Janini🪲

A beatlemaniac with a taste for older men and crimes. 😝

[twistnlennstarr]

Hi guys. I’m new here I was recommended to share a fanfic I wrote a month ago and the person that recommended that told me it would be a great hit so I hope it is as they said.

With love, Jani <3

(Spotify playlists: one of mostly Taylor Swift: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xIJ5Dc0QDSaSL7SnZQpK1?si=sVDF6hA1TUqWfW6lg7iy_g Second o

[girlnamedangel]

If you need me, I’ll be in the sin closet.

[b3atle-maniac]

i need him

[twistnlennstarr]

‘You Stayed’ by Twistnlennstarr on Wattpad.

Chapter I: The Rooftop Girl

(Listen to illicit affairs by Taylor Swift or The Louvre by Lorde.)

The rooftop was too loud for how quiet she felt inside.

The air buzzed with half-polite laughter and curated conversation, glasses clinking with imported wine and ambition. Golden string lights zig-zagged overhead, strung like constellations between beams of rusted metal. People mingled in soft designer linens, whispering over gallery pieces and pretending to understand brushstrokes like they understood people.

She didn't belong here. Not really.

She'd only come because a friend canceled last minute and handed her the invite like an afterthought—"You're pretty and chaotic. They'll love you."

She hadn't expected to see him there.

Not at first.

She noticed him the way you notice thunder from across a canyon—quietly, deeply, like something that's about to shift the landscape.

Tall. Dark suit. No tie. White shirt open just enough to hint at something less polished underneath. Hair perfectly imperfect, flecked with silver, brows drawn together like he was watching the party from far, far away.

He wasn't mingling. He wasn't smiling. He was standing near the edge, a glass of something dark in hand, the kind of stillness that made you wonder what kind of war he was fighting behind his eyes.

She didn't know his name then.

But he looked up. Just once.

And he saw her.

Really saw her.

She smiled. Just barely.

He didn't smile back—but he nodded. A quiet, slow acknowledgment that cracked the air like lightning. And then he looked away.

⸻

There was art inside, displayed in a converted loft space, but the party had spilled out to the rooftop where the important people could be seen appreciating it. The real pieces were locked away in glass, while outside, the true show was happening in stolen glances and networking deals.

She wandered. Avoided eye contact. Said "oh wow" a lot in front of paintings she didn't understand.

Then she saw one.

A watercolor.

It wasn't big. It wasn't flashy.

But something about it ached. The colors were soft, but the edges bled like bruises. The figure in the center was feminine, slightly turned away, eyes wide, mouth open—like she was about to say something, or scream. Maybe both.

The plaque read:

"She Never Said It Aloud."

2022, M.G.G.

Her stomach dropped.

Matthew Gray Gubler.

The name carved a little tremble into her spine. She hadn't thought of him in a while. Not really. They had history—a weird, half-unwritten one. Flirtations that never landed. Moments that looked like meaning but never stayed long enough to be real.

Still, the painting made her feel sick in the most beautiful way.

The girl in the painting—she looked like her.

Not in the obvious sense. Not a direct portrait.

But the feeling? The posture? The vulnerability wrapped in pretense?

That was her.

That was so her.

She turned away from it, needing air. And that's when he spoke.

"Don't worry. I didn't get it either."

His voice was deeper than she expected. Warm, rich, with a rasp at the edges that felt lived-in, like an old record player still spinning through dust.

She turned, and there he was again.

Him. The man from the rooftop.

Up close now. Closer than her pulse could handle.

She smiled nervously. "Maybe I'm just not smart enough for abstract heartbreak."

He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Or maybe heartbreak's not supposed to be abstract in the first place."

She blinked.

And then, something shifted.

The rest of the room fell away.

People milled around them, blurred and irrelevant. The gallery lights dimmed in the corners of her mind. All that mattered was this strange man who looked at her like she was a secret he'd almost forgotten.

"You come to these often?" she asked, mostly just to fill the air.

"God, no. I hate them," he said. "But I have friends who pretend I enjoy socializing."

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem like the mingling type."

"I'm not. But I'm very good at standing still until people leave me alone."

"Like an art piece."

