedroom floor.

"You're hurt."

Spencer jumps, gun immediately drawn, cocked and ready. You laugh, perched on his window sill—is that how you got in?—dressed in the pressed black uniform that the servers from the gala had been wearing. So that's why he couldn't find you within the guests.

"I'm not." he says, gun still held up, "This is all his."

You raise your hands in defeat, head tilted to the side. "You sure?"

Spencer watches you take a step, and then another, keeping his gun in the air. You stop only when the barrel hits your chest, eyes softening in the dim room.

"Let me see."

"I told you, I'm not hurt." Spencer says, eyes dragging over your form. He debates for a moment, before finally lowering his weapon. "You were there. You didn't kill him, but you were there. You would've."

"I would've." you admit, taking another step forward now that his defence has lowered. The smell of camellias and blood fill his apartment, heady, slick and addictive.

"But?"

"But I wanted to see what you'd do instead." you grin, sharp with condescension. "You made a mess, doctor. Next time, maybe leave the dirty work to me."

He huffs, embarrassment blooming in his chest from being chastised and something more primal clawing up his gut from your proximity.

"I wasn't expecting him to be so strong even while drunk." Spencer admits.

"Your first mistake was taking him face to face and waiting until he's home."

"How would you have done it?" "Poison. Administered during the gala, so everyone is a suspect."

Spencer shakes his head. "That would've made a spectacle. I was right to intercept."

"Intercept me?" your eyes flash in the dark. A low, mocking laugh spills from your lips. "Oh, Spencer Reid, do you think yourself my savior? Look at you."

"He's dead, and I left no trace. You would've done something stupid, like leave another pawn on the crime scene."

"Mhm, and imagine what they'd think when the investigators find your suspicious collection of pawns engraved with a four tipped star."

At that, Spencer backs away again. Gun drawn, leveled at your chest.

You laugh. "Relax, that was hypothetical. And it's not nice to point a gun at an unarmed lady."

"What do you want? Why are you here? To gloat and tell me you'd do a better job?" he says, voice dangerously calm, "You already did that."

Your smile melts, turns syrupy. "I did. Why do you have a gun pointed at me? I told you I'm unarmed."

"Forgive me, but I don't trust that." "Oh, then allow me to prove it."

Before he can blink, you're already unbuttoning your blouse, revealing bare skin, the lace of your bra. The shirt falls to the floor, and you make a show of turning around. "See? No hidden guns. Or do you want me to strip naked just to be—"

He silences you with a kiss, blood stirring hot and insistent in his veins. You laugh into his mouth, arms wrapping tight around his neck and tugging him to the floor. He follows, hisses when you bite at his lower lip so hard the metallic taste laves over his tongue.

You giggle, lapping up the trickling blood eagerly, hands traveling down to unbutton his pants.

Spencer groans, cock stirring from the high of the kill, your pliant body beneath his, squirming and arching into his with a softness he hasn't felt in a while. A softness he didn't think possible, not from you. Your cold hands shoving past his boxers to squeeze and stroke over his cock.

He feels another nip, lip you're trying to get more blood from his lips, and he pulls back, large hands framing your face. He gets a good look at you then, the feral grin stretching your lips, his blood smeared over them. The soft pad of his thumb presses into the plush.

Your mouth parts, sucking the digit between them. A hum vibrates around his thumb as your tongue swirls over each crevice.

His spine tingles when he realizes you're licking Trevor Parker's dried blood off. Everything is forgotten with that realization, only heat and desire and you, right there, on his floor.

"Fuck," Spencer hisses. His thumb slips out, now clean, and he replaces them with his index and middle finger, watching you suck them clean with undivided intensity. Your hand on his cock moves faster, trying to find a sloppy rhythm to sync with how his hips are rutting forward.

He groans, his body shuddering into yours, pressing you into the carpet. One arm braced by your head, the other slides his fingers out of your lips to undo your pants, tugging them down just enough to slip his fingers, still slick and slippery with your saliva, into the throbbing heat of your cunt. Soft, warm walls accept those digits, clench around them when he curls up.

Spencer pumps those fingers in and out of your cunt, making sure to hit that spongy part that has you baring your neck to him. He bends to kiss at that stretch of skin, licking and biting, wondering if he's got it in him to break your skin the way you did his.

"Oh," you sigh, leaning back on one elbow. You continue stroking his cock with one hand, spreading slick precum all down the shaft. His legs shimmy clumsily to ease the rest of his pants off.

