#and i actually have some more questions okay

[mggslover]

MR. HOTCHNER — aaron hotchner

In which being a nanny for the Hotchners doesn’t only mean taking care of Jack, but also pleasing your boss

genre smut (18+) cw free use arrangement, nanny!reader, age gap (r is in 20s), post haley, mentions of jack, lowkey toxic relationship, soft to hard cock, thigh biting, some brat taming, praise, shower sex: oral (f receiving), p in v, use of showerhead, body painting wc 5k a/n i have been feeling #insecure about writing, but it's the same as when you haven't driven in a while and you're like "fuck i need to go on a ride otherwise i'll be too anxious to ever do it again", so here is me ignoring my inner demons yelling at me and posting anyway. oh and this is also my formal job application to be hotch’s free use nanny!!

You are a feminist, obviously. But beliefs tend to change in certain situations. To be precise, around certain people. The certain people in question being Aaron Hotchner.

You’d been babysitting throughout your entire college career—a job not only you, but all of your friends did. It’s no one’s plan to continue their college side job after getting a degree, but sometimes there isn’t much of a choice. You didn’t know what to do with your life after graduating, not sure how to navigate the struggles in your twenties while it seemed like everyone else had their shit together. A stable factor in your life was what you needed, and with capitalism taking over the world, the money was welcome too.

Nannying for the Hotchners was better than the families you babysat for in college. The term says it already; you were a nanny now, a live-in nanny at that. You had a home, a stable income, and took care of a shy but very sweet kid who grew more comfortable around you every day. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture this being your life: the apartment you clean and cook warm meals in being yours, the mothers at Jack’s school seeing you as their equal and not just as “the nanny of”... And if you squint hard enough, you could imagine Aaron being your partner, the one who brought in the money so you could be a stay-at-home wife.

It’s not as delusional as it sounds, promise. Even though you and Aaron weren’t actually dating, at this point you might as well be. Because, honestly, can there really be any love involved with a man who always prioritizes his job? You lived in his house, took care of his kid, and besides that, there was only one more thing needed for the label of having a relationship: sex. And sex there was. Lots of it.

Okay, again, it might not be like the sex you’d see in a traditional relationship, but you lived in the 21st century, for Christ’s sake. It counted as something. At least to you. 

It had been a couple of months since you started working for Mr. Hotchner when you had made the mutual decision to add an extra addition to your contract: a free use policy.

The decision didn’t come out of nowhere. The second you had met up with Aaron over coffee to see if you were suitable for the job, there was a tension that neither of you could deny. An undeniable attraction that lingered in the air when your eyes first met across the café. A spark that coursed through both of your veins when he held out his hand and cupped your smaller one in his. The way your heart did a jump when he pulled out a chair for you and how his body had the same reaction at seeing your dress ride up when you sat down, revealing the slightest sliver of skin. 

This arrangement was destined to work. Aaron was stressed out and on the verge of breaking down if he didn’t get the relief of tension he so desperately needed after a long day of work. You needed to feel useful and worthy. Wanted by someone that in your eyes had it all. 

One and one make two.

It sounded simple enough to you: being each other’s sex buddy, satisfying each other’s needs without overcomplicating it. But it wouldn’t be your life if the execution of this plan went that smoothly. 

During a late night on the couch, several glasses of wine in, you tried making a move on Aaron. Your legs were intertwined, bundled up beneath a warm blanket. His fingers had found the bare skin of your calves, drawing slow circles as he listened to you recalling your day with Jack. His lips would curl ever so slightly when you mentioned Jack getting a compliment from his teacher or when you laughed as you repeated the pun you had learned from his son.

Still, the tiredness in his eyes remained, just like the dark circles beneath them that never seemed to fade.

You just wanted to help, make him feel comforted in a way you knew would work. He didn’t object when you scooted closer, turning your upper body to his to rest your head on his shoulder. He didn’t react when you used the tip of your nose to lightly graze his neck—apathetic to the small shiver of his shoulders and the trail of goosebumps that followed with your movement. He did not even flinch at the first couple of kisses that you pressed to his skin.

It was only when your hot breath fanned over the shell of his ear that he had stopped you. 

“We need to set boundaries. This isn’t professional.”

You swallowed down your sigh, chirping out a high-pitched sure. Deep down you could’ve predicted this. Aaron was the type of man disciplined enough to print out another copy of your contract, all the while ignoring the hard-on that was uncomfortably pressing against the zipper of his pants. 

It was admirable how he took the time to explain this “free use” arrangement to you. Despite you working with kids, you weren’t as patient. You were getting sex. That was all you needed to know. So you politely nodded along to his words as he scribbled down new information on the contract. 

“I need you to sign here,” Aaron murmured, glancing up at your position on the couch.

With an inaudible huff, you stood and walked up to the wooden table he was bent over. Aaron took a step back, giving you the space to prop yourself in between the table and his frame to take a better look at the paper.

Your eyes flit over the rules:

No kissing

Minimal talking during the act (sounds of pleasure and code word allowed)

No talking about the act outside of the act

And most importantly, since he is the boss, he makes the calls on when you’ll be having sex. No arguments.

The second you had scribbled down your signature on the new document, Aaron had pressed his body to yours. Large arms wrapped around your waist, his palms finding a home on your lower stomach. The erection you had spotted earlier wasn’t gone, as it now poked against the soft curve of your ass.

A breathless sound escaped your mouth, quickly turning louder when Aaron’s short, dark hair brushed against your ear, placing open-mouthed, wet kisses on the place where your neck met your jaw.

You remembered how his hand slid into your jeans next, his fingers expertly slipping between the puffy folds of your pussy. His breathing heaved with every curl of his finger, and so did his movements as he rocked his hips into your back. He was visibly enjoying making you feel good. That much you could tell, but still you had thought that this was just a warm-up to get you ready for him. But when you came—with a loud cry he had to muffle with his other palm—he had simply left the room.

It had been like this for the next couple of times: Aaron worshipping your body with his mouth or hands but never asking for anything in return. Maybe it was a boundary he wasn’t ready to cross yet, or maybe watching you come undone was enough to satiate his needs and take away his stress. No matter his initial reasons, eventually he wasn’t able to hold back anymore, your endeavors more often turning into you sucking him off while he’s on a tense phone call or having a quickie in the kitchen before the workday would start. Yes, specifically in the kitchen. Or any location other than the bedroom, for that matter. Because although not on the list, having sex in bed was an unspoken form of intimacy you agreed on not having.

But all sexual acts aside, at the end of the day you were a nanny. One who had a job to do. 

With a long stretch of your arms and a loud groan, you climbed out of bed this morning. The weekend—two days filled with cheering Jack on during his soccer matches and baking chocolate chip cookies—unfortunately has come to an end. 

Your feet moved on autopilot, still in a dazed state from your sleep, until you found yourself in Aaron’s bedroom. It was only to enter the connected master’s bathroom. It was probably against the “rules”, but no one could deny that his bathroom was superior to the guest one: it had a large shower cabin made out of glass, a window where the perfect amount of sunlight beamed through in the mornings, and there were discreet spotlights hidden in the ceiling that illuminated the room in a romantic setting during late night showers.

You never showered here when Aaron was at home. But he had been on a case this entire weekend, giving you the opportunity to fully enjoy the luxuries of his apartment. You did suspect that he was aware of your sneaky endeavors. One day he had come out of the shower smelling exactly like the vanilla scent of your shampoo—the shampoo you had forgotten to take back to your room with you.

Turning on the shower made you realize why waking up early was worth it. Warm drops of water fell down your skin, the fog that came free wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You had exactly one hour until Jack would wake up, one hour to abuse Mr. Hotchner’s water bill and carry out your sacred full-body routine.

You were in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of your hair when the creaking of the bathroom door sounded. 

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, blindly reaching for a towel to dry your eyes from the prickling foam that’s running down your face. 

“Jack, what did I tell you about knocking when—“

Standing in front of you, barricaded only by the fogged shower doors, stood a man that—considering someone couldn’t grow twenty inches overnight—was not Jack. 

The dark, short-cut hair and the black blazer that was thrown over the figure’s form gave him away. It was none other than your boss standing in front of you.

“Jack’s still asleep,” Aaron said matter of factly as he tugged the blazer off his arm before dropping it into the laundry basket.

A tinge of worry filled your chest, your mind running in a million different directions as it tried to come up with the most natural and fast explanation for you being here. “I didn’t want to wake him. Your room is at the other side of the apartment, and you weren’t home, so—“

He waves you off with a motion of his hand. “Good call, he needs his sleep.”

The fogged glass hides the deep breath of relief you're letting out at hearing his approval. 

With the anxiety slipping away, you carefully reach out to wash the rest of your hair. You should turn around, face your back to him, and get the job done as fast as possible, but your boss had this essence that was too captivating to look away from. Squinting your eyes, you could make out the exhausted expression that lingered on Aaron’s face as he was busy untying his tie. 

“Rough weekend?”

He gave a short snort. “As always.”

You nodded in understanding, although he couldn’t see. Another silence followed, causing you to finally look away. It didn’t take long for your curiosity to be piqued again, when the sound of a belt buckle unclasping and the soft thud of a shirt falling to the ground interrupted the steady stream of spilling water. 

Turning your head, you could make out a vague tanned beige color where you previously saw the white of his dress shirt. The skin… the belt… Fuck, was this man getting naked?

“What are you doing?” You gulp when a strong hand reaches out for the shower’s doors. 

“Joining you.”

Such a deadpan tone, like your boss joining you in your morning shower is the most normal thing to happen on earth. But this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To feel like it was a mundane thing. For it to feel like you had an actual, healthy relationship with Aaron, that you weren’t essentially getting paid for your services.

“Okay,” you respond back with a newfound confidence.

You weren’t sure whether Aaron had waited on your confirmation, but the second the approval left your mouth, the doors were being opened. 

There was no need to hide your body; it wasn’t anything he hadn't seen before. The way he looked, however, was different. You’d only seen Aaron in a state where he was turned on, where he’d either been fantasizing about you all day at work—walking around with a painful boner all day—or where you’d been teasing him before you had greedily pulled his pants down. Now, however, he was still soft.

It wasn’t a sight you’ve often seen in your life, most men that you’d encountered feeling ashamed of the flaccid state; being a grower, or not thinking it looks sexy. So the fact that Aaron didn’t think twice of walking in showed a sense of trust and intimacy that made your stomach flutter. Besides, he had no reason to worry about his looks, because he looked good in this state. His balls were tight and roundly shaped, his length looked a bit shorter when soft but hung thick and heavy over said balls, and what drove you even wilder was the way his full tip twitched when his eyes had landed on you.

“Can I help you with that?” He asked, nodding down to the pink loofah in your hand.

You answered by taking a step back, giving him the space to fully enter the shower and close the doors behind him. He reached out his hand, and you had to blink a couple of times to make sure that this was really happening before handing him over the sponge.

Aaron accepts it. His other arm extends, almost brushing against yours. You inhale a deep breath, only to find out he was reaching for the shower gel behind you. With the use of his thumb, he clicks open the cap and squeezes a generous amount of liquid onto the loofah. 

Aaron’s eyes flick over your body, as if deciding where to start first. It was difficult for him to imagine that he had you right where he wanted. That you were standing right in the spot where he had fisted himself for months to the thought of you. The way you looked, with your curves bare on display as drops of water fell down the side of your body, was beyond any visualization his own mind could’ve ever come up with. 

Your nipples harden under the weight of his long, dark gaze, and it seems like the decision is made for him. Gently, he places the sponge on your collarbone, then moves it down in a slow stroke, following the curve of your breast. Your eyes close shut when the rough material catches onto your nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

With curious eyes he takes in your reaction, then repeats the movement, moving the sponge back up. Your breast sways along, causing Aaron to swallow back a groan. In circular motions he moves on to your other breast. You hum in pleasure as he repeatedly caresses the pebbled bud while covering you in little bubbles of soap. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” he teases. “Is it that relaxing?”

The corners of your lips lift up, it’s not often that he breaks his own rules by talking to you. When you open your eyes, you notice a mischievous glimmer behind the stoic facade. It’s not just that that you notice: the proximity is undeniable. In the few seconds your eyes were shut, Aaron had moved closer. So close that his forehead was nearly touching yours. So close that you could almost count the curly hairs on his chest that have deepened in color because of the streaming water. 