"Exactly."

She laughed, genuinely this time.

And when she looked at him again, she caught it—

Just a flicker.

A smile.

"Thomas," he said, offering his hand.

She hesitated. Then took it.

"I'm... a mistake waiting to happen," she said playfully.

He tilted his head. "Is that your name?"

"Only if you ask the right people."

He chuckled. "I'll try to be the wrong one, then."

⸻

They didn't exchange numbers.

No Instagram follows.

Just one lingering moment.

The party moved around them. The stars above blinked like they'd seen this a thousand times. And he let her go first—back into the noise, the crowd, the curated chaos.

But when she glanced back once at the rooftop...

He was still watching her.

Like he already knew this wasn't the end.

It was only the beginning.

[randomcontent2019]

[Rossi and Hotch discussing the current case]

[the phone rings]

Hotch: Oh hold on

Hotch, picking it up: Hello?

Y/N, on the other end of the line: Are you and Rossi going to come up and say goodnight or are we just going to do it over the phone like animals?

Hotch: Goodnight Y/N

Y/N: Goodnight Hotch. Now put Rossi on, he deserves to be goodnighted

Hotch, annoyed, whispers to Rossi: Y/N wants to say goodnight to you.

Rossi: Huh? Good night Y/N.

Y/N: Goodnight Rossi

Y/N, whispering: Can you bring some fries?

Hotch: Are they asking you to bring them some fries?

Rossi: No..... He's onto us I gotta go.

Hotch: go to bed Y/N.

Y/N: I'm in bed I'm just hungry.

[twistnlennstarr]

‘You Stayed’ by Twistnlennstarr on Wattpad.

Some men dream of her. One man stayed.

When a viral letter from a world-famous artist exposes a secret love that never was, she's forced into the spotlight-again. But she's not his muse. Not anymore.

She belongs to Thomas Gibson.

He's older. Steady. Private. The man who held her hand through the silence, not just the song. When the internet questions her love, when the past paints her in someone else's story-he's the only one who doesn't flinch.

Now the world is watching, the pressure is rising, and her heart is caught between the one who immortalized her... and the one who never let her go.

A slow-burn, age-gap, emotionally devastating love story about what it means to stay when it's easier to run.

"He saw me first. But you... you stayed."

[twistnlennstarr]

I miss John Lennon. MY JOHNNY!!! 😭😭😭 ugh idc about his buck teeth and wtv looking weird self. I STILL WANT HIM!!!

[sunbleachedbitch]

Look at Paul in John’s glasses. And John’s just grinning ear to ear at him with a sickeningly fond look in his eyes. I feel ill.

[kingdaisyxoxo]

How I feel every time I look at this image

[twistnlennstarr]

Hi guys. I’m new here I was recommended to share a fanfic I wrote a month ago and the person that recommended that told me it would be a great hit so I hope it is as they said.

With love, Jani <3

(Spotify playlists: one of mostly Taylor Swift: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5xIJ5Dc0QDSaSL7SnZQpK1?si=sVDF6hA1TUqWfW6lg7iy_g Second o

[twistnlennstarr]

Hiii guys please if you like a story where an older man falls in love with you and he actually stays and takes you serious even with the age difference of 30+ years it’s very fluff but I could definitely do requests to whatever you like! :)

[webanglikethat]

“maybe in another universe we get our happy ending”

the other universe:

[meadowfics]

the happy ending in question...????

[majestiae]

EXPLICIT POSSESSION.

✷ e. prentiss x fem!wife!reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, explicit language, non-explicit age difference, g!p!emily, dom!emily, sub!reader, oral (and receiving), p in v, creampie, swallow cum, rough sex, everyone hears and knows what they are doing, possessive emily, hair pulling, aftercare, soft emily at the end.

⌗ Author's note ⋮ This was a request! I hope you like it. 𖹭

The FBI building in Quantico was bustling as always, agents milling about desks, reports being handed out, and the typical buzz of a workday. You had decided to pay Emily a surprise visit, bringing her the lunch she'd forgotten at home. You had no idea the effect you'd have upon entering that space.