As if you've read his mind, you tug your own bottoms off, knees knocking accidentally into his side, until finally, you've freed yourself from the confines of your clothes and are able to wrap your legs around his waist. Moving as one now, Spencer slides his fingers out with a wet pop, smearing the slickness against your lips.

You laugh, and he swears the world tilts.

Another shift, hands arranging thighs, spreading you open, and then, finally, a push. Into your heat, stretching the entrance slowly. His cock glides in with ease once your body accepts the broad tip, bottoming out in one thrust.

Your elbow buckles. Land flat on the floor. He moves one hand to the back of your had, eases it up and cradles it like you're precious, just so you aren't lying straight on the hardwood floor.

"This what you wanted?" he groans, thrusting shallowly. "What you came for?"

"Mhm," you moan, dragging him down for another kiss. Your tongue laves over his bleeding lip insistently, shamelessly. He moves in earnest now. Sharp, quick thrusts of his hips, ones that make your nails dig into his scalp until he's hissing, until he's convinced you're still trying to draw blood.

He pulls almost all the way out and slams roughly in retaliation.

"Fuck!"

"That's it." he pants, repeating the action, watching your face twist, sweat slick and pretty in the darkness, as he pounds into your cunt. "Let me hear you."

You lean into it with glee, moaning and cursing into the dark room. His name, pleas to go harder, please, yes right there, over and over until he's fucking you hard and fast, your slick bodies inching slowly across the floor from the impact. You take all of it with glee, walls fluttering around his length, soft and perfect.

"I'm—ah—close, please, I'm so close!"

"Yeah?" he hikes your leg higher over his waist, before rubbing quick circles over your sensitive bud with his thumb. He feels it before you could even make a sound, the sudden tightness, the rush of wetness pulsing around his cock. Your face scrunches, pleasure thrumming all through your body and making you squirm. Beautiful.

Spencer gasps, eyes clenched tight as he fucks you through your orgasm and chases his own.

And then—

The click of a gun.

"Get off."

His eyes fly open, disoriented and dazed, meeting your blissed out gaze beneath him. At his temple, the cold press of the barrel. His gun, discarded carelessly when you both fell to the floor, now in your hands. His gun which he'd tried to use to physically keep you away, now aimed at his own head.

Spencer blinks. Pulls out of you carefully, panting, clearing his throat. Stands up, slow and steady, unsure about everything.

You grin, bright and sweet. Keep the gun trained at him while you tug your pants back on, not bothering with your panties. Your shirt is askew, only half buttoned.

"I came here to tell you to never steal my target again." you say, stepping backward, moving toward the window where he assumes you'd used to break in the first time. "Or I won't hesitate to pull this trigger."

Spencer watches you, half undressed, his cock still twitching and erect. He nods, once. "I won't interfere again."

You grin. Set his gun down on a nearby desk, before pushing his window open.

"Good. You do that." you duck and slip out through the small space. "Oh, and thanks for the orgasm. We should do that again sometime."

You're gone without another glance. Spencer stands there, covered in dried blood, his ears ringing. A million things run through his head. He needs better security. Take a shower. Burn these clothes.

But first, he wraps his fist around his weeping, needy cock and recalls the look on your face when you came apart.

part of my BLOODY VALENTINE MARATHON | Main masterlist.

[trampleddoves]

hii just wanted to recommend using ellipsus as an alternative to writing in your drafts on tumblr. Tumblr is notorious for eating posts!! (plus you’ll have a backup copy)

(Recommending ellipsus bc they don’t have any ai on their platform like Google Docs)

Thank you, this is appreciated. I've always put everything in my drafts which is risky, but I really dislike Google's insistence and reliance on AI. Besides, I normally post things as soon as I finish them, so I didn't use to encounter any problems. The queueing and scheduling must have messed up somehow. I'll give ellipsus a shot.

[trampleddoves]

what happened with the gun kink fic? i can’t see to find it :( (hope youre doing ok!)

NO oh no oh no oh no I think Tumblr ate it ☹️ I thought I had it scheduled but it's not in my drafts or in the queue anymore. I write directly in my drafts here so I have no other copy oh god I'm so upset. I will rewrite it over the weekend, I'm sorry.

[trampleddoves]

More unsub Spencer smut? Doesn't have to be non con, maybe unsub!reader x unsub!Spencer 👀

Hello, I have no idea if you're still here but I wrote it. I hope you enjoy, if you are.

[trampleddoves]

okay hear me out…Unsub! Spencer who gets worked up after a kill and fucks you while covered in his victim’s blood

I hope this is to your liking!

[trampleddoves]

i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave

Spencer Reid intercepts one of your kills, leading to a late-night surprise visit in his apartment.