It was a mistake to look down.

Just an inch away from your stomach, heaved Aaron’s rock hard cock—that’s how fast the transformation can go. The large vein that you could dream at this point had made its appearance, and his bulbous head was shining in pre-cum. A thick drop hypnotizingly coating the slit.

“That’s what you do to me,” Aaron breathes out, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.

Your heart was beating a million miles an hour. He could kiss you right now, his lips impossibly close to yours as he wet them with his tongue. Instead, his mouth moved: “Up.”

Before you were able to squint your eyebrows in confusion, Aaron had his arms wrapped around your thighs, giving you a firm tug up, allowing you to jump like he’d asked you. 

In a smooth—way too smooth—motion, you were thrown against the cold tiled wall, legs wrapped around his waist. Then he said it again. Up. 

Like a toddler being lifted by their parents, Aaron had managed to climb you up so that your thighs were seated against each side of his face, legs dangling over his shoulders and the back of your calves planted firmly against his lower back.

“How the fuck…” you gasp out in belated shock.

“Don’t waste your words asking questions,” he murmured, his hot breath fanning over your spread pussy. Not like you’d be able to in the state he’s got you in. “Just enjoy yourself.”

With his hands pinning you against the wall, he used the sole power of his neck to dive in. No time was wasted as his wet tongue split open the folds of your pussy, immediately latching onto your swollen pearl—completely magnetized by it.

Your thighs clenched around his head, a sound in between a moan and a gasp escaping you as you threw your head back.

“Shit,” you hiss, the back of your head making contact with the cold surface. 

Aaron groaned. You knew him well enough to know that it was a sound of disapproval, one of his dad-like “I told you to be careful” huffs. It didn’t have its designated effect, though; his muffled sound vibrates through your body, causing a wave of tingles to ignite your skin, your clit twitching against his tongue. 

When you looked down, he was rolling his eyes at you. “Are you serious?” his face spoke. A giggle left your chest, you couldn’t take the stern attitude seriously. 

Apparently, he did take it seriously. Aaron leaned back just enough to turn his head, and you missed the warmth of his mouth on you already. The light stubble that covered his jaw from being away on a case all weekend grazed along your inner thigh. 

“More,” you whimpered, lifting your hips from the wall and driving your cunt into his face.

His eyes flick to yours for a split second. It was easy to miss the moment, but something behind his eyes shifted, reaching the max of dealing with this daring disobedience of yours. Your breath gets caught before it happens: his teeth sink into your thigh.

You sputter in his grasp, legs locking tighter around his waist. He didn’t bite hard enough to cut skin, but he was definitely leaving a mark. You were sure of that when, after the use of teeth, he wrapped his lips around the aching spot, sucking and not stopping despite your sharp nails digging into his back.

“Are you going to be good for me now?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise!”

Wrong answer. Another bite.

This time you just nod, not speaking any excessive words. 

His teeth are replaced by his lips. He leaves two featherlight kisses on the bruised spot and moves back to your needy hole.

“Haven’t touched you in a minute, and you’re already dripping.”

Apparently the rule of not speaking doesn’t apply to Aaron Hotchner today. Not that you minded.

He licked the sweetness off your pussy, getting back into rhythm. Aaron’s lips sealed around your labia, gently suckling until the only sounds leaving your mouth were passionate moans. 

At this point it was impossible to decipher whether the wet, sloppy noises came from your pussy or from the water that dripped out of the shower's head, warming the sides of your bodies. 

You dug your nails lightly into his shoulders, grounding yourself from the accumulating heat that was starting to form low in your stomach.

With every up and down of his chin, Aaron’s nose would bump against your clit, making it twitch in desperation.

“Mmph,” you whine in response to his actions. I’m close! Aaron, please! Is what you wish you could scream out to him right now. Wishing you could beg for a fast release as the obscene sounds grew louder around you. But you couldn’t, not if you wanted to have any release at all. Forced to endure his sweet torture.

Aaron lifted his head, his mouth inches away from where you needed him most. 

“Are you close?”

You obediently nod up and down, making sure he gets the memo. 

“Will you cum if I touch her?” 

You vehemently nod, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. Please, touch my clit, Aaron. 

His hot breath ghosted over the swollen bud. “Hold on tight.”

You moved your fingers to wrap tightly in his locks, right on time as Aaron wraps your throbbing clit in between his lips. It was a combination of his satisfied moans and the slurping of his tongue that tipped you over the edge.

By the time Aaron had placed you back on the ground, you were wobbling on your legs, and your throat felt sore from the cries that had tumbled from your lips. 

There wasn’t much time to recover, Aaron’s hands finding your waist, warm palms burning your skin as he turned you around. Your chest heaved from your orgasm, and your heart rate only sped up when his fingers made contact with the back of your arms. He guided his hands up until your fingers locked. 

The bathroom tiles weren’t as cold as you expected them to be when you placed your palms against them, still heated by Aaron’s hands that were pressed against the same spot only a minute ago.

“Arch your back for me, sweetheart,” he instructed. 

The nickname had your legs close to giving out. You clawed against the wall as you arched your back, ass raised high in the air, your cunt making contact with his poking cock as it pulsed from the sight of you. 

An arm cups around your frame, holding you steady against him. With the other, he brushes the skin of your curves, mapping out his favorite spots.

Aaron’s thick fingers grip around the cheek of your ass, spreading you open and watching you in a mix of lust and adoration. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmured under his breath, as if he’d just witnessed the opening of an exotic flower.

You felt the weight of his solid chest against your back, dew drops falling from his skin and melting onto yours. Aaron bent slightly through his knees, enough to line himself up with your hole. Then he pushed in.

“That’s it, you can take it,” he encouraged as his throbbing length entered you inch by inch. “Almost there. You’re doing so good, taking all of me.”

“Feels good,” you whisper softly, not able to help the words from spilling out.

“I know, honey. Going to make you feel even better.”

With that, he started pumping himself in and out of you, creating a mark in your cervix that he kissed with every thrust of his hips. It was hot. So fucking hot. The steam that has built up in the shower cabin, the warm press of Aaron’s body, the fullness of him inside of you, the heaving of his breath in your ear… Too hot.

It’s like he heard you, because in the next moment he had you pushed up against the cool expanse of tile. A shiver ran through your body, a pleasant one, as your nipples peaked against it, stimulated by the continuous rubbing against the surface as Aaron moved your body up and down his cock. 

A groan tore from his throat, the sound lightning through your body. “I missed this. Missed having you wrapped around me.”

The words were dirty, definitely, but it was the most affectionate thing he’s ever said to you. You could do this for the rest of your life: have him use you, be the reason he feels good, because there truly was nothing that made you feel more whole than to be praised by him. 

You fluttered your pussy around him, enticing another deep groan from him. 

“I’m getting close,” he hisses, and you nod. Give it to me, please. 

Instead of speeding up the slapping of skin, he halts his movements, pulling a whiny no out of you. 

With your back facing him, you don’t catch on to how he’s taking the shower head from its bar. Not even noticing the change of there being no more water falling down your body. 

What you do take in, is him hungrily cupping your mound. And you are definitely aware when he uses two of his fingers to spread your lips. You swear you can feel his grin against your neck when the shower head magically appears in his hand, turned to a setting where a strong current of water spurts out, which he places directly above your clit.

A high-pitched cry leaves your mouth, making you wiggle in his grasp. If he didn’t have you pinned against his body, you would’ve fallen to the ground, your legs feeling like complete jelly.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

Regret followed later, when you realized that Aaron would pick up his pace again, all the while your clit was being overstimulated by the flow of water.

Your mouth was agape, moans and gasps and cries tumbling out—sometimes loud, sometimes utterly breathless. The last sound that left you was a scream of Aaron’s name as you came around his cock. 

Your hand had left your pussy, reaching back to grip Aaron’s ass—the most accessible, and convenient place to hold—as your orgasm stuttered through you. You held him tightly, forcing a few more deep thrusts out of him before he pulled himself out.

“Knees. Now.”

The next moment passed in a blur. You fell to your knees, your legs squeaking against the cold, wet floor. You didn’t have the time to decide where to settle your eye: on his thick length that he held tightly in his fist, on his soft stomach and chest that heaved in anticipation of his orgasm, or on his face that was barely visible with the way he had his head thrown back, lip caught in between his teeth. 

His hips twitched, and his muscled thighs clenched as a white-hot fountain erupted on you. His release fell down your body, covering you from your breasts to your stomach to your legs. He even made a mess of himself, his hand covered in his essence, spread all over his cock by the jerking of his hand.

“Jesus,” Aaron curses, using his clean hand to push his hair out of his face. 

When his eyes fell back on you, he caught sight of you obediently sitting in front of him, using your thumb to flick a white stain off your breast before swirling your tongue around the digit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his face. “You’ll be the death of me.”

You pick up the shower head that was thrown beside you on the ground, then place your hand around his thigh for leverage, wanting to clean him up.

Aaron sharply inhaled, body tensing when the stream hit his sensitive cock. “Don’t do that!”

“I’m sorry!” You quickly apologize in a stutter, then burst out in small laughter.

He shakes his head, opening his palm. “Hand it over to me.”

For a second you’re afraid he’s planning his revenge, but he turns the handle so that a gentle and even stream flows out of the head, then holds it above your body. Your personal waterfall.

With a hum, you wash yourself clean, almost sad to see the proof of his loving vanish from your body. 

“Come here,” he whispers when you’re done and helps pull you up by your arm.

Surprisingly, he wraps a strong arm around you, the back of his fingers running across your cheek to put the wet strands of your hair back in place. 

“I can bring Jack to school today.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you sure? You haven’t slept all night. I don’t mind—“

“Me neither,” he assures. “I know the work here is tiring too.”

It was. You knew nannying wasn’t an easy job, but nothing had prepared you for the days and nights spent alone while Aaron was catching killers in different states. It wasn’t easy being the main responsibility of a child in his most formative years, no matter how much gratification the work gives you.

“Okay,” you hum. “Thank you.”

“I have some free time when I get back.” His eyes search for yours as he speaks the words, awaiting your reply to the invitation. His eyes soften when they catch your small smile.

“Sounds good.”

He nods. “Good.”

[jacksabbotts]

SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, sexual themes involving power imbalance ( e.g., inexperience vs. experience ), intense psychological/emotional vulnerability, erotic language and descriptions, dubious consent fantasy elements ( phase one spencer’s secret masturbation / voyeuristic context ), praise kink, degradation kink, overstimulation, edging, etc. depending on phase, masturbation ( solo + mutual ), deep internal monologues bordering on obsession, insecurity-based arousal and shame, light manipulation ( reader teasing ), sexually explicit metaphors and imagery, reference to past trauma/insecurity ( emotional, not physical ), swearing, explicit dialogue

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this took absolutely forever, im sorrrry to the anon who first requested it. and to my first request anon ( i dub thee 🌟 bc you are a STARRRR! ) this is Freaky ( with a Capital F just like you asked 😏 and tumblr freakin ate your ask while i was replying to it lmao ). also every letter has four phases to coincide with each phase of spencer as shown on the series masterlist ( that is why it took literally forever for me to finish this ). it is not required to read the other parts of the series, but it will give some context. this is only A-L, part two is M-Z ( had break it up bc tumblr would let me post that many words lmao )

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 16.2k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for aftercare ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it takes spencer exactly one second after coming to regret it. not the act—never the act—but the idea that maybe he was too rough, or too quiet, or too eager, or not eager enough. that maybe you didn't enjoy yourself as much as he needed you to.

so the second your body stills beneath him, spencer is already scanning you for signs of distress. his breathing is heavy, uneven, and so is yours—but his is more panicked. yours is post-orgasmic. he can’t quite tell the difference yet.

his hand, shaky and trembling, cups the side of your face with the kind of delicate awe reserved for museum glass and rare books. 'did i—are you okay?' he asks. 'please tell me i didn’t… was it too much?'

you smile. you try to speak, but your lips are swollen and your body is jelly. he looks utterly torn, its almost adorable.

he doesn’t move off of you right away—he’s too worried that pulling away too fast will hurt you somehow. he’s never done this before. not like this. not with you. so when he does pull out, it’s slow, like he’s afraid you’ll break. his eyes flicker to where your bodies part, and he flushes from the neck up.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but something about seeing your slick on him short-circuits his brain and then he’s up—naked and fumbling, asking you where the towels are even though this was his apartment and they are his towels. he brings back a warm one from the bathroom, mumbling an apology every time he dabs too close to a sensitive spot.