Emily was in her office, reviewing a case, when she heard the low murmurs and indiscreet giggles from the hallway. Curious, she stepped outside and stopped in her tracks, her eyes darkening immediately when she saw what—or rather, who—had caught so much attention.

You, oblivious, smiled as you chatted with the security guard who had escorted you to your floor. But around you, the agents couldn't hide their lewd glances.

"Holy shit, who is that?" one of the newbies whispered.

"She has a hot body," another agent said. "If I had a chance, I would…"

Emily didn't hear the rest. Her blood boiled in her veins, a mixture of pure rage and possessiveness taking over. Before any of them could approach you, she was there, her icy gaze and dominant posture making everyone back away.

"Love."

Emily's voice cut through the air like a knife, making all the agents freeze in place. Her dark eyes shone with restrained fury, and the way her arm wrapped around your waist made it clear this was a territorial marking.

You felt her fingers grip your hip, firm and possessive, as she pulled you closer. The rookie swallowed, his eyes wide with pure terror. The other agents backed away immediately, some mumbling apologies, others simply disappearing into the crowd.

But Emily wasn't satisfied.

Without another word, she dragged you into her office, the door slamming behind you with a loud bang that echoed down the hallway. Before you could react, your back slammed against the wall, Emily's hands pinning your wrists above your head.

"You like being the center of attention, do you?" Emily growled against your skin, her teeth deliberately scraping your neck. "Seeing all these agents drooling over you?"

Her knee wedged itself between your legs, pressing firmly as her hands roamed possessively down your body. The dress you were wearing—the one Emily loved precisely because it accentuated your curves—was now being unceremoniously ripped open, two buttons popping and falling to the floor.

"Emily, I just—"

A moan escaped your lips as she cut you off with a bite to your shoulder. "Shut up." Her voice was husky, commanding as she yanked your panties off.

She turned you to face the wall, her hands pinning your wrists against the cool surface. You heard the sound of the belt being unfastened, the zipper lowering—and then there was no more time to think.

Emily entered you in one go, without warning, without mercy. A muffled scream echoed in the office as her nails dug into the wood, your body arching against hers.

"That's right, scream," Emily whispered in your ear, each word accompanied by a brutal thrust. "I want everyone to hear who owns this body."

And they did.

The moans, the pounding of the wall, the wet slap of skin against skin—it all echoed through the silent hallway, where the agents stood paralyzed, some in shame, others in envy.

When your orgasm hit, it was like being swept away by a hurricane—violent, uncontrollable, leaving your legs trembling and your mind blank. Emily gripped your hips tightly, prolonging your fall into the abyss before following you with a guttural growl, her teeth sinking into your shoulder.

The office still echoed with the sounds of your last fall when Emily pulled away just enough to turn you around. Her dark eyes burned with an intensity that made your stomach churn—that dangerous mix of fury and lust only she could conjure.

Your body was still trembling as Emily pushed you to your knees on the office floor. The rough carpet scratched your skin, but you barely felt it—all you could focus on was Emily's predatory gaze above you.

"Open that beautiful mouth," she ordered, her fingers tightening around your jaw. "And remember—everyone out there is listening."

The first touch of your lips to her cock made Emily let out a guttural moan. Her hands curled tighter in your hair, guiding your rhythm with almost painful force. You could taste her on your tongue, hear the wet sounds echoing off the thin walls of the office.

Outside, a glass clattered to the floor—someone had accidentally knocked it over, too distracted by the sonic spectacle. Emily smiled wildly. "More," she growled. "I want them to hear you swallow me."

When Emily finally climaxed, her body arched forward with a muffled cry. Her fingers twisted in your hair, holding you exactly where she wanted you as she trembled against your lips.

But still, she wasn't satisfied.

Before you could swallow properly, Emily yanked you up with brutal force and slammed you onto the desk—papers now scattered everywhere, pens rolling on the floor. Her eyes gleamed with pure possessiveness as she positioned herself between your still-trembling legs.

"This time, I'm going to make you forget your own name."

The first thrust was so brutal that you screamed, your nails scratching the surface of the desk. Emily showed no mercy—each thrust calculated to hit deeper, harder, until your moans became uncontrollable.