Pairing: afab!unsub!reader x unsub!Spencer  Contents: smut, 2.6k words, DDDNE, brief blood play, they threaten each other with a gun, post prison unsub!Spencer, unsub!reader, brief mentions of violence, fingering, hand job, unprotected penetrative sex.   Notes: Combined this request with this, although I took some liberties. This is not part of the Marionette, Unbound series, but it is post prison Spencer–turned unsub. The plot is mostly vibes, please don’t look too deeply into it.

He meets you officially, for the first time, in a museum. Of course it’s a museum, like some fucked up cliche. Life has been known to play games with him. Attending an exhibit on Renaissance anatomical sketches—the artistry of dissection—where he senses your presence like it’s in his blood, instinct sharpened by years of both survival and training. 

Four feet to his left, there you are, studying a rendering of a heart. He inches closer, casual and aloof, wondering if his eventual proximity will get a reaction. 

You remain calm. A beat passes. Two, and then,

“You’re standing too close.”

Spencer tilts his head, but refuses to turn and look. “The average personal space boundary in North America between two adults having a conversation is approximately eighteen inches. I’m at twenty-seven.”

“Maybe between friends.” From his periphery, your lips lift into a ghost of a smile. “We’re strangers.”

“Are we?” He holds out a wooden chess piece–a pawn, common and nondescript, if it isn’t for the four tipped star engraved at the bottom. You’d left it in the hands of the last victim. Gloating. A signal, telling him I was here first, you’re too slow. He has two others hidden in a hollow book, from the two other times you’d been faster than him. 

Spencer knows what trophies mean, has spent years learning and studying the type of individual sick enough to collect them. Told himself once he started taking matters into his own hands that he'd never imitate that. Wouldn't keep mementos and collect them, foolishly believing it would set him apart from the rest.

Somehow, when it comes to your tokens, he tells himself they don't count.

You turn then, finally, eyes exaggerated and wide to convey innocence, but he sees the sharpness twinkling just beneath the surface. 

He waits for you to deny. To call him crazy. Threaten to call security. He hopes, for a singular moment, to see a flicker of panic, any hint of fear. Anger at being bested—he did find you, after all, no matter how embarrassing the resources he'd had to use.

Instead, you smile. "I see you got my gift."

“You’re escalating,” he says simply. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"

"The overkill from the last victim."

"I'm offended you're calling that an escalation, I did that for you." you bat your lashes at him, sweet as honey. "Mister…?"

"Spencer Reid." he reliquishes his name without hesitation. After all, he knows nearly everything about you at this point. It only seems fair.

"Spencer Reid." you repeat, lips curling as you introduce yourself.

"I know."

"So you've looked into me."

"As I'm sure you've done with me."

You laugh, light and airy. To onlookers, the two of you must seem like you're flirting. Maybe you are. He certainly gets a reaction from that laugh, like something pulling in his stomach.

"But I didn't get as far as your name." you say finally, smirking at him.

They stand there, two ghosts in a building dedicated to preserved bodies.

“You’re going to get caught,” Spencer murmurs, slipping the pawn back in his pocket.

"Why? Are you turning me in?"

He shakes his head. "You're growing reckless. People are onto you."

"There's an easy fix to that—I'll pin it on you."

Something in him flashes, quick as a whip, memories of prison. Of Cat Adams. His posture straightens, carefully neutral and forcefully serene, but you catch it. The shift, the discomfort. You've hit a nerve.

"Ah," you smirk, "Touchy subject?"

He doesn't answer, lets you mull over and make whatever conclusions you wished. Despite the years, the framed murder still makes his jaw tick.

You step back, clearly pleased. "I won't get caught, Spencer Reid. If you aren't fast enough to keep up with me, then I doubt they will." You brush past his shoulder as you walk away, smelling of camellias and, if you lingered too close, the underlying rust of blood.

—

Six months. Two more kills, both of whom you got to before he does. Spencer isn't that miffed anymore, finds himself chuckling when he finds the crime scene and rummages for the chess piece he knows is waiting for him.

He can't quite decide if this twisting of your paths is fate, or coincedence, or something you'd orchestrated without his knowledge. At some point, his work must have reached you—he had been targetting the same type of men you had. Rich, lonely men who abuse their money and influence, but irrelevant enough to avoid suspicion.

Spencer still remembers the first time he'd found his target already dead. You'd used poison then. Left the chess piece for him. That pawn is the only confirmation of your presence—you never use the same method twice. You're smart, effective, but you're growing bold. Showing off. Bleeding out victims, leaving more mementos that investigators could potentially trace back to you.