'sorry—sorry. i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have—no, wait, that’s not right, i wanted to, i just—god, i hope that was good for you.'

once he’s convinced you’re okay, he clambers back into bed with a gentleness that breaks your heart a little. he wraps himself around you, one arm across your waist, lips pressed to your temple like a benediction.

there’s a moment of silence. then he whispers against your hair: 'was it ok?' the question was actually quite ridiculous for the moment because your sweaty bodies were pressed together in every single way possible and you were almost a hundred percent sure you were still shaking in post-orgasmic thrill.

his soft cock had drifted while he wiggled to get comfort. now sitting comfortably between your slick hot thighs and you wondered if he could feel the way you were still leaking for him, despite your oversensitivity.

spencer reid in phase one is the kind of man who would tuck your hair behind your ear, ask if you need water, offer to rub your back, ask again if you're sure you're okay, and then lie awake for hours watching you sleep—not in a creepy way, but in a 'how did I get this lucky' way.

and just before he finally dozes off, he murmurs it. barely audible. barely brave enough. 'i want to be good at this for you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve barely caught your breath before he’s already on you.

not sexually—affectionately. his fingers are already ghosting down your arm, across your waist, smoothing along the softest parts of you like he’s trying to calm a storm he started.

he’s flushed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. you’re both a little wrecked—your legs shaky, your lips kiss-bruised—and yet spencer looks at you like he’s still starved.

'okay?' he whispers, even though your whimpering praise had all but answered that minutes ago.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, then down your neck—his hand slipping possessively over the curve of your shoulder. you nod, and he melts. 'you looked so pretty like that,' he murmurs. 'fucking beautiful.'

his words come easier now. praise and sweetness. he mumbles them into your hair. into your throat. into the flushed skin just beneath your collarbone as he starts to kiss you again—not like before, not hungry or rushed. but soft.

'i don’t want you to move,' he tells you. 'i want you to stay just like this.'

but he moves anyway. forces himself up and out of the warm tangle of limbs, tugging on his boxers as he heads to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. he cleans you up with the kind of devotion that borders on religious—murmuring soft apologies when you flinch, even if it’s just from sensitivity.

after, he gets back into bed and pulls you onto his chest.

'you were so good for me,' he breathes. 'i hope i was good for you too.' and then he holds you like a secret. like he’s scared someone might take you from him if he loosens his grip. his hand draws slow, absentminded shapes over the curve of your spine, and he’s so close to sleep—but his mouth keeps going.

'i think about you all the time.' he breaks off, suddenly shy. 'not just like this. i mean… always.' you smile against his chest. he kisses your forehead, and that’s when you know : he doesn’t just want to be inside you. he wants to be in your life.

he wants the nights and the mornings and everything in between.

spencer reid in phase two aftercare is clingy, chatty, and deliciously lovesick. he praises you so much you nearly blush. he cleans you up like it’s a sacred act. and he falls asleep curled around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded to earth.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

you're panting, wrung the fuck out and barely coherent.

and spencer is still looking at you like he wants more, but he doesn’t touch. at least not right away. because you’re trembling, and that makes something primal in him snap—the same way it did when he came into you ( in to a condom, because this is still fresh ) while growling how tight and perfect you felt around his cock.

his hand goes straight to your thigh, fingers splayed, grounding you. his touch is a brand now—you belong to me etched into your skin without a word.

'you’re shaking,' he says, voice low. almost scolding. he doesn’t mean to, but his voice is rougher now. post-sex spencer doesn’t speak with his usual soft concern—he’s wrecked. so gone for you he’s trying to hold himself together.

'you okay, baby?'

he waits. makes you meet his eyes and when you nod—barely able to muster the strength—he exhales like he’d been holding his breath since the second he came.

then he moves. fast, comically so.

he practically scoops you up, tucking you into his lap, one arm locking around your waist while his other hand starts rubbing down your back. he’s whispering now—urgent and reverent.

'you were perfect. you’re so perfect.' 'i don’t think i’ll ever get over that.' 'you’re not allowed to leave. you hear me? not after that.'

he keeps petting you—down your spine, over your ribs, behind your neck. he needs you close. needs to touch you. he’s not done claiming you, even if the sex part is over.

and when he finally lays you down to clean you up?

he’s all focus.

gentle hands. kiss to your knee. apology when he sees the marks he left. another kiss to each one.

'you okay?' 'you need water?' 'do you feel sore? i can—' he stops, swallows. then adds softly : 'i don’t want to hurt you. i never want to hurt you.'

it’s quiet for a minute while he takes care of you. you’re too soft to speak. too warm. too full of love and dopamine.

he climbs back into bed behind you—wraps his entire body around you like he can physically shield you from the world. you smile. then melt as his hand splays over your belly and pulls you back, snug against his chest.

he doesn’t sleep for hours.

he just holds you. watches you. breathes you in like a drug. and when you wake sometime near sunrise, you’ll find his fingers still tangled in yours.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you’re gone.

totally used up—back arched, legs still twitching, your throat raw from begging him not to stop.

you’ve come more times than you can count. you’ve even cried a little and he hasn’t even come yet.

he’s too focused on you.

so when your body finally collapses into the mattress, trembling and marked from his hands, teeth, belt—spencer drops the act like a switch flipped.

his whole body softens.

'hey. you with me, sweetheart?'

he’s off the bed in seconds—wet washcloth in hand, water bottle already opened, blanket pulled over your shoulders before you can shiver. one of his hands rubs small circles into your back while the other brushes sweaty hair off your forehead.

'there you are,' he whispers. 'there’s my pretty girl.'

gone is the man who just made you cry while choking on his cock. gone is the man who called you his little slut while he fingered you until your voice broke and the sheets soaked.

now? now he’s your spencer. your everything. and he’s treating you like something fragile and holy.

'drink for me,' he says, voice low. 'just a few sips.'

you’re so far gone all you can do is let him guide the bottle to your lips. you drink. he watches.

then he kisses you.

soft, so fucking soft. barely there. not to start anything. just to ground you.

'you’re okay. you did so good for me. the best i’ve ever had.'

you start to whimper—emotional, overwhelmed—and spencer immediately hushes you. 'i know, baby. i know. you’re okay. i’ve got you.'

he lies beside you, pulling you into his chest, hand sliding over your chest to feel your heartbeat. not sexual—he just needs proof you’re real.

because after what you let him do to you? after the filth he spilled into your ear, the bruises he left behind, the way you smiled through it?

he’s never loved anyone more and he can’t let go. not now. not ever.

he presses a kiss to your temple. one to your neck. one to every fingertip.

you mumble something—half-conscious—and he whispers back :

'i’ll run you a bath when you’re ready.' 'you don’t have to move. i’ll carry you.' 'i’ll clean the sheets. just sleep, my sweet girl. just sleep.'

and you drift off—head on his chest, safe and warm—before you can even make it to the tub.

b is for body part ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

your thighs. specifically : the soft, warm, needy flesh of them grinding against him in your sleep.

he can’t un-feel it.

that night in the hotel bed changed everything. you were asleep, sure. dreaming. unaware. but your legs had wrapped around his like you were meant to be there. your knee had pressed right into his aching cock and your hips had rocked, and you had moaned, and he had listened to all of it—biting his lip and gripping the sheets while he jacked off beside you like a man possessed.

now he can’t stop looking at your thighs.

he stares when you wear pencil skirts. he flushes when you fold your legs beside him on the jet. he remembers the weight of your leg slung over his, how slick you’d been. how warm. how tight.

when you finally touch him again—really touch him—he’ll gasp when you climb onto his lap. his hands will go straight to your thighs. his mouth will follow.

because now he knows how they feel. he just wants to know how they taste.

his neck.

specifically : the spot just below his ear.

it started by accident.

you had leaned in to whisper something during a case briefing, and your lips had brushed that tender patch of skin. he’d flinched. his ears had gone red. and you’d smiled, because now you had intel.

you start doing it more often. leaning in too close. tilting your head so your breath tickles just below his jaw. he gets so flustered—and then you’re grinning to yourself for the next hour.

but then, he tells you what happened that night. the wet dream. the fact that he stayed perfectly still while your moans and movements drove him to finish in that shared bed.

you’re not mad. not at all.

in fact, the next time you two are alone, you tilt his chin, lean in, and press a kiss—right there.

his hands fly to your waist. his breath shudders and you whisper, 'told you that spot would kill you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

your mouth.

at this stage, spencer is deep in the 'i should not be thinking this' phase. he is riddled with guilt and confusion—obsessed with you in a way that makes his stomach hurt. and it starts with your mouth.

he watches it constantly. when you talk. when you laugh. when you bite your lip while reading something. when you lick whipped cream off your spoon at the coffee shop and he nearly drops his book.

and then there’s your smile—that teasing little i know what i’m doing to you smirk that haunts him at night.

he’s not proud of it, but he thinks about it. ahat your mouth would look like wrapped around his cock. would you drool as he pushed it is as far down your throat as he could, would you gag. what you’d sound like if he kissed you, really kissed you, until your lips were red and swollen and desperate.

he knows he shouldn’t, but that’s what makes it worse. 'she probably doesn’t even mean to do it,' he tells himself. 'or maybe she does. god. maybe she knows. maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.'

and suddenly he’s hard again.

for you, its his hands. no contest.

you stare at them all the time.

long, elegant fingers that twitch when he’s nervous, that spin pens and fiddle with sugar packets. that brush over file folders like they’re something sacred. that tug at his tie when he’s flustered.

and then you imagine them doing everything else. gripping your hips. curling inside you. pinning your wrists down. gripping the headboard while he finally loses control.

you’re not subtle about it either. you give him pens just to watch him fiddle. you touch his fingers unnecessarily when passing case files. you make excuses to show him things on your phone so he’ll hover behind you, hand braced on the desk beside your thigh.

you love his hands and you can’t wait to find out what else they can do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

your hips.

specifically : the dip where your waist curves into the bone—where he can grip, pull, anchor.

by now, he knows. knows you’re teasing him. knows you want him just as bad. and when he finally gets to touch you, spencer’s hands will find your hips first. like he’s been waiting for permission to hold you still.

he’s bolder now. his hands splay over your curves like he owns them. not out of dominance, but worship—because they’ve haunted his dreams. he uses your hips like a map and a metronome: holding you down when you grind against him, guiding your pace when you ride him for the first time.

his fingers leave light bruises. his mouth presses kisses along every inch he can reach. and when you whimper and tell him you can’t take anymore, he digs his fingers just a little deeper into the flesh there and says:

'yes, you can. stay still for me, sweetheart. i need—god, i need to feel you take it.'

and when you do?

he falls apart all over again.

its still his hands. ( what can you say? )

specifically : his fingers. the ones that turn pages and cradle coffee cups—and now, fuck you so tender it makes your whole body tremble. because when spencer finally stops hesitating—when he chooses to put those brilliant, clever fingers on you—everything changes.

he learns fast. he asks questions. he watches your body and listens to what it needs. when you tell him how to touch you, he doesn’t just obey—he memorizes. he practices. he wants to be perfect for you.

and he is. you could write essays about his fingers. the way he curls them just right. the way his thumb finds your clit like he was born to touch it. the way he looks up at you from between your thighs, glasses fogged, tongue out, and murmurs, 'that’s it, baby. show me how you like it.'

you love his hands so much, you start holding them all the time. in meetings. on walks. under tables. over your chest while he fucks you slow.

one day you say, 'god, spence—your hands are perfect.'

he’ll blush, because of course he will, but later that night? he’ll say—

'you like them better here?' as he slides two fingers into your pussy.

'or here?' as his palm presses flat against your tummy while he fucks you from behind.