"That's it, love," she whispered, arching herself over you as she increased her pace. "Let everyone hear how you belong to me."

And they did.

The entire office transformed into a scene of pure debauchery. Your screams echoed off the walls as Emily pushed you beyond your limits, each movement calculated to extract even more obscene sounds from your lips.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the table tightly, knuckles white from the pressure, as Emily dominated your body with a possessive fury.

"You're mine," she growled, digging her nails into your thighs. "Only mine."

The sound of skin slapping against skin mingled with muffled moans and the pounding of the table against the wall. You no longer knew where you ended and Emily began—your bodies were so intertwined, so synchronized in that animalistic rhythm, that they seemed a single entity.

When the second orgasm hit, it was like being electrocuted. Your body arched violently, a hoarse scream escaping your throat as you saw stars. Emily didn't slow down—on the contrary, she tightened her grip on your hips, prolonging the pleasurable agony.

"That's it, take it all," she ordered, her teeth digging into your shoulder. "Take what's yours."

And you did.

Emily's climax came with a guttural growl, her body trembling violently against yours as she filled you completely. For an eternal moment, you stayed like that—clasped, sweaty, breathing heavily against each other.

When she finally pulled away, your hair was disheveled, and your legs were shaking so badly you could barely stand. Emily, on the other hand, looked absurdly satisfied, stroking your toned hip with an expression of triumphant possession.

The silence that followed was almost as intense as the previous frenzy. Emily took a deep breath, her fingers still trembling slightly as she smoothed her hand over your scarred back. The office was a wreck—papers scattered, a chair overturned, and the desk now bearing the marks of your nails.

With surprisingly gentle movements, Emily grabbed her own blazer hanging on the back of the door and wrapped it around your shoulders, hiding the most visible marks. Her eyes, previously burning with possessive fury, now held a different glow—concern mingled with satisfaction.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice softer, as she ran her thumb over your slightly swollen bottom lip.

You nodded, still breathless, feeling every muscle in your body throb. Emily sighed and grabbed a bottle of water from the small office refrigerator, twisting the cap off before handing it to you.

"Sip slowly," she instructed, her fingers now carefully smoothing your tousled hair. "I'll call a car to take you home."

As you caught your breath, Emily picked up the phone and quickly dialed a number. "Yes, I need a vehicle at the rear entrance. Discreet." She paused, her eyes scanning your condition. "In ten minutes."

Hanging up, she knelt before you, her hands cupping your trembling knees. "I'll help you get ready," she murmured, picking up your torn panties from the floor and replacing them with a fresh pair from her desk drawer—you immediately recognized them as the spare she always kept in her purse.

Every touch was meticulously gentle now—adjusting your dress as best she could, discreetly wiping away your smeared makeup with a wet wipe, even tying your hair into a quick bun to disguise the mess.

"When you get home," she whispered as she worked, "take a hot shower. There's that massage oil you like in the bathroom cabinet." Her lips curved into a smile. "I'll be home early today."

The ringing of her cell phone signaling the car's arrival interrupted the moment. Emily helped you to your feet, holding your elbow firmly when your legs wobbled.

"I'll walk you to the elevator," she said, opening the office door.

The hallway was eerily empty, but you could feel the discreet glances behind the half-open doors and computer screens. Emily walked protectively beside you, her arm firmly around your waist.

In the elevator, she pulled you in for one last kiss—this time soft, almost apologetic. "Sorry about the bruises," she murmured against your lips. "I was... intense."

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I like it when you're intense."

Emily chuckled softly, her face lighting up with an expression only you had the privilege of seeing. "Idiot," she said, her voice thick with affection. "Thanks for bringing lunch, love."

When the elevator doors opened, you saw Emily heading back down the hallway to the offices, her posture already returning to its usual professional stance—but not before casting one last warning glance at the colleagues who dared peek in.

And as the elevator doors closed, taking you to the empty lobby, you knew one thing for sure.

No one at the FBI would ever dare look at Emily's wife again.

And Emily would make a point of reminding them of that every day.