Thus, his planning shifts from getting to the targets before you out of the spirit of competition, to getting there to make sure he kills them first and somehow cease your streak.

So far, he's been unsuccessful.

Until today. He's let the last two victims go, a necessary sacrifice to his ego, in order to study your habits.

You blend in. That's your advantage. Beautiful in that nondescript way, adjusting your appearance to fit the setting, that's how you're able to slip in and out of situations.

His advantage is this: he's trained to catch people like you. By tracking your patterns, he comes to the conclusion that you'll be at a gala that Trevor Parker is attending. He doesn't know what your disguise will be, only that he wants to get to this target before you.

So he attends. Dons a pressed shirt and tie, mingles with the crowd, disappearing under the revered title of Doctor Spencer Reid abd pretending everything is all right.

He tries to scope the crowd for you, to no avail. Once the night slows, and Trevor Parker leaves, Spencer tails him discreetly, wondering when you'll show up.

You don't.

Or, you do. But only when he's in the comfort of his own home, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Trevor Parker had been surprisingly stubborn, forcing Spencer closer. He'd planned a quick slit to the throat, but Trevor Parker's life ended with multiple stab wounds, bleeding on his bedroom floor.

"You're hurt."

Spencer jumps, gun immediately drawn, cocked and ready. You laugh, perched on his window sill—is that how you got in?—dressed in the pressed black uniform that the servers from the gala had been wearing. So that's why he couldn't find you within the guests.

"I'm not." he says, gun still held up, "This is all his."

You raise your hands in defeat, head tilted to the side. "You sure?"

Spencer watches you take a step, and then another, keeping his gun in the air. You stop only when the barrel hits your chest, eyes softening in the dim room.

"Let me see."

"I told you, I'm not hurt." Spencer says, eyes dragging over your form. He debates for a moment, before finally lowering his weapon. "You were there. You didn't kill him, but you were there. You would've."

"I would've." you admit, taking another step forward now that his defence has lowered. The smell of camellias and blood fill his apartment, heady, slick and addictive.

"But?"

"But I wanted to see what you'd do instead." you grin, sharp with condescension. "You made a mess, doctor. Next time, maybe leave the dirty work to me."

He huffs, embarrassment blooming in his chest from being chastised and something more primal clawing up his gut from your proximity.

"I wasn't expecting him to be so strong even while drunk." Spencer admits.

"Your first mistake was taking him face to face and waiting until he's home."

"How would you have done it?" "Poison. Administered during the gala, so everyone is a suspect."

Spencer shakes his head. "That would've made a spectacle. I was right to intercept."

"Intercept me?" your eyes flash in the dark. A low, mocking laugh spills from your lips. "Oh, Spencer Reid, do you think yourself my savior? Look at you."

"He's dead, and I left no trace. You would've done something stupid, like leave another pawn on the crime scene."

"Mhm, and imagine what they'd think when the investigators find your suspicious collection of pawns engraved with a four tipped star."

At that, Spencer backs away again. Gun drawn, leveled at your chest.

You laugh. "Relax, that was hypothetical. And it's not nice to point a gun at an unarmed lady."

"What do you want? Why are you here? To gloat and tell me you'd do a better job?" he says, voice dangerously calm, "You already did that."

Your smile melts, turns syrupy. "I did. Why do you have a gun pointed at me? I told you I'm unarmed."

"Forgive me, but I don't trust that." "Oh, then allow me to prove it."

Before he can blink, you're already unbuttoning your blouse, revealing bare skin, the lace of your bra. The shirt falls to the floor, and you make a show of turning around. "See? No hidden guns. Or do you want me to strip naked just to be—"

He silences you with a kiss, blood stirring hot and insistent in his veins. You laugh into his mouth, arms wrapping tight around his neck and tugging him to the floor. He follows, hisses when you bite at his lower lip so hard the metallic taste laves over his tongue.

You giggle, lapping up the trickling blood eagerly, hands traveling down to unbutton his pants.

Spencer groans, cock stirring from the high of the kill, your pliant body beneath his, squirming and arching into his with a softness he hasn't felt in a while. A softness he didn't think possible, not from you. Your cold hands shoving past his boxers to squeeze and stroke over his cock.

He feels another nip, lip you're trying to get more blood from his lips, and he pulls back, large hands framing your face. He gets a good look at you then, the feral grin stretching your lips, his blood smeared over them. The soft pad of his thumb presses into the plush.

Your mouth parts, sucking the digit between them. A hum vibrates around his thumb as your tongue swirls over each crevice.