'or maybe…' as he brushes your hair back, cups your cheek, and kisses you so deep you forget your name.

and the answer is always:

yes.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

your throat.

and not just for the obvious reasons. ( though those reasons definitely count. )

in this phase, sspencer’s obsession sharpens. the playfulness of phase one, the awe of phase two, the worship of phase three—it all fuses into something hot and dangerous and feral in the best fucking way.

he loves your throat because he can watch it work when you swallow his cum.

he loves your throat because he can feel your moans vibrate against his palm when he gently wraps his hand around it.

he loves your throat because he can lean in during an argument and whisper—

'careful. you keep pushing, and i’m gonna fuck you until your voice breaks.'

and the next morning?

he’ll kiss your sore throat better. with tea and honey and guilt-laced affection.

but he’ll still smirk when you flinch a little at the memory of him growling 'open for me' with your head tilted back against the wall.

he touches your throat when he’s soft, too. when he’s falling asleep with your pulse against his fingertips. when you say something tender and he cups your jaw like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

because at the end of the day, it’s not just about sex. it’s about how you make him feel alive. how he wants to feel your heartbeat to remind himself : she’s real. this is real. i don’t have to be alone anymore.

his cock. there’s no delicate way to say it.

you love everything about him—his brain, his hands, his back, his mouth—but by phase four?

his cock is your new religion.

and it's not just about the size ( though it’s so good, thick and long and pretty, flushed pink with that slight curve that drives you insane ). it’s not even just how he uses it ( though that’s gotten filthy, hasn’t it? ). it’s the way he loses control when you give it attention.

you touch him and he unravels. you lick him and he whimpers. you ride him and he worships.

you love how vocal he is. how needy he gets. how he tries to hold back but always ends up begging.

'please—god, please, don’t stop.' as you hollow your cheeks and suck.

'feels so good, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good.' as you grab his thigh and force him to go further into you your mouth.

'i can’t—i’m gonna come. gonna come for you, baby—please—' as his tip grazes down your throat.

you can feel how much he wants you in every thrust. every twitch. every desperate grip on your hips, your thighs, your jaw.

you love how his cock fits in your mouth. how it stretches your cunt. how it leaks like he’s been ready for you—like he’s just been waiting for permission to ruin you.

you’ll tell him, breathless and smug and completely fucked-out :

'this is mine, spence. all of it.'

and he’ll say, without hesitation— 'yours. always.'

phase four is not about restraint.

it’s about relief.

the full-body exhale after holding back for too long.

c is for cum ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t meant to cum in any of these early moments of phase one. he’s not even thinking about orgasm as a goal. he’s just trying to survive.

you’ve kissed him once—maybe twice. you’ve touched him barely. you’ve said a few devastating things that hit him square in the libido and then acted like you didn’t even notice. he doesn’t know what’s allowed, what’s wanted, what’s imagined, and what’s real.

all he knows is cock has never behaved this way before.

it’s always messy. always mortifying. always unexpected. he finishes :

in his pants in the jet bathroom after you text and ask he needs help with his hard on that you most definitely caused.

in his bedroom the night that you ask 'did you think about me when you touched yourself on the jet?' in the middle of the bullpen when he was supposed to be doing paperwork.

in his hand while guilt-jacking it to the sound of you moaning his name and fucking yourself on his thigh. and then again in the shower to the memory of your soaked thighs grinding on him in your sleep.

in your car, when your hand slips over his clothed cock and strokes him so sweetly he doesn’t even get the chance to warn you—he just chokes out your name, spills over his boxers, and pants apologies like a sinner in a confessional.

every single time, he’s horrified by how quickly he comes. every single time, he spirals afterward.

'i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to— i can clean it up— i just— you— i— i didn’t—'

he doesn’t understand how you can stay so calm. he thinks he’s ruined everything. ( he hasn’t )

you’re just sitting pretty, pretending not to be the orchestrator of his entire sexual collapse.

his thoughts rang from, 'you’re disgusting' to 'you couldn’t even hold out thirty seconds' to 'she’s going to laugh in your face.'

you’ve seen it all—his stammering, his blushing, the way he avoids eye contact after he finishes like a schoolboy caught passing a dirty note.

you just smile.

'don’t worry, spence,' you tell him. 'we’ll work on your stamina next time.'

his soul leaves his body.

his cock twitches again.

he has no idea what to do with you.

he doesn’t just like cumming—he likes cumming because of you.

the way you say his name when you know he’s close.

the way your fingers wrap around him, just curious, just careful.

the way you don’t make fun of him when he spills too fast, too hard, too full of want.

he starts to crave the release—but also the praise. the tiny gasps you make when he moans. the way your lips part when you realize he’s close. the look on your face when you ruin him.

by the end of phase one, he’s still shy, still guilt-ridden, still unsure.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve had the talk.

you know that he knows about the wet dream. the handjob. the shower.

you were not mad. you were turned on. which honestly broke spencer’s brain for a second.

now you’re in this hazy, delicious middle-ground : not dating. not just friends. definitely not innocent.

and he’s discovering something about himself : you make him needy.

this is mutual masturbation territory. the first time you both do it in front of each other, it starts slow. you’re teasing him verbally like always—just soft whispers :

'show me how you do it when i’m not there.' 'do you touch yourself when you think about the car?' 'tell me what you think about when you come.'

he resists—at first. but he’s so worked up, he’s aching. you don’t touch him this time. not directly. you just sit there, legs parted, fingertips teasing your waistband.

and spencer—god.

he fists his cock, groaning your name before he can even stop himself. it’s messy. loud. gut-wrenching. he finishes fast again, but this time he doesn’t spiral.

this time you tell him :

'good boy.'

and spencer ascends.

she wants to see me come. she likes it. she touches herself thinking about me. she touches herself for me. i can let her watch.

his orgasm isn’t just physical anymore—it’s performative in the best way. he still feels a little shy, but he’s starving for your reaction.

he loves the gasp you make when he leaks down his own fist. he loves the tiny moan you let out when he pants your name.

he loves that you keep your eyes on him the whole time.

'don’t stop watching,' he begs one night, breathless.

and you don’t.

spencer doesn’t want to cum alone anymore.

he wants to be beside you, across from you, under you—whatever it takes to feel that connection when he finally lets go. he’s beginning to understand that pleasure isn’t something to be ashamed of, especially not when it’s with you.

and he’s starting to think…

maybe you don’t want to stop. maybe this isn’t just a phase. maybe this is becoming something more.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

at this point, the gloves are off—literally and metaphorically. you and spencer are doing it. regularly. desperately. obsessively.

he’s still your best friend, still sweet, still babbles post-orgasm, but now?

he begs. he curses. he cries when you edge him long enough. and when he comes—it’s an event.

spencer doesn’t just cum in phase three. he falls apart. he crumbles. he writhes. he gasps your name like it’s sacred.

you’ve figured out the exact way to ruin him :

two fingers under his jaw to make him look at you, a filthy praise-whisper in his ear ( like 'don’t you dare finish until i say so' )

a rhythm that he’s not allowed to break

he asks permission now, every time. he says it like he’s going to die if you say no.

'please, i can’t—please let me—i want to be good, i need—'

sometimes you say yes. sometimes you wait until he’s shaking so hard he’s tearing up. when you finally say 'now,' he explodes. and then he thanks you for it, breathlessly, repeatedly, until you kiss the words off his mouth.

this isn’t just about lust anymore. this is emotional. sensory. total surrender.

spencer doesn’t care if he whimpers, or moans, or sobs into your chest. he doesn’t care if he cums too fast or too hard or too loud.

he just wants you. every second. every nerve. every ruined breath.

spencer finally understands that pleasure can be exquisite and still be safe. that it’s okay to need something intense—because you make it okay.

he learns how far he can go. how much he can take. and that the second he looks into your eyes and says 'i can’t take it'—you’ll say 'yes, you can. just one more for me, baby.'

and he will.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

sex with spencer is no longer about discovery—it’s devotion. not just heat, not just hunger—it’s soul-deep, bone-shaking, terrifyingly good.

when spencer finishes now?

it’s slow. it’s tender. it’s devastating.

he comes with his face buried in your neck, your name whispered like a prayer, body trembling from restraint he’s long since lost. he holds you tighter than ever—like he thinks you’ll disappear if he lets go.

there’s no shame now. no guilt. no second-guessing. he wants you to see him fall apart.

you’ve seen him cry with your name on his lips.

you’ve watched him come so hard he can’t stay upright after. you’ve whispered things in his ear that he’ll remember on his deathbed. you’ve taken him apart and put him back together a hundred times—and he trusts you to do it again.

spencer cums with complete surrender in phase four. he holds eye contact. he holds your hand. he might say thank you, might say fuck, i need you, might just say more.

you don’t need a rhythm anymore. you just need him. and he just needs you.

he no longer begs to finish—he just asks where.

''inside you?' 'on your stomach?' 'your chest?' 'your mouth?'

and when you tell him?

he listens.

he obeys.

and he thanks you like you’ve given him a gift every single time.

d is for dirty talk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t mean to talk dirty.

he honestly can’t help it when he is around you.

it’s less about confidence and more about desperation—the kind that leaks out when he’s too worked up to self-censor. he’s not giving you a rehearsed fantasy; he’s muttering the exact, raw thoughts spinning through his spiraling brain.

his mouth moves faster than his filter, and that’s what makes it so devastating.

it’s accidental, breathless, panicked arousal.

'f-fuck, d-don’t stop—don’t stop, please—' 'god, do you even know what you’re doing to me?' 'i’m not gonna make it. i’m not—i can’t—'

he says the quiet parts out loud. things he meant to keep to himself, things like :

'i think about your mouth when i’m trying to work.' 'i’ve imagined you doing this since the first time i saw you.' 'you’re so fucking pretty it hurts.'

sometimes he gasps things he doesn’t realize are audible. whispers against your throat when he’s too far gone to care.

'you’re evil.' 'i’m so hard it hurts.'

and the worst part? he blushes as soon as he realizes he’s said any of it out loud. he’ll try to backpedal. stammer an apology. hide his face in your shoulder and groan :

'i didn’t mean to say that—oh my god—forget i said that—'

but you never do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s evolving.

there’s still shyness. still blushes. still that nervous energy thrumming just under the surface—but something’s shifted. he knows now that you want him. that you like him. that he doesn’t have to keep everything locked behind his teeth.

so he starts experimenting.

and once he gets a taste of how wrecked his words make you? he can’t stop. he doesn’t always say it smoothly. but when it lands? it lands hard.

'you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?' 'you like being a distraction? fine. now you’ve got my full attention.'

sometimes, it’s soft and reverent. other times, it’s ragged—growled through gritted teeth while he’s rutting into you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

'you’re so fucking soft.' 'you don’t even know what you do to me.' 'i think about you like this all the time.'

and sometimes—just sometimes—he whispers what he wants to do next.

'i want you to moan my name.' “let me be on top.”

he doesn’t realize how filthy he sounds. He’s still shocked when you moan louder in response. Still stunned when your eyes roll back because of a sentence that just slipped out of his mouth.

but god, does he love your reactions. they feed him. they build him. and the more he gets? the bolder he becomes.

there are moments in phase two where the dirty talk becomes domineering. not because he wants power—but because he craves your submission. not control. not force.

just need.

you’ll see it in the way he pants :

'tell me you want me.' 'say it. say it again.'

and when you do? he’ll lose every last shred of composure he worked so hard to keep.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer reid is dangerous.

not because he’s cruel—never that. but because he knows exactly what he’s doing now.

he’s past the blushing. past the guilt. past wondering if he’s imagining it when you tremble at his words.

he knows what gets you there and he uses it.

ohhh, he use it.

dirty talk in phase three isn’t just filth for the sake of it. it’s a fucking strategy. he says things that no man should say in that voice. that low, velvety, wicked voice.

'is that what you needed, baby? my fingers in you, nice and deep?' 'i can feel you clenching. you’re already close, aren’t you? you get off on this.' 'you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you earned this.'

he’s a scholar of your body now—knows how it ticks. he maps it with his mouth. marks it with his words.

'you’re my favorite thing to study.'

phase three spencer is a goddamn menace when you’re on the edge. he talks you there. keeps you there. then backs off, just to hear you whine.