[littlesuccubuss]

i get a certain sparkle in my eyes when a man twice my age calls me kiddo

[gardenschedule]

[zoeymustdie]

“John was getting to chubby”

“John was gaining some weight in 1965…”

OH MY GAWD…..leave him ALONE😓…oh my gawd…my shayla….oh 1965 John🤧😞💕

[majestiae]

POWER PLAY.

✷ e. prentiss x fem!stripper!reader

Warnings: Explicit language, fingering (r receiving), masturbation (e receiving), p in v, g!p emily, dom!emily, sub!reader, reader is a tease, rough sex, dirty talk, creampie, no use of condoms. Men/minors dni.

Club Noir was particularly crowded that night, the air heavy with the scent of cheap bourbon and undisguised desire. You finished your third drink as you sat at her table, as you always did when Emily came by.

"Agent Prentiss," you purred, letting the empty glass slide across the table toward her. "Are you that obsessed with me, or do you just enjoy watching women dance for your money?"

Emily didn't take the glass. Her fingers drummed on the table, her knuckles marked by scars you knew all too well. "You know why I'm here."

"Oh, yes. The missing girls case." You crossed your legs, letting your heel dangle. "Sad. But I don't know anything."

She leaned forward, her blazer opening enough for you to see the chill under her arm. "Don't mess with me. You're the only one with VIP access."

Your eyes roamed her body, those shoulders, her hands, the posture that took up more space than anyone else in the room. You conveyed it.

"Maybe I know something. But information comes at a price, Emily." Your foot slid up her leg under the table. "And this time, I don't want money."

You saw her jaw tense. "What do you want, then?"

Your fingers played with the rim of her empty glass. "You. In the VIP room. Now."

Her laugh was more of a growl. "Are you trying to bribe a federal agent?"

"I'm giving you a choice," you urged, your hand descending on her shoulder with measured weight. "Either you fuck me against the wall like you always wanted, or you watch another girl disappear tomorrow."

Emily's eyes darkened in a way that made your stomach churn. Before you could blink, your back hit the wall, her hands pinning your wrists above your head.

"You'll regret this," she breathed against your neck.

You laughed. "I doubt it."

When she lifted you against the wall, you knew you'd won.

Emily carried you into the private hallway, opening the door to the first vacant room she saw, and throwing you onto the red-sheeted bed.

The VIP room at Club Noir was small, lit only by a dim amber light that made everything feel hotter and more dangerous. You barely had time to prop yourself up on your elbows before Emily kicked the door shut and advanced on you, her fingers wrapped around your neck, not pressure, just a warning.

"You always were terrible at negotiating," she growled, her breath hot against your lips. "Especially when what you want is so obvious."

You smiled defiantly, your legs wrapping around her hips to pull her closer. "And you've always been terrible at lying. How many nights have you spent watching me on stage, Emily? How many times have you stayed right here, alone in this room, wondering what it would be like?"

She didn't answer. Instead, her hand went down to the elastic of your panties, ripping the fabric off with a sudden movement that made you gasp.

"You talk too much," Emily murmured, before covering your mouth with hers in a kiss that felt more like punishment.

You could feel the hatred and desire mingling in her, the way her teeth bit your lip, the way her fingers marked your skin, the way her body rubbed against yours, as if she couldn't decide between strangling you or devouring you.

And you? You loved every second of it.

Your hands went to the belt of her pants, undoing it and pulling them down. When you finally pulled her boxer down, you saw what you always knew was there, the physical proof that, behind that tough-as-nails agent facade, Emily Prentiss was as affected by you as you were by her.

"That doesn't mean you won," Emily growled, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her facade of control. Her body was tense, pulsing against yours, as if every fiber of her being was at war between duty and desire.

You laughed breathlessly, your fingers exploring every inch of her body you could finally touch. "Of course not, agent. This is just... cooperation with the investigation."

Emily grabbed your wrist again, but this time to guide your hand to hers. "Stop talking," she ordered, her voice hoarse and broken.

When you finally touched her, feeling her hard, throbbing cock that completely contradicted her tough stance, Emily buried her face in your neck, a muffled moan escaping her lips.

"So this is what the great Agent Prentiss looks like because of me?" you teased, your hand moving with an intimacy that made Emily tremble.