His spine tingles when he realizes you're licking Trevor Parker's dried blood off. Everything is forgotten with that realization, only heat and desire and you, right there, on his floor.

"Fuck," Spencer hisses. His thumb slips out, now clean, and he replaces them with his index and middle finger, watching you suck them clean with undivided intensity. Your hand on his cock moves faster, trying to find a sloppy rhythm to sync with how his hips are rutting forward.

He groans, his body shuddering into yours, pressing you into the carpet. One arm braced by your head, the other slides his fingers out of your lips to undo your pants, tugging them down just enough to slip his fingers, still slick and slippery with your saliva, into the throbbing heat of your cunt. Soft, warm walls accept those digits, clench around them when he curls up.

Spencer pumps those fingers in and out of your cunt, making sure to hit that spongy part that has you baring your neck to him. He bends to kiss at that stretch of skin, licking and biting, wondering if he's got it in him to break your skin the way you did his.

"Oh," you sigh, leaning back on one elbow. You continue stroking his cock with one hand, spreading slick precum all down the shaft. His legs shimmy clumsily to ease the rest of his pants off.

As if you've read his mind, you tug your own bottoms off, knees knocking accidentally into his side, until finally, you've freed yourself from the confines of your clothes and are able to wrap your legs around his waist. Moving as one now, Spencer slides his fingers out with a wet pop, smearing the slickness against your lips.

You laugh, and he swears the world tilts.

Another shift, hands arranging thighs, spreading you open, and then, finally, a push. Into your heat, stretching the entrance slowly. His cock glides in with ease once your body accepts the broad tip, bottoming out in one thrust.

Your elbow buckles. Land flat on the floor. He moves one hand to the back of your had, eases it up and cradles it like you're precious, just so you aren't lying straight on the hardwood floor.

"This what you wanted?" he groans, thrusting shallowly. "What you came for?"

"Mhm," you moan, dragging him down for another kiss. Your tongue laves over his bleeding lip insistently, shamelessly. He moves in earnest now. Sharp, quick thrusts of his hips, ones that make your nails dig into his scalp until he's hissing, until he's convinced you're still trying to draw blood.

He pulls almost all the way out and slams roughly in retaliation.

"Fuck!"

"That's it." he pants, repeating the action, watching your face twist, sweat slick and pretty in the darkness, as he pounds into your cunt. "Let me hear you."

You lean into it with glee, moaning and cursing into the dark room. His name, pleas to go harder, please, yes right there, over and over until he's fucking you hard and fast, your slick bodies inching slowly across the floor from the impact. You take all of it with glee, walls fluttering around his length, soft and perfect.

"I'm—ah—close, please, I'm so close!"

"Yeah?" he hikes your leg higher over his waist, before rubbing quick circles over your sensitive bud with his thumb. He feels it before you could even make a sound, the sudden tightness, the rush of wetness pulsing around his cock. Your face scrunches, pleasure thrumming all through your body and making you squirm. Beautiful.

Spencer gasps, eyes clenched tight as he fucks you through your orgasm and chases his own.

And then—

The click of a gun.

"Get off."

His eyes fly open, disoriented and dazed, meeting your blissed out gaze beneath him. At his temple, the cold press of the barrel. His gun, discarded carelessly when you both fell to the floor, now in your hands. His gun which he'd tried to use to physically keep you away, now aimed at his own head.

Spencer blinks. Pulls out of you carefully, panting, clearing his throat. Stands up, slow and steady, unsure about everything.

You grin, bright and sweet. Keep the gun trained at him while you tug your pants back on, not bothering with your panties. Your shirt is askew, only half buttoned.

"I came here to tell you to never steal my target again." you say, stepping backward, moving toward the window where he assumes you'd used to break in the first time. "Or I won't hesitate to pull this trigger."

Spencer watches you, half undressed, his cock still twitching and erect. He nods, once. "I won't interfere again."

You grin. Set his gun down on a nearby desk, before pushing his window open.

"Good. You do that." you duck and slip out through the small space. "Oh, and thanks for the orgasm. We should do that again sometime."

You're gone without another glance. Spencer stands there, covered in dried blood, his ears ringing. A million things run through his head. He needs better security. Take a shower. Burn these clothes.

But first, he wraps his fist around his weeping, needy cock and recalls the look on your face when you came apart.

part of my BLOODY VALENTINE MARATHON | Main masterlist.