'beg for it. say please, and maybe i’ll let you come.' 'look at you. fucking soaking. did i do this to you?' 'this pussy’s mine now, you know that, right?'

he’s smug. he’s relentless, but he’s so attentive.

when you fall apart?

he’s right there to whisper it into your hair :

'that’s it, baby. that’s my girl. so perfect for me, soakin my fingers.'

by now, he’s not afraid to name things. to ask for things. he’ll even suggest them with that casual, scholarly tone.

'next time, i want your hands tied.' 'would you let me film you coming for me?' 'let’s try that thing you looked up last night, sweetheart. i saw your search history.'

you will combust and he will smile.

because phase three spencer reid knows he’s got you wrapped around his long, clever fingers—and that his voice alone is enough to bring you to your knees.

he’s filth. he’s power. he’s a walking, talking thesis on how to fuck someone senseless using only words.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is unrecognizable from the bashful, blushing boy he used to be. he's still sweet. still soft. but only after. because when he’s inside you?

he’s filthy. he's unhinged. he is fucking possessive.

and his dirty talk? it drips with ownership.

at this stage, you belong to him—and he makes sure you feel it in every word.

'you’re gonna take it, baby. you’re gonna take every inch, just like that.' 'so cockdrunk you forgot your own name, huh? good thing you only need to remember mine.' 'i love how loud you get when i fuck you deep. you know the neighbors hear you, right?'

he says it right into your mouth. into your ear. onto your skin as he bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud himself.

he doesn’t hold back anymore—not with his thrusts, and not with his mouth.

phase four spencer doesn’t ask. he tells.

'open your legs wider. that’s it.' 'put your hands behind your head—i want you to watch your tits bounce when you come.' 'rub your clit for me. come on now.'

and the moment you hesitate, he chuckles—darkly.

'what’s wrong, sweetheart? suddenly shy? you weren’t shy when you begged for my cock in the elevator.'

he talks you through every orgasm. describes it in real time.

'look at that. you’re shaking so hard. so fucking pretty when you come for me.'

he toes the line between worship and ruin.

'you’re such a fucking mess for me, baby. ruined that pretty pussy on my fingers alone.' 'you beg so well, i almost feel bad teasing you. almost.' 'god, i love it when you cry like this. you wanna come that bad, huh?'

then—without fail—he’ll pull you close, brush the hair from your face, and murmur :

'mine. all mine.'

because phase four spencer is possessive in the bedroom. gentle outside of it. but here? in the dark? on your knees?

he’s merciless.

and the worst part?

he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

e is for experience ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is, in a word, inexperienced. but don’t confuse that with clueless.

he’s a genius, after all and the fact that he hasn’t done much? only makes everything ten times hotter.

he knows the mechanics. he knows every scientific study on erogenous zones. can recite entire Kinsey reports from memory.

but when it comes to you?

to your bare skin under his trembling hands? he's overwhelmed to say the least.

'you feel… so much softer than i expected. not that i—i wasn’t imagining, i just—'

he blushes. he stammers. he can’t stop looking. you catch him staring at your bra like it’s a quantum puzzle. he’ll murmur things like :

'i didn’t think i’d ever get this close to someone like you.' 'are you… sure you want me to…?' 'what do you like? i want to… get it right.'

he’s terrified he’ll mess it up. that you’ll compare him to someone else. that he won’t know what to do with his hands. ( he doesn’t. )

so you guide him and when he listens? he really listens. the first time he kisses down your stomach, it’s not smooth. it’s hesitant and careful. like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he goes too fast.

but when your fingers thread into his hair and you sigh—he exhales like he’s been blessed.

'i didn’t know it would feel this… electric.'

afterward, he fumbles to pull your shirt down.

'are you okay? did i—was it… okay for you?'

you tell him yes. of course.

but that’s not enough for him. he wants proof.

he wants to memorize every twitch, every moan, every breath you took while wrapped around him.

because he doesn’t just want to be good at sex.

he wants to be good for you.

and phase one spencer reid?

he may be inexperienced but he learns very fast.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he has done a lot of thinking and a lot of touching.

most of it? behind closed doors. in the shower. in bed. in hotel bathrooms with a hand clamped over his mouth while replaying your voice in his head.

'did you think of me when you touched yourself on the jet last week?'

yeah. that question lives rent-free in his brain. he absolutely did. he still does.

he's still not experienced in the traditional sense but he’s mentally catalogued every sound you’ve made near him. he’s committed your reactions to memory—filed under 'use this to make her shake'.

he’s a little braver now. a little bolder.

he touches himself with you in mind. not just a vague fantasy version—you.

your voice. your laugh. the way you looked at him over your coffee that morning.

he strokes himself with your name on his tongue. sometimes he finishes faster than he wants to—because your smile is enough to undo him.

he hasn’t actually had sex with you. not yet.

but you’ve palmed him through his pants. you’ve whispered filthy things in his ear. you’ve brushed your lips against his jaw and asked, 'what are you thinking about, spence?' in the most devastating voice imaginable.

and he has so much pent-up experience now—secondhand, yes, but sharpened to a dangerous point by longing.

if he ever gets the chance?

he won’t just be good. he’ll be unhinged.

phase two spencer can tell you, with academic precision, exactly how to make a woman orgasm.

but he doesn’t need to anymore because by now?

he’s dreaming of your moans on a loop. he’s memorized the tension in your thighs when you tease him. he knows how it feels when you grind on his thigh in your sleep.

and maybe, when he’s alone—tugging at himself in the dark—he wonders what it would be like if you really touched him. if you watched. and maybe, maybe… he comes with your name on his lips.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid is no longer imagining you.

he has you.

your body. your moans. your praise. your nails in his back. he knows what you taste like, sound like, look like when you fall apart—and he is addicted.

he might not have been your most experienced partner in the beginning, but by now? he’s borderline feral and his experience is intimately, exclusively, dangerously tailored to you.

the quietest man in the room is now the one who pins you to the mattress and fucks you so slowly you forget your own name.

he’s so hungry for you it’s embarrassing. he’s been studying—you, your body, your sounds—and he uses everything he’s learned. Every angle. every breath.

he’s not just a fast learner—he’s a devoted one and now that he knows how to get you to shake?

he won’t stop until you do.

he wants all of it.

not just your body. not just the high.

he wants the learning curve. he wants to memorize how your breath hitches when he curls his fingers just right. he wants to build you from the inside out. he wants to write essays in his head about what your pleasure sounds like.

and then he wants to make you sob it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four he not just experienced.

he is confident.

not cocky or careless. but deeply, devastatingly self-assured in the way only someone who’s loved you—known you—worshipped you—can be.

he knows what you need before you say it. he knows how to pull it from your throat before you think to beg. he doesn’t ask, 'did you like that?' anymore.

he tells you :

'yeah you liked that. i felt it.'

and then he does it again.

he takes his time—every time—because he knows how much it ruins you when he drags it out. he teases you not because he’s insecure, but because he knows exactly how to hold you on the edge.

knows how to touch you until your thighs shake and your eyes flutter and you’re whimpering his name like a prayer. knows when to still his fingers and whisper, 'you’re not ready yet. be patient.'

he doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.

you already taught him that he’s everything you want. now he wants to show you just how much he’s learned.

and oh, does he show you.

he’ll push your body to limits you didn’t know it had. hold you through overstimulation. whisper corrections when your hands shake too much to undo his belt properly.

'eyes on me, sweetheart. that’s it. you’re doing so good.'

his voice is deeper now when he’s buried inside you. thicker. rougher. laced with years of yearning and practice and love. and when you clench around him and cry out, trembling?

he kisses your damp cheek, strokes your hair, and murmurs :

'perfect. just like that. you gonna cum on my cock again, baby?'

because you made him this way.

all that teasing in phase one? all the longing in phase two? the holy-shit-i-can’t-believe-this-is-real wonder of phase three?

it’s all still there. but now, it’s funneled into the man above you. the one gripping your hips. the one fucking you like you’re the last person on earth.

and when he comes, he always comes deep. pressed flush against you, whispering broken things against your skin. sometimes your name. sometimes a full dissertation on how tight you are and how good your squeezing him.

f is for favorite position ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is in the deep end of uncharted waters now—flustered, overwhelmed, barely holding on by the thread of his last clean pair of slacks.

he’s never had to think about this before. favorite position? It’s a miracle he’s not short-circuiting from just imagining you naked.

still, if you pressed him—if you leaned in real close, batted your lashes, asked all sweet and sly—

'spence, tell me your favorite position…'

he’d stammer for a bit, push up his glasses, mutter something about how it’s really just about proximity to emotional intimacy and mutual safety—before quietly admitting:

'uh… probably missionary.'

and it’s not because he lacks imagination.

it’s because it’s the one where he gets to see you.

its because he wants to know what your face looks like when you come. because he wants to bury his head in your neck when it’s too much. because the thought of holding himself above you—watching you squirm, cry out, wrap your legs around him?

it's enough to make him absolutely combust.

'i think about it,' he’d whisper later. 'your legs hooked behind me. your hands in my hair. you saying my name like that��'

he never finishes the sentence. but the pink blooming in his cheeks tells you enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is newly deflowered, in every possible way—emotionally, physically, spiritually ( you wrecked him, and he liked it ).

he’s no longer a trembling virgin, but he’s still awkward, reverent, and achingly in love with you. and now that he knows what it feels like—how your body fits under his, around him, on him—he’s hooked.

so what’s his favorite position?

You riding him. ( with his hands on your hips like you��re going to disappear. )

because it lets him watch everything.

your tits bouncing.

your mouth slack with pleasure.

your eyes—half-lidded, drunk on him.

and god help him if you grab his hands and press them to your chest. if you tell him to just relax and let you take care of him?

he melts. he melts.

he never realized how hot it would be to be so completely, deliciously used—until you leaned in and whispered :

'don’t think, baby. just feel.'

and now? he craves it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer is a man transformed.

he’s confident and commanding. utterly insatiable. gone is the stammering virgin with trembling fingers. now he’s got your wrists pinned, your name on his tongue, and a roughness in his voice that should be illegal.

so what’s his favorite position?

from behind. but not just any kind of behind. chest to your back, one hand in your hair, the other on your throat or between your legs.

because he likes the control now. he likes watching your face in the mirror—your eyes fluttering, lips parted, that dazed expression he put there.

because it lets him guide your pace. whisper filth into your ear. wrap a hand around your throat and feel your pulse flutter every time he thrusts deeper.

he loves hearing you beg—loves how desperate you get when he slows down just to tease.

'spencer, please—' 'i know, sweetheart. i know. but i’m not done with you yet.'

and if you try to push back into him?

mistake. he’ll grip your hips so tight they’ll bruise, groan into your neck, and make you pay for being greedy.

in the best way, of course.

his second favorite?

over his desk. clothes bunched. legs shaking. he still files his reports at that desk—still thinks about it every time he sits down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer is devastating.

he’s not just confident—he’s obsessed. comfortable in your body. in his own. in you. everything he does now is deliberate, filthy, and tailored to exactly what he knows makes you lose it.

so what’s his favorite position?

reverse cowgirl. with your back arched, his hands gripping your hips, and his eyes locked on the way you take him.

because spencer is completely gone for you.

it’s visual torture in the best way.

he gets to watch the drag of your body as you sink down onto him. see the bounce, the reverberation, the pure sin of it. trace every curve with greedy, possessive eyes and run his hands over your ass, your waist, your thighs like he owns you ( because honestly at this point, he does, and you love it ).

'jesus christ, you look unreal,' he pants, watching your slick thighs tremble. 'i want you to see what you do to me—look.' he no longer waits for permission and he grabs your phone. records it. just for him. just for you.

when you grind? his hands slip to your stomach. one travels up, between your breasts, over your throat. he doesn’t choke—he holds.

firm. reverent. worshipful.