The amber light of the VIP room painted Emily's skin in golden hues as she arched against your hand, her body tense like a bow ready to fire. You felt every tremor, every pulse against your palm, and knew you had won this private battle.

"It seems the FBI badass has a soft spot," you whispered, continuing to masturbate her with calculated slowness.

Emily clamped her teeth into your shoulder to stifle a moan, her nails digging into your back. "You'll regret it." Each word came out raggedly, her breath heavy against your skin.

You laughed, quickening the movement of your hand. "I've heard that before."

Suddenly, she pushed you back against the bed, her dark eyes burning with a dangerous mix of anger and desire. "Enough games."

Before you could respond, Emily flipped you onto your stomach in one sudden movement, her heavy body pinning you against the sheets. You felt the tip of her cock throb between your thighs, hot and hard, and a wave of anticipation ran down your spine.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" She growled in your ear, one of her hands tangling in your hair to pull your head back. "Watch me lose control?"

You tried to turn your head to face her, but her grip was firm. "Emily…"

"Shut up." Her command was accompanied by a sharp shove, and then you felt her, all that anger, all that pent-up desire finally unleashed in a single, deep thrust that made your body arch against hers.

The air escaped your lungs in a hoarse moan, your nails ripping at the red sheets. Emily didn't give you time to adjust, beginning a relentless rhythm that drove you ever closer to the edge.

"Now you see," she growled, her hips crashing into you with a force that promised to leave marks. "What happens when you play with fire."

You wanted to respond, wanted to tease her even more, but all words were lost in the whirlwind of sensations. The heat of her body against your back, the scent of her sweat mixed with expensive perfume, the sound of the muffled moans she tried to contain—everything blended together until you no longer knew where you ended and she began.

When your orgasm hit, it was like being caught in a riptide, dragging Emily along with you in a free fall that seemed endless.

She pulled out of you slowly, watching her cum mixed with yours drip from your entrance, before inserting a finger and pushing it back in. Her finger began to move back and forth, making you moan, and as if on cue, she added another. She moved them deliberately slowly, enjoying watching you writhe in search of more friction.

The light in the room flickered as Emily watched you with dark eyes, her fingers moving inside you with cruel slowness. Every movement was calculated to elicit small moans from you, every contraction of your muscles studied with the attention of an FBI agent analyzing a suspect.

"Looks like someone hasn't had enough," she murmured, her voice husky with pent-up pleasure.

You tried to arch your back, seeking more pressure, but she held your hip with her free hand, holding you still.

"Emily…"

"Shut up." Her fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made your body shiver involuntarily. "You wanted to play? Then now we'll play my way."

Her movements slowed even more, almost imperceptibly, as her other hand moved down your body until it found your clit, rubbing it with the pad of her thumb in firm circles.

"You like this, don't you?" She leaned over you, her lips brushing your ear. "Being controlled. Being used. Knowing that no matter how hard you try, in the end, you'll always give in to me."

You tried to respond, but the words were lost in a hoarse moan as she increased the pressure, her fingers now moving at a faster, deeper pace. The heat in your belly grew, spreading like wildfire, until you could no longer think, could no longer breathe.

And then, as if knowing exactly when you were about to fall, Emily stopped.

"No." She pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty, trembling, on the brink. "Not yet."

You groaned in frustration, your fingers digging into the sheets. "You're such a slut."

Emily laughed softly before leaning against the headboard and pulling you onto her lap. Your eyes met hers, and you saw the desire still burning there, mixed with something more dangerous, something that made your heart race.

"You still haven't given me what I want," she said, her hand wrapping around your neck, not pressing, just a warning.

"And what do you want?" you challenged, even though you knew the answer.

Emily smiled, and it was the most dangerous thing you'd ever seen.

"Everything."

And then her mouth was covering yours in a kiss that was more of a battle than an act of affection, her hips fitting perfectly between your legs. When she entered you this time, it was slow, making you feel it inch by inch.

Your eyes closed as Emily held you pinned to her lap, every inch of her body enveloping you like living armor. You felt every muscle tense against you, every quickening of her heartbeat, and most intensely of all, the deliberate way she moved inside you, so slowly it was excruciating.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" She growled in your ear, her teeth nibbling at your earlobe. "Then take it."