[trampleddoves]

hi dove!! its the og stepbro spencer anon from oh so long ago just stopping by to say I’m so happy to see you’re back annnnddd absolutely loving that new stepbro spencer fic you put out!! #freaksunite❤️

Hello! I'm so happy you're still actively reading for the fandom. Thank you so much, I've missed writing for you guys 😌

[trampleddoves]

no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

Your stepbrother seems different after a year on the field, but the attraction between you remains the same.

Pairing: afab!reader x stepbrother! Spencer Contents: smut + mild hurt/comfort, 2.4k words, DDDNE, stepcest, s1! Spencer, slight perv! Spencer, jealous and dominant!reader, voyeurism, panty sniffing, mentions of Lila Archer and what happened in ep 1x18, male masturbation and male receiving oral, Spencer comes prematurely. Notes: Request here and partially inspired by some of @spenceloria's headcanon post. We are starting this marathon strong with stepcest. As usual, just scroll if you don’t like the contents.

Spencer Reid comes back gaunt.

You did not think it’s possible; he didn’t have much weight to begin with, slender and delicate as he is.

But he’s there one random weekend at the behest of his father, cheekbones sharper, twin purple blooms beneath his eyes, and hair slightly less scraggly. You think it’s adorable, out of all things to thrive, that it’s his hair, glossy brown and parted to one side.

He is despondent during dinner. Head down, elbows tucked into his sides, and only answers questions when asked.

William attributes the silence to his son’s disdain for him. Your mother thinks he’s simply overworked from his job, and keeps fussing over him the way mothers do. Her actions inescapable and always laced with guilt, like refusing her attention is an unforgivable mistake.

It’s probably both of those things. At least, you hope it is.

You aren’t sure which is more delusional: thinking he’s forgotten about what happened between the two of you, or thinking he is completely, mind numbingly affected by it.

You want to ask. You don't want anything to do with him. You want to mount him the same way you did the last time he was here, but this time without the clothes to separate. You mostly stay away from him, too. He seems miserable enough as it is.

After dinner, your mom tells you to talk to him and bond a little, you guys are around the same age. You don't have the heart to tell her you've already bonded, just not in the way she probably wants.

But you nod, ever the dutiful daughter, promising to speak with him later that day.

What you weren’t expecting is the sounds coming from the guest bedroom as you approach. Soft, muffled. You press your ear to the door, brows knit in worry. He sounds like he’s in pain.

Your hand lifts, poised to knock, as the sounds continue. You’re about to yell for William, who’s downstairs with your mother, already half into a bottle of red, when you hear a soft whimper.

A word. Syllables tripping over each other, wrapped in desperation and desire.

It takes a moment, but you realize he’s saying your name.

No, not saying. Moaning.

Your hand tries the doorknob. The sounds from the room halt, comically quick, followed by shuffling. You wiggle the handle again, and then say, “I know what you’re doing.”

Minutes pass. Or it doesn’t. You can’t tell. Spencer is quiet for a long while, no denial, no fluster, just silence that makes your heart jump to your throat.

“Open the door.” you call out, gentle as a morning mist, like you’re trying to keep an animal from getting spooked. “Spencer, it’s fine.”

It takes three more breaths before you hear movement. The door opens to his face, all wobbling lips, eyes glassy with tears. Of what? Guilt? Pleasure? Both? The rest of him is rumpled, sweater askew, a very clear bulge straining against his jeans. His left hand is clamped around something tightly, knuckles white, red lace peeking through the slits of his fingers.

“That’s mine, isn’t it?”

He nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Now you’re sorry?”

“I am. I was sorry then, too.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

You huff, eyes narrowing. “Then why are you still jerking off to me like this?”

“Keep your voice d–”

“I don’t think you get to tell me that when you’re right there, holding one of my goddamned panties like a pervert.”

He shrinks like a tower collapsing in on itself. Panicked brown eyes flicker past you, and look down the hallway, like he’s waiting for one of your parents to come walking by.

"They won't be coming up, Saturday nights, they like to indulge and pass out on the couch." You mumble, frowning.

"Why are you even up here?" he tries to deflect, but you're having none of it. Not now, when he's clearly been doing something deeply perverse. Something you had been thinking of, during sleepless nights alone.

"I was headed to the bathroom when I heard you." you lie, "Didn't even have the decency to keep it down, huh?" You watch, triumphant, as his cheeks turn bright red.

"I'm so—"

"God, stop apologizing." you push past him and let yourself into his room. The door closes with a click and you glare up at him, challenging and, beneath that, wanting. "I want to watch."

"What?"

"I want to watch. I think it's fair—you steal my underwear, I watch what you do with it."