'you’re so perfect,' he whispers, voice wrecked. 'so fucking perfect. you were made for this.'

he lets you ride him whenever you want because spencer lives to be used by you, but when he initiates?

it’s slow, deep. utterly unforgiving.

and after?

he kisses every inch of you. tells you how beautiful you looked, how good you were for him. strokes your skin like it’s priceless.

g is for goofy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

goofy spencer is endearing in every single way, but in phase one—before either of you has admitted what’s going on—it’s especially adorable.

because he doesn’t mean to be funny. he’s just… spencer.

starts rambling mid-flirt because he’s nervous. you’ll say, 'you always this red when you get teased?' and he’ll launch into a fact about vasodilation and increased blood flow until he realizes… you’re grinning at him.

laughs like a dork when you poke his side. like full-on snort. then gets embarrassed about it.

says something wildly inappropriate by accident and immediately panics:

'god, you’re just trying to ruin me.' then it sets in. 'i–um—i don’t mean ruin as in—you know—sexually—like—um—emotionally, i guess? or intellectually? . . . i’ll stop talking now.'

you catch him watching you one day and say, 'see something you like, dr. reid?' and spencer, deadpan, says :

'i was admiring the structural integrity of your penmanship.'

then immediately blushes so hard he has to turn away. ( he was definitely watching the curve of your ass. he just panicked.)

sometimes you flirt too well, and he fumbles.

'i bet i could make you come in under two minutes.' 'you mean… arrive? like… come over? because i live… farther? from here?” ( brain blue screens )

He’s the king of awkward giggles, scientific facts in very wrong moments, and accidentally saying 'moisture content' when talking about kissing.

and you?

you love every second of it.

h is for hair ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn't mean to notice your hair the way he does.

he tells himself it’s harmless—just an idle observation. a scientific curiosity. aesthetic appreciation. nothing more.

but then you lean over your desk and it falls ( he’s catalogued all your hair textures in his mind like a walking pantone wheel of temptation ). he gets distracted—loses his train of thought mid-sentence because the overhead lights just hit you so—and his hands twitch like they want to touch. just one strand.

he imagines what it feels like constantly.

wonders whether it’s soft like cotton or heavy like silk. if it smells like your shampoo or like something that’s just you.

wonders what you’d do if he asked to tug on it.

wonders what kind of sound you’d make.

and when you sit next to him on the jet, nodding off after a long case, your head lolled gently toward him and your hair brushing his arm?

he wants to bury his face in it. suffocate in it. he wants to know what it would be like if your head was on his chest, not just his bicep.

he also thinks a lot about what’s underneath.

your pubic hair, specifically. ( he’s mortified by how often he thinks about it. )

are you shaved? trimmed? bare? natural? do you wax? do you care? would you let him see it? touch it? mouth it?

he bets it’s the same shade as what’s on your head. he bets it’s beautiful. he bets it would drive him out of his goddamn mind.

as for him?

he’s self-conscious about his own body hair. always has been.

his curls? he those tame, gelled behind his ears in phase one. wild they frame his face, soften his jawline, fall into his eyes when he’s reading. while he is working, his ear length hair is slicked back.

you’ve told him—casually—that you like his hair this length. called it cute. tugged it once teasingly. he thought about that for hours.

( you don’t know that he almost offered to let you braid it one night on the jet. he chickened out. he still regrets it. )

below the neck?

spencer keeps things neat but natural.

he trims down there, mostly for hygiene, but he doesn’t go fully bare—he read an article once about skin irritation and ingrown hairs and decided he’d rather not risk it. besides, he thinks you'd like it. think you’d scratch your nails lightly through it while you kissed your way down—

( he stops that thought every time. it never works. )

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

it starts with your shampoo.

that first night at his apartment—your first almost-date—you'd washed your hair in his shower. left his bathroom foggy and fragrant, the scent trailing behind you like perfume.

spencer didn’t mean to sniff the air like a lunatic.

but he did and then he buried his face in the throw blanket you'd wrapped around your shoulders and inhaled like a man starved.

he recognizes that scent now. knows it better than anything. can pinpoint it when you walk by in the bullpen, when you leave his desk after teasing him senseless. when you lean over the evidence board and your hair brushes the paper beside his hand—he feels it like a live wire.

he doesn’t stop there.

he touches.

when you lie on his couch watching reruns, he’ll sneak his hand up to cradle the back of your head. pretend it’s about comfort. stability. but really? he just wants to card his fingers through it. slowly. absentmindedly.

he plays with the ends while you ramble about something that isn't him. he knots it around his finger like he's tethering you to him.

he brushes it back from your cheek just to see your face—just to look—and his fingers linger too long every time.

you never complain. you never pull away. ( that might be what ruins him most. )

he hasn’t touched your hair down there yet. but god, he wants to. he’s thought about it. desperately. vividly. late at night, he curls a pillow behind his head and jacks off slow to the thought of your thighs pressed open for him. imagines what your pussy looks like—bare or trimmed or messy and soft.

he’s ready for anything. doesn’t care what’s there or what isn’t. he’d mouth over it either way, tug at it gently with his teeth if you let him. he thinks he’d love the texture of it on his tongue.

you’ve seen the hair on his chest now. not all of it—just a flash that first night he peeled off his sweater and sat beside you on the bed, pretending not to notice the way your eyes dropped.

he caught your glance and now he keeps the top few buttons of his shirts open on purpose. he doesn't know what you'd do if you saw the rest of it—the trail down his stomach, the soft hair dusting his thighs. but God, he wants to find out. he wants you to touch. to kiss. to tug when he fucks you so slow he makes you cry.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he fists your hair when he kisses you.

not hard. not at first.

it starts gentle—curious fingers weaving through the strands at the nape of your neck, thumb tracing the shape of your skull like he’s cataloguing it. he tucks the hair behind your ear just so he can lean in and whisper something filthy, and when you shiver, he smiles.

but when your mouth opens beneath his?

when your tongue meets his, needy and greedy, and you tug at his shirt like you want to climb inside him—

he grabs a handful and he pulls. he learns quickly what you like.

how tilting your head just right makes you whimper. how soft tugs at your roots make you melt, but sharp ones make you gasp and clench around his fingers when they’re inside you.

he’s obsessed.

obsessed with the way your hair tangles in his sheets. with the way it clings to your forehead with sweat when he’s got his mouth buried between your legs. with how it smells, how it tastes when it gets caught between his teeth because he won’t stop kissing your neck long enough to push it away.

you get your revenge.

your fingers in his hair—curling in those long chestnut waves he never quite manages to tame. you thread your hand through them when he goes down on you, encouraging him, holding him in place like he isn’t already starving for you.

he never knew his hair could be such a weak spot until you tugged—really tugged—right as he made you come. he groaned like it hurt, like you’d dragged it out of his soul, and now he can’t stop chasing that sound.

his body hair becomes another fixation.

he’s always been shy about it—but never shaved his chest or his stomach, never trimmed anything but what seemed polite. now, he sees the way your eyes trail over him when he pulls off his shirt. sees the way your fingers stroke lower and lower when you’re curled together in bed, lips trailing after them.

and when your nails rake through the hair on his thighs as you sink to your knees in front of him? the way you grab his wrists and guide his own hands into your hair, making a makeshift ponytail. the way you groan against his heavy cock when he tugs on it hard.

he swears he blacks out for a second.

and when it’s over, when the sweat dries and the sheets are soaked and he’s still wrapped around you like he’ll die if you leave—he strokes your hair for hours. twirls it, studies it, kisses your temple through it.

he’ll bury his face in it when he thinks you’re asleep and whisper the things he’s not brave enough to say aloud.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is addicted.

not in the bashful, hesitant, slow-burn way he used to be. not even in the reverent awe. this is different. this is need. this is the way your hair lives on his pillow, the way your scent clings to his sweaters, the way his fingers curl into the back of your head on instinct—like his body knows you’re his before his brain can catch up.

he loves all of it.

clean or messy. styled or tangled. damp from the shower or damp from sweat. he loves the way it gets in your mouth when you're laughing. the way it fans across your back when you’re face-down in the sheets. the way you let him brush it out after long days, humming under your breath while he works from root to end, gentle and methodical like it’s an equation with only one right answer.

and when it comes to what’s beneath the silk and strands—he’s got every inch memorized.

he kisses the soft skin behind your ear before curling his fingers into your hair and tugging you down onto him. he trails his lips down the path your part carves into your scalp. he mouths at your temple, your crown, your jaw, worshipping the parts of you others overlook. and when your hair sticks to your skin after he’s ruined you, when he pushes it back to get a better look at your face, he always murmurs—

'you’re so pretty like this.' 'please don’t hide from me. i wanna see everything.'

he lets you play with his, too.

sometimes he sits at your feet while you braid it, twist it, fluff it just because it makes you happy. he lets you use conditioner in the shower, even if it smells 'too sweet.' he groans when you tug on it, especially if you do it while straddling him with purpose.

and when you run your fingers through it absently while reading on the couch—his head in your lap, eyes fluttering closed—he’s convinced that nothing, not even sex, feels more intimate than this.

curtains and drapes?

he doesn’t care. never did. not about yours, not about his.

trimmed, bare, bushy, dyed—he loves you in every form you take. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice. he notices everything.

the first time you dye it? he stares for ten minutes before saying a word, then spends the rest of the day touching it like it’s holy. the first time you cut it short? he keeps murmuring 'you’re still my girl' like you needed reminding. and when you get it done just for fun—maybe styled, blown out, twisted up—he cannot keep his hands to himself.

when he’s between your thighs, he uses your hair like a leash.

fingers wrapped. fist clenched. holding you steady while he whispers 'you’re doing so well for me.'

and when you’re on top, riding him slow and steady, he uses it to anchor himself—tugging you down so your foreheads touch, his mouth panting out half-formed praise against your lips, a whispered 'you’re mine, baby, mine—mine—' falling hot and broken between breaths.

he’s not afraid anymore.

he’ll tell you when you look good. he’ll groan when you fluff your hair in the mirror. he’ll drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs just because he loves how it smells.

i is for intimacy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is terrified of intimacy.

not because he doesn't want it. god, he aches for it—deep down, bone-deep, where he’s spent his whole life compartmentalizing. but he’s awkward. scared. still trying to convince himself that what you’re doing isn’t flirting. that you couldn’t possibly mean the touches, the teasing, the looks. that he must be projecting.

so the intimacy? it sneaks up on him.

it’s your hand brushing his when you pass him a file. the way your pinky lingers for half a second too long and he thinks about it for days.

it’s you falling asleep on his shoulder during the jet ride and him forgetting how to breathe. how your hair smells like shampoo and citrus and something soft and warm that makes him dizzy. how your weight against his arm feels better than anything he’s ever earned.

it’s your knees bumping under the conference table. your laughter when he nervously stumbles over a word and the way you nudge him like it’s an inside joke. like you’ve already memorized all his little tells.

you call him spence in a tone no one else uses. he thinks about that, too. he thinks about you, constantly.

but Spencer doesn’t understand intimacy in the casual, effortless way you seem to. for him, it's built from the ground up. studied. tested. analyzed. intimacy isn’t easy. it’s not even safe.

but you make it feel almost okay.

you sit too close. you touch his wrist when you laugh. you tuck his hair behind his ear once, and he damn near malfunctions.

you let him ramble. you listen.

you memorize how he takes his coffee and you never tease him when he double-knots his shoelaces or uses two straws for iced drinks. you ask how his mom is. you ask if he’s okay in a way that’s not just polite—it’s real.

and it terrifies him.

because this—this is real intimacy. and if he lets himself believe it’s more than friendship, if he lets himself hope . . .

well, he’s not sure he’ll survive it if he’s wrong.

so he pulls back sometimes.

he stammers. gets flustered. tries not to look too long when you lean over his desk and your perfume hits his nose and short-circuits his frontal lobe.

but late at night—alone, in bed—he replays it all.

the way you said his name. the brush of your fingers. the sleepy sigh you made when you curled into his side without even thinking.

and he wonders if you feel it too. if you're afraid like he is. if intimacy has ever wrecked you the way it’s already started to wreck him.

because he’s falling and it feels a lot like flying straight into the sun.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he is beginning to understand that what’s happening between you isn’t just friendship.

you’ve crossed lines now—delicate, invisible lines drawn in jet cabins and late-night hotel rooms. there have been touches. moans. mutually broken silences. but still… no formal acknowledgment. no confessions. just tension that simmers under every word, every glance.

intimacy in phase two is unguarded vulnerability, cloaked in denial.

you come over for dinner.

you sit on his couch, your legs tucked beneath you like you belong there, and you ask about his favorite books. not just what he likes—but why.

and he tells you.