You tried to respond, but all that came out was a husky moan as she finally sank fully into you, her hips crashing into yours with an impact that made your body tremble.

Emily took her time. Every movement was calculated, every deep thrust followed by an agonizingly slow withdrawal. One hand gripped your waist tightly, guiding you to ride her, the other roamed your body as if memorizing every curve, every scar, every place that made you shiver.

"You know I should arrest you," she murmured, her lips trailing your collarbone. "I should take you in handcuffs."

You arched your back as her fingers found your breasts, squeezing them hard enough to leave marks. "Then why don't you?"

The answer came in the form of a particularly brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. "Because I want you like this," Emily confessed, her voice cracking. "Hot. Wet. Mine."

She took a nipple in her mouth, sucking hard as her cock stretched you wide and perfect.

Her rhythm became more erratic then, less controlled, as if she'd finally lost the battle against her own desire. You felt the moment she broke, her fingers digging into your hips, her teeth digging into your shoulder, her body trembling against yours as she climaxed.

Emily thrust into you, hard and deep, and you felt it—hot jets of cum flooding your pussy, her cock pulsing with each wave. So much that it leaked all over her body, dripping down your balls, messy, wet, and perfect.

And you? You followed her without hesitation, your body writhing against hers as the wave of pleasure dragged you into the abyss.

You stayed in that position for a while longer until you rolled off her, her cum instantly dripping, hot, thick, and sticky, down your thighs. Emily stood up immediately, pulling away as if she'd been burned.

You turned in time to see her getting ready with precise movements, replacing each piece of clothing as if it were armor. But you could tell by the way her hands trembled slightly, by the blush that still colored her neck, that something between you had changed forever.

"His name is Marco Torres," you said, your voice huskier than usual. "He controls the girl trafficking in the southern district."

Emily finished dressing and walked to the door, not bothering to look at you. "It was nice doing business with you."

[whisperedmeg]

BREAKFAST IN BED ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x girlfriend!reader

summary: you’re sore. spencer’s smug. apparently, breakfast is best served between your thighs.

genre: smut, fluff | w/c: 1.7k

tags/warnings: soft dom!spencer, implied semi-rough sex from the night before, reader is sore from said sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, spencer calls reader angel/sweet girl/good girl, spencer is a smug little shit, written with later season spencer in mind, basically porn with almost no plot, no use of y/n

a/n: based on this anon request! this was delicioussss to write. I am a munch!spencer truther to my core. enjoy!!

It’s the ache that wakes you.

Not sharply, and not all at once. Just a slow, blooming kind of soreness that curls warm around your hips and tightens when you shift — bare skin sliding against the sheets, muscles pulling in places that don’t usually pull. There’s a spot high on your thigh that throbs in time with your heartbeat, and another deeper in your core that stirs when you exhale too hard.

Last night comes back in flashes: Spencer’s mouth at your throat, your wrists pinned above your head, the sound he made when you told him not to stop. A little rougher than usual. A little more. He’d warned you, breath hot against your ear, that he wasn’t going to be gentle, and you’d nodded like someone deprived of air being offered oxygen.

You remember the way his hands shook a little when he touched you afterward, how quiet he got. The press of his lips to your knuckles in the dark, like he still couldn’t believe you gave him everything, no matter how many times you did. Like he couldn’t believe you wanted him that much.

You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.

Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.

You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.

Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.

But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.

“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”

“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.

Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”

He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, amused. “Where?”

You give him a look. “Where do you think?”

Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”

He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”

You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.

“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware of that. I want to.”

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.

He presses a kiss just below your navel.

“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”

Another kiss, lower.

“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.

There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.

You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to—”

“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”

That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.

You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.

“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”

You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.

“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.

You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.

“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”

He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.

“Spence—”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.

You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.

“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.

He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.

“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”

“I know it does, angel girl.”

It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.

You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.

He doesn’t.

Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”

“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.

“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”

You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”

He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.

Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.

He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.

“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”

You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.

He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.

“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.

He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”

You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”

“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”

He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.

“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”

Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”

Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

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