He stares at you, dumbfounded to silence, looking like he's waiting for the ball to drop. But you're completely serious. It's not like you haven't crossed a line before. Who cares what happens now, right? You press your back to the door, locking it without looking.

He gulps, realizing there's no way out of this, and stumbles back to his bed. Slumps like he's been defeated.. Spencer glances at you questioningly, like he's waiting for a change. You only raise your brows at him, as if to say what are you waiting for?

He fumbles with his zipper again, avoiding your eyes as he pushes those pants low enough to free his length.

You haven’t actually seen him before. Wasn’t expecting a shaft as long as that, flushed red and slim like the rest of him. You wonder how he’d feel inside you, and immediately, guilt churns fresh in your chest. You swallow it down, and keep your eyes on him.

“You can start.” you murmur. A plea. An order.

Spencer moves like he’s made to obey. Maybe he is. Soft croaks spill from his lips, embarrassed, turned on, desperate to show off. He wraps a large hand around himself, white knuckled and pathetic, face tilted down like he’s trying to hide from you.

Up, down, slow, jerky strokes, his hand too large to properly tighten around the slenderness of his cock. Strands of hair fall over his forehead as his rhythm becomes steadier. With shaking hands, he brings your underwear to his nose and sniffs deeply.

“Spencer,” you say, transfixed. “Look at me.”

He whines.

“Look at me, please.”

His falters for a moment, large hand pausing midstroke, as if he’s calculating what the price you’d make him pay if he remains obstinately looking down.

There’s none, really, but you thread your voice with authority like you’d make him regret disobeying. “Look at me.”

Molten gold. His eyes look like molten gold, black pupils dilated and melting into clear brown irises. He lets out a choked moan, strokes growing faster, sloppier. Even from the distance, you can see the tip glistening with precum, and it’s that sight that makes your body move, quick strides to cross the distance between you.

He gasps, mouth going slack when you sink to your knees in front of him.

“What–what’re you–”

“Let me help.” you whisper, wrapping your palm around the base and easing his hand off. You squeeze as you stroke up, twist your wrist slightly, and something like a choked cough falls past his lips.

“God,” he doesn’t bother with pretense anymore. Doesn’t bother with the song and dance of coyness and deflection. Instead, Spencer’s hips buck up into your hand, eager for more, finally yielding to his baser desires. Lust winning over decency. He keeps your panties to his nose and moans. “That feels good.”

“Yeah?” your voice lowers, soaking in patronizing concern. “How long has it been since someone took care of you, huh?”

“T-too long.”

“Poor baby. Nobody since me? Is that why you’re so wound up?”

He blinks, then looks away like he’s guilty, whining, brows knit in distress. His hands fall beside him, limp. An ugly feeling curls in your chest, tight and burning with something you refuse to name right now. With your free hand, you cup his jaw and force him to meet your gaze again.

There, shining in those brown eyes, clear as day. Contrition. Shame.

“There was someone.” You try to make it sound less like an accusation, but it still lands that way.

He jerks, face twisting in pain. Your hand tightens around his cock, nails digging lightly into the sensitive skin.

“What’s her name?”

"Ow."

"What's her name?"

“Lila.” he folds like dirty linen and spits the name out as if it poisons, lower lip quivering. “It was Lila, please, it didn’t mean anything–”

“And this does?”

His eyes close and his body tips over, bending forward until you’re afraid he’ll collapse. But he only moves to press into you, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He’s warm. Burning with guilt and desire and desperation, and you thrive off of all of it.

“I don’t know. I don’t know, god, after everything. I don’t know what this is. It’s all so scary. The job, all the fieldwork, it wasn't what I thought—” His face shifts, lips brushing against yours clumsily, like he’s trying it out for the first time. “She was so pretty and she kissed me first and I–”

You cut him off with a kiss, soothing and slow. He returns it hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips and licking into you like he wants to fill your mouth. Your hand leaves his length, both palms pressing into his thighs for balance as he kisses you with everything he’s got.

“And you what,” you mumble between kisses, lips muffled and slippery with saliva, “You liked it? Liked making out with her?”

You’re not sure why you’re doing this. It seems like torture, to even ask. Why you so desperately want the answer to be no.

“I did,” he admits, pulling away breathlessly. That burning in your chest grows white hot, threatening to erupt out of you like lava, “I did. But only because…”

“Because?” it comes clipped and impatient, and Spencer flinches like he’s been struck.

“It reminded me of you.”