tells you too much. pens up about stories that saved him as a child. tells you about loneliness, about hope, about fear of losing control. he tells you things he hasn’t told anyone—because you asked. because you looked at him like his words mattered.

you listen without blinking.

you ask again.

and then you tell him something real—something about your past, or a fear you haven’t shared before—and suddenly, you’re sitting in the kind of silence that means everything.

this is the intimacy of shared laughter over dinner dishes. his hoodie on your shoulders because you said you were cold. your socked feet brushing under the blanket while you watch something neither of you are really paying attention to

and he notices everything.

he notices when you lean your cheek into your palm while watching him speak. notices when your eyes flick to his mouth. notices that your smile always comes slower, softer when it’s just the two of you.

he’s obsessed with it.

he’s terrified by it.

because he wants you now—not just physically ( though god knows that hasn’t lessened )—but emotionally. profoundly. intellectually.

intimacy for spencer is him stealing glances when you’re not looking, memorizing the way you laugh when you’re tired, the sleepy rasp in your voice when you call him late to say goodnight.

it’s the moment he confesses what happened in the hotel room. the one-bed incident. how he couldn’t help himself.

he expects you to pull away.

but you don’t.

you blink. you smile. you say you wish you’d been awake.

and he swears the earth tilts a little.

intimacy is inch by inch with him, especially now. it's the kind that lingers in the air after you’ve left. it’s a heartbeat louder when your fingers accidentally touch. it’s falling in love with someone who’s already halfway in your arms—but neither of you have dared to look down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

this is where the dam finally breaks.

there’s no more plausible deniability. no more unspoken maybe’s. you’ve touched. you’ve teased. you’ve crossed every line you once pretended not to see.

and spencer is yours. emotionally, physically. wholly but the intimacy in phase three isn’t just about lust or even possession.

it’s about recognition.

this version of intimacy is quieter than people expect. spencer brushing your hair out of your face while you sleep. the first time you call him 'baby' and he blushes so hard you think he might combust.

the way he presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in after sex, like he’s trying to memorize what happiness feels like.

he’s still awkward. still rambles when he’s nervous. still stammers when you call him handsome like you mean it. but he wants to be close now. desperately. freely.

he touches you without hesitation : a hand on your back when you walk through doors, fingers tracing your knee when you sit beside him, lips pressed to your temple for no reason at all.

he smiles more.

he starts saying 'i missed you' even if it’s only been a day.

he learns to ask—not just about your day, but about your feelings. about your past. about your fears. he listens. remembers. repeats it back at the perfect moment to remind you he was always listening.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is now undone. he’s not shy about it anymore. not tentative, not afraid. there’s no mask left—only hunger, devotion, and a love so intense it borders on worship.

it isn’t just woven into your sex life—it’s in everything he does.

he touches you like he’s trying to memorize the soul beneath your skin.

he looks at you like you hung the constellations with your bare hands.

he speaks to you like there’s no one else in the world who could possibly understand.

this is the version of Spencer who slides into your side of the bed just to steal your warmth. grumbles if you leave the house without a goodbye kiss. puts your name in his phone with a heart next to it and checks it when he misses you ( which is always ).

you’ve become his safest place.

that’s what intimacy means now.

it means pulling your hand to his chest when he has nightmares. letting you hear him cry for the first time and not apologizing for it.

whispering 'i trust you' against your shoulder when the weight of the world gets too heavy.

physically, he’s more open than ever. he undresses slowly in front of you now—no hesitation, no shame. he lets you press your lips to the scars and the softness he once tried to hide.

he initiates more than he ever used to—not out of lust, but because he needs your closeness like breath in his lungs.

and when he talks to you? it’s vulnerable and messy and honest.

'i don’t know what i’d do without you.' 'sometimes i wake up and panic, because i think this is a dream.' 'no one’s ever loved me like you do. i hope i make you feel even half that.'

by now, spencer doesn’t just crave your body—he craves your presence. your voice. your opinion. your hand on his back when he’s stressed. your silence when he’s overstimulated.

he’s stopped hiding how much he needs you.

and every time he breathes you in, every time he whispers your name against your skin, you can feel the truth in it. you are his entire world.

j is for jacking off ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t plan on doing it. he doesn’t mean to. but lately, it’s become more of a necessity than a choice.

because spencer is frustrated and borderline desperate. teetering on the edge of a spiral every time you so much as touch his arm or say his name in that voice. and he’s confused—because you’re still his best friend, but now you’re also a walking temptation in tiny skirts and soft perfume and teasing eyes that linger a little too long.

so he jacks off a lot. shamefully and quietly and always to the thought of you.

it usually happens after the team goes their separate ways. after the tension from the jet or the hotel or the bullpen has nowhere else to go.

he’ll close the door to his apartment and immediately feel the weight of it pressing against his zipper—the ache that’s been following him around since you made that comment about how big his hands are. or how you leaned over to show him something on your tablet, and your bralette—navy blue, he noticed—was the only thing shielding your breasts from his face.

and suddenly his resolve cracks like a matchstick.

most of the time, he doesn't even make it to the bed. Sometimes it's the couch. Sometimes the bathroom. Sometimes the shower, turned too hot, his forehead braced against tile while his hand works himself in fast, angry strokes.

because he feels guilty. like a pervert. like a bad friend. but your name is right there on the tip of his tongue as he pants into his palm, and the fantasy is so vivid—so real—that his toes curl and his thighs tremble before he can even stop it.

he imagines you a couple different ways. you on your knees, tongue out, eyes wide. you straddling his lap, gasping into his mouth.

you asleep beside him, soft and warm, and—God—grinding on his thigh without even realizing it. ( that one isn’t a fantasy. that one actually happened. )

and afterward, he lays there. shaky. spent. sticky and ashamed.

he tells himself it has to stop.

but it never does.

because he’s already hard again the next morning—just from the sound of your laugh echoing through the hallway.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows by now you want him. you’ve made it impossible not to. he still second-guesses everything ( because he’s spencer ), but the line between fantasy and reality has started to blur—and it’s driving him insane.

you’ve kissed. touched. you’ve even said things—filthy, whisper-soft things in the dark—that make his knees go weak just remembering. but you haven’t fucked yet.

and that’s the problem.

because now when he jacks off, it’s not from afar. it’s not fueled by guilt and secret shame. it’s fueled by you. the real, tangible, maddening you. and it’s so much worse.

he’ll be alone in his apartment, pacing.

because he wants to wait. because he wants it to be perfect.

because you said you weren’t ready—not yet—and he respects that, he does. but he’s already ruined three pairs of briefs this week thinking about your tongue in his mouth and your hand on his belt, unbuckling him with slow, teasing fingers while you whisper.

‘is this what you think about when your alone?’

( it is. )

so when he jacks off in phase two, it’s slower. needier.

he’ll lie in bed with the lights off, one hand fisted around his cock, the other clutched over his mouth to stop the whimpering. he’s embarrassed by how easily he unravels—how sensitive you’ve made him, how just the memory of your breath in his ear is enough to make his spine arch off the mattress.

he comes with your name punched from his lungs, like he’s apologizing to the air. and then he texts you :

‘im sorry. i thought about you again.’

and you always reply :

‘good. i hope you made a mess.’

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he doesn’t have to imagine you anymore.

he shouldn’t have to jack off at all, not really—not when you’ve touched every inch of him with your mouth and your hands and your words. not when you’ve kissed him into moaning submission against your living room couch and ridden him so thoroughly he forgot how to spell his name. not when his sheets still smell like your shampoo.

and yet it’s worse now. because now he knows exactly what you look like when you whimper. how your hips stutter when you’re right on the edge. how you say his name when you’re about to fall apart.

now, when he jacks off, it’s no longer fantasy—it’s memory.

he’ll try to hold out. He will.

he’ll tell himself not tonight, you just saw her, and you can wait, you have a meeting in the morning—but his hand betrays him the second he pictures the outline of your thighs wrapped around his waist.

it starts with just a touch. just a little pressure through the front of his boxers. but soon he’s panting like a man fucking possessed, muttering curses under his breath, fucking up into his palm like it’s your fist around him instead.

he gets vocal now. he never meant to—but you ruined him. you told him he sounded hot when he begged. and now, every time he closes his eyes and hears your voice purring.

'are you gonna come for me, spence?'

he knows he’s lost.

he finishes fast and hard, a total mess—spilling across his stomach.

'fuck, baby—yes, oh god—ugh'

and bites down hard on the side of his hand to keep from saying your name so loudly the neighbors complain.

sometimes—especially the nights he misses you—he calls you afterward. voice still hoarse. breathing still shallow.

you always know and you always say :

'did you finish, sweetheart?'

to which he breathes :

'not enough. i need the real thing.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer barely has time to jack off.

but when he does, it's because he physically has to.

because you’ve been gone all day lecturing at a conference in another city, and he needs you like he needs oxygen. because he spent all night replaying that moment in the hallway when you tugged his tie and whispered you wanted to ruin him after dinner—and then had the audacity to leave before dessert.

so now he’s in your shared bedroom, still in his slacks, fist clenched around his cock, fucking into his hand with quiet, determined gasps—head tipped back, lips parted, flushed pink all the way down to his chest.

it’s no fantasy. it’s memory soaked in devotion. he’s not imagining your tits bouncing above him or your mouth around his cock—he’s remembering it in four—fucking—k clarity. he knows exactly how you smell, how your voice trembles when you say his name. he knows what you look like when you come with your hand in his hair, your thighs trembling around his ribs.

and even then, even with all that—the realest reel of all reels playing in his mind—it still isn’t enough.

he finishes with a groan, his body curling forward with the force of it, cum streaking across his hand, chest, belly. he pants hard, shaky, and a little embarrassed at how fast he unraveled—how needy he still is after everything.

then he cleans up, tugs on one of your shirts, and crawls into bed on your side, pressing his face into your pillow, just to smell you.

because even after you’ve made love to him a hundred times, after you've taken him apart and worshipped every inch of him—spencer still jacks off like he’s starving for you and he always will.

k is for kinks ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

when this all starts, he honestly doesn't think he has any kinks. ( he absolutely fucking does. )

he's still telling himself you're his best friend. still pretending he doesn’t fantasize about your mouth or your thighs or the way you say his name when you’re tipsy and teasing. still convincing himself that the boners you give him in the bullpen are just unfortunate accidents, not evidence of some very specific desires bubbling to the surface.

but spencer’s biggest phase one kink? verbal submission. not yours. his.

he doesn’t know the term for it yet, but something about the way you talk to him in that silky, smug voice—the way you lean close and purr.

'is that a blush, dr. reid?' or 'did you just flinch when i said cock?' makes him un—fucking—ravel.

you talk him into things. you talk him off. you tease him until he’s squirming and then you coo, 'use your words, spence.'

and God, he wants to.

he wants to say he’s hard. that he’s aching. that he needs help, yours specifically. that if you keep edging him with your dirty little questions, he’s going to finish in his pants like a virgin.

he wants to beg, and that terrifies him.

he doesn’t know how much he likes being coaxed and bossed around until you start doing it in the smallest, most innocuous ways

'sit down, sweetheart.' 'hands on the table, baby, i’m not done talking to you.'

his brain short-circuits every time.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

things have officially crossed the line. you’ve kissed. you’ve touched. you’ve broken through the teasing and stepped into something far more dangerous: exploration.

this is the era of awkward confessions, blurted admissions, and getting caught staring. it's the phase where you're not fucking yet—but you're circling it, circling each other, slowly removing the layers of denial. and with that vulnerability comes the first real talk about what you like. what he likes.

and he really likes : praise kink ( his, not yours ).

spencer craves your praise the way a starved man craves sunlight. the second you whisper 'good boy', he is done. melting. blushing. eyes fluttering shut as if the words physically affect him.

you tell him he’s smart when he figures out how to undo your bra one-handed. you tell him he’s so good with his hands when his fingers slip into your panties. you call him perfect when he whimpers against your mouth.

he needs it—desperately—and you quickly learn how to weaponize it.

he is also a huge fan of consent play and gentle dom/sub dynamics. you ask for everything in phase two.