You pull away from him in surprise. You hadn't even realized you were bracing for rejection, until his confession eases the weight off your shoulders. You're still for several beats, staring into him, waiting—praying—for an ounce of guilt to flood through your body. A hint of disgust at his words. Anything to pull you away from him.

The relief simply stays. Settles like a boat being anchored, and you know you're both ruined.

You kiss him again, because it feels good. Because he tastes like mint and sin. Because he kisses back just as fervently, like he misses your mouth, like he wants to remember what it's like forever so he'll never have to settle for the cheap approximation of it from other women.

"Tell me what else she did." you mumble, trailing kisses down his jaw. You nip at the skin right at the juncture of his jaw and neck, just to hear him whine. "Did she touch you like this too?"

Your hand returns to where it had been previously wrapped around him, making quick, insistent pumps, so good he can't answer for a good minute. Just soft rattles of breath and hips trying to buck up into your touch.

"Spencer?"

"No," he hisses finally, "No, it was just—ah—just kisses."

"Good." you say, feeling slightly better from his admission. You kiss him again, slow and sweet this time, taking the lead and forcing him to follow, your tongue moving in tandem with your hand. When you part, he follows, glassy eyed and slick-lipped, moaning when you push him away.

"What—"

"Shh. Keep your voice down." you whisper, adjusting your stance before him, lips licking teasingly over his bony thighs, before pressing a sloppy kiss to the tip of his cock.

He bucks. Cries out.

"Fuck's sake, Spencer, quiet down!" you repeat.

He nods, teeth clamping on his lower lip. You resume your movements, alternating between licks and gentle, open mouthed kisses, all lavished at his oversensitive tip, while your hand takes care of the rest of him. Slow, measured glides that have him twisting on his bed, thighs quivering like he's fighting against every instinct to close his legs around your head and curl up.

"So, nobody else besides this Lila?" you ask between every kiss, looking up at him through your lashes, deceptively, devastatingly innocent.

"N-no. I didn't kiss anyone else." he mumbles, "God, can I touch you?"

You nod, satisfied, humming when his fingers card through your hair, long digits tangling with the strands. He contents himself with just holding you there, occasionally brushing loose tendrils back to keep you free from distractions.

You reward him by taking him into your mouth, lips stretching around the bulbous tip, jaw relaxed as you slide him deeper, slowly guiding him with your hand.

Spencer lets out a sound that would sound pained if you didn't know what was happening. Your head bobs gently, retreating to the tip and sucking hard. He brings his free fist to his mouth and bites until you're sure he'll draw blood.

You hum around the weight of him, pushing back to take more of him into your mouth. Your hand takes care of what you can't fit, squeezing up gently while you suck. He's throbbing atop your tongue, and with once twist of your wrist, something warm and salty explodes and coats your senses.

He curses, hands gripping your hair in surprise, before immediately loosening.

"Shit! Oh no, oh no, I—ah!" he tries to push you away, apologetic and sweet as sin, but you stay put stubbornly, swallowing around every pulse, letting him finish inside your mouth. You stay on your knees, even as he sobs tearlessly, stay until he softens. Only then do you pull off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"I'm so—"

"Told you to stop apologizing." you mumble, settling now at his feet.

He frowns, easing from the bed to join you on the floor. "I know. I was—I came too soon."

"Seems like a recurring thing." you tease, smiling when it earns you a chuckle. A pause settles, heavy and loaded. "What did you mean, when you said it wasn't like you thought?"

He's quiet. Traces the carpet with a spindly finger as he thinks. "It just isn't. I don't know. It's all I've ever studied for, but nothing really prepares you for… for all of it. The stench of the bodies. The tiring interrogations. Taking a life."

"You've…" your voice trails off, suddenly understanding. Assuming his moodiness was all due to you had been a little presumptuous, if he's grappling with something as serious as this. "I'm sorry. I was making fun of you for being wound up."

"You didn't know." he smiles, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. "So there's no need to apologize."

"That's my line." you say weakly.

He laughs, brighter this time. The silence that hovers after is gentle, filled with awkwardness and hope. No guilt. No more. Not after this. Not when you both know there'll be more to come.

part of my BLOODY VALENTINE MARATHON | Main masterlist.

[trampleddoves]

hihi

Im not going to ask you not to write anything because thats rude and it won't help anything. However comma, id like to ask that you tag your stepbrother fics with stepbrother so that the people that are really uncomfortable with it can avoid it quicker. Not trying to diss you or anything like that, its dead dove for a reason, but a more specific label on the paper bag would be nice? Sorry if it sounds rude or entitled i really dont mean it that way

That is completely fair, I'll edit the tags now. Thank you for bringing it up.