'can i touch you here?' 'do you want me to take it out?' 'spence… can i make you cum?'

spencer is already submissive, but now he’s discovering that the asking turns him on just as much as the act.

he’s never had a partner treat him like this before—like he’s worth asking, worth waiting for, worth ruining. you call the shots, and he follows beautifully, but only because he knows you’ll never push him too far.

mutual masturbation is a big one in phase two because of the fact that the two of you haven't actually fucked yet.

neither of you have had sex yet—not with each other at least. but you’ve watched each other. and oh God, Spencer’s kink for being watched begins to blossom.

he’s embarrassed. he hides behind his hands, pants still around his thighs, and he can’t believe he’s letting you see him like this. but the second you say, 'don’t hide from me, baby. let me see,' he moans so pretty you almost come on the spot.

watching you touch yourself? he nearly cries. he’s never seen anything more erotic in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, sex is on the table. and on the floor. and up against the wall of your apartment because you were arguing about who started it and now he’s got your thighs around his waist and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths like starved animals.

this phase is hungry. it’s messy. it’s greedy. spencer’s kinks start to go from soft-focus fantasy to full-throttle reality—and he is so ready to give you what you want… even if it scares him a little.

you’ve discovered that you love pulling the strings—and now you want to see what happens when he snaps.

he never in a million years thought that hair pulling would be one of his top three kinks but with you everything has been flipped upside down and turns on it's side.

he really didn’t know he liked it until you tugged during a particularly frantic make-out session. the whimper that left his mouth? ungodly. and now he can’t stop thinking about your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp while he’s buried inside you.

number two is being pinned down. he still wants to be in control. but when you push him down on the mattress and straddle him? he lets go and when you lean over, whispering 'stay still or i’ll stop'—he’s not going anywhere.

you riding, though, that has got to be his all time favorite. this is a huge turning point. spencer starts to love watching you take what you need. he’s obsessed with the way you roll your hips, the way you grind slow at first just to tease him.

the view? immaculate.

the loss of control? delicious.

now things are starting to get nasty because phase three spencer, he's got a spit kink.

oh, he tries not to think about it. but the second you lick your fingers before stroking him? he’s fucking obsessed. gone fucking feral over it.

and when you ask him to lick yours too? he does it without question—eyes locked on yours, brain short-circuiting with the intimacy of it all.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four is the final act of mutual ruin.

by now, you and Spencer know each other’s bodies better than your own. the sex is still sweet—but it's no longer tentative. the teasing, the boundaries, the experimental sparks have all collapsed into one deep, simmering inferno of obsession, comfort, and knowing.

this is when the dirty talk is fluent. where the bruises are intentional. where he doesn’t ask—he tells and you don’t hesitate to give it right back.

spencers phase four kinks consist of breeding kinks, mirror play and a good ole possession kink.

the breeding kink started as a whisper. a drunk mumble. a breathless, 'i want to fill you up' while he was too far gone to filter himself. now he says it sober. now he looks you in the eye when he says 'stay still. i’m not done with you yet.'

the mirror play is fucking feral. he doesn’t just want to watch you—he wants you to watch, too. wants you straddling his lap in front of the hotel mirror, wants to see your eyes when he ruins you from behind. wants to say, 'look how pretty you are when you’re mine.'

his possession, it’s subtle—but intense. his hand at your throat, not for pressure but for presence. his bite marks on your inner thighs. his cum leaking out of you hours later.

spencer is still soft, still slow, still sweet—but he’s deliberate now. every orgasm is a claim.

the mutual masturbation has also been turned up to an all time high. he used to be shy. now he asks to watch. sometimes it’s during long-distance calls. sometimes it’s just across the room, sprawled out, breathless, making eye contact while you tease each other. because now you both like to show off.

l is for location ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

at this stage, you and spencer haven’t technically done anything . . . not really. but the tension? it’s nuclear. every shared space becomes a new form of psychological warfare—your favorite game.

phase one spencer is still clinging to the belief that he’s virtuous. you, on the other hand, are slowly dismantling that fantasy with your flirtation and well-timed positioning. so while the two of you haven’t officially crossed the line yet, certain locations are already branded with tension—and are destined to become the first battlegrounds.

the bau sanctioned jet is where you first teased him. where your bralette ‘just so happened’ to peek out while you leaned over to show him something on your tablet. where you asked if he needed help jerking off in the tiny airplane bathroom.

that seat—second from the left, near the window—is now forever cursed. he hasn’t been able to sit there since.

the bullpen, a technically public place. technically risky. technically very, very inappropriate ( even though it was very empty at the time of your little game. )

that didn’t stop you from sliding your foot up his calf one night, all soft and slow, while asking him the most mundane question about a file. you knew what you were doing. he almost spilled his coffee.

the hotel room was next. the night you rolled onto him in your sleep. the night you moaned his name into his neck. the night he jacked off right next to while you were sleeping and again in the bathroom like a sinner because he couldn’t handle how good you looked wrapped around his thigh.

this location haunts him. he sees the numbers two-fourteen and he fucking flinches.

phase one ends with a very memorable car ride. you offered him a ride home. he said yes and then your hand was on his cock, and he was too tired to stop it—too gone to care.

when he came in his pants just as you pulled into his complex, the location of your car became a personal circle of hell. one he’ll gladly visit again. frequently as he fucking can.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

now the line is crossed—and you’ve both leapt over it like it never existed. you’re no longer just teasing spencer; you’ve tasted him, touched him, unraveled him. and he’s hooked. addicted. willing to take you anywhere you let him.

but that doesn’t mean he’s reckless. oh no. phase two spencer is still spencer—anxious, calculating, obsessively thoughtful. which means he chooses locations with precision. and if he doesn’t get a say in the setting? he’ll still make the most of it.

his favorite spots with you include his apartment living room, specifically his couch. after your first time, spencer didn’t want to rush you. so instead of dragging you to the bedroom, he let it happen on his couch—slow and soft and nervous and needy. that creaky, secondhand couch has now become his altar.

it’s where he kisses your knees while you're curled up in his oversized sweater. where he lays his head in your lap after long days and lets you card your fingers through his hair. where you straddled him for the first time, whispering 'let me take care of you' into his mouth.

next is the shower, preferably his because it gives him some semblance of control.

spencer didn’t expect to like showering together as much as he does—but something about you all slippery and giggly under the spray of warm water undoes him. it’s the intimacy, the nudity, the trust. it’s the way you tilt his chin up to rinse shampoo from his curls. the way he uses his long fingers to massage conditioner into your scalp like you’re the most delicate thing on earth.

sometimes it leads to sex. sometimes it doesn’t. but it always leads to spencer kissing your wet shoulder with reverence.

the library has surprisingly because a favorite. you went in to help him shelve books for a lecture he was preparing. you came out wrecked—tucked into a corner behind the 306s, muffling your moans into his neck while he made you come on his fingers. the library will never be the same.

( and neither will dewey decimal classification 306.7. )

honestly anyway private enough to kiss you fucking senseless his a win for him. the office copy room? yes. you make some excuse about needing help changing the toner and he is the first one to volunteer. then your pulling him into the room and backing him up to the door and when he asked about the toner, your already kissing him. his lips his neck. your hand gripping his sweater vest like its the only think keeping you grounded in the moment.

an empty conference room after hours. that one secluded hallway in quantico with the weird vending machine no one uses. of course, your dragging him in there and before the door his even closed you grabbing at his belt and palming his cock through his slacks.

spencer doesn’t always plan these moments—but once he starts kissing you, once his hand slips beneath your blazer or under your skirt or around your jaw, he doesn’t stop. he can’t.

he needs to be touching you. holding you. anywhere you’ll let him.

even if he’s red-faced for the rest of the day.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the game is gone. the teasing, the dancing, the uncertainty—burned up in the heat of full-blown obsession. you’re not just lovers now. you’re something dangerously close to addicted. to each other’s skin. each other’s voices. each other’s bodies.

as spencer spirals deeper into the messy, heady high of you, he stops giving a damn where it happens—so long as it does.

but the thing is? he’s still spencer.

so while he’ll let you pull him into a bathroom stall, or ride him half-dressed in a locked file room, he still remembers every single place you’ve ever touched him. every surface you’ve ever gasped his name against. and that memory? fuels him. it controls him.

his favorite spots, now that he is hooked, range drastically.

up against a wall. any wall. all walls. you’ve made him associate drywall with orgasms.

it started in his apartment—your back to the hallway wall, his hands in your hair, hips pinning you in place while you whispered, 'i want you to lose control.'

he did. he does. he will—again and again, every time you push him back with that look in your eye.

walls are sturdy. reliable. you can climb him like a tree, dig your nails into his back, grind against him until he forgets every word he’s ever learned.

he’s ruined at least one framed print that way.

your kitchen countertop? yes please.

it happened one night after dinner. you were tipsy. he was jealous. some guy at the restaurant had smiled at you for too long, and you had smiled back.

so spencer kissed you with his hands under your thighs and lifted you straight onto the counter. pushed aside your plates. fucked you slow and intense with his tie still on.

now he eyes that countertop every time you make pancakes. every time you sit there swinging your legs. he wonders if you know what you do to him—right there in your own home.

and his desk, that has become your favorite.

he didn’t plan it. god, he really didn’t.

but it was a late night. you were helping him with paperwork. you looked up at him like he hung the stars and whispered, 'would it help if i sat in your lap?' ( it didn’t help. )

not with the paperwork, anyway.

now his desk is stained with ink, your cum, and memory and the echo of your breathless whimper when he slipped a hand up your shirt and you told him you wanted to thank him properly.

and lastly the passenger seat of your car. there’s just something about you behind the wheel. all confident and in control. something about him sinking into the seat, exhausted from the day, and letting you drive.

it’s become your little ritual now. a hand on his thigh. soft music. the slow creep of anticipation every time you take the long way home.

once, you didn’t even wait. you pulled into the garage, unbuckled him, and made him come with your hand fisted around him while the engine was still warm.

now the passenger seat smells like sex and summer and your shampoo—and spencer has never loved a car so much in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you could fuck spencer anywhere—and he’d let you. fucking gladly and desperately.

but that’s the thing : you don’t need to sneak anymore. there’s no hiding, no pretending. no more blurred lines or messy justifications.

you're his. he’s yours. fully. totally. irrevocably. how ever the fuck you want to define it.

now he wants you in the places that mean something.

not because he’s afraid of getting caught—but because being with you has finally started to feel safe. and still : he’s filthier than ever.

your shared bed is a big one. with the sheets half-peeled off. the place he makes love to you the most.

it’s not always sweet. sometimes it’s rough. sometimes it’s sleepy and slow. but always, always, it ends with him wrapping his arms around you like he’s never letting go.

spencer pulls the blankets up to your chins after. kisses your temple. traces circles over the bite mark he left behind.

it’s his sanctuary now. the safest place on Earth. because it smells like you. like sex. like lavender detergent and vanilla skin.

next is the bathtub. he’s a romantic, your spencer and now he’s got the confidence to show it. he’ll draw the bath himself. light a candle or two. say it’s for you, of course—but he slides in behind you anyway, letting you lean against him as warm water laps over both your thighs.

you ride him slow in that tub. whine against his neck. whimper his name while water sloshes over the rim and he fucks you deeper than you thought possible with just his hips beneath the surface.

when you collapse back against him, he holds you like treasure. washes you tenderly. massages your scalp. murmurs sweet nothings.

the living room couch, you clothes are still half on. you're both still shy about the possibility of guests—even if there are none.

which makes it all the better.

it’s always when you’re watching something—documentary, movie, nothing that matters—when he turns to kiss your bare shoulder. or when you toss your legs in his lap with a knowing smirk.

the tv still playing while he tugs your panties aside. one hand braced on the cushion. the other pulling your mouth to his to muffle the sounds of both your moans.

you’ve broken that poor couch in so many ways now. but neither of you care.

against the bookshelves in his apartment is a particularly filthy one. you were reading. he was watching you. then you were pinned.

your cheek pressed to the spine of crime and punishment. his hand wrapped in your hair. your moans muffled by dostoevsky.

one hand flicking your clit and the other around your neck as he drives you into the bookshelf. slapping skin and wood creaking is just the tip of the sensations.

after that, he swore you were never allowed to wear that sweater in his library again. the one that rides up when you stretch. the one he swears is cut just to tease him. the one you wear on purpose.

now you read in his lap. and the shelves hold more secrets than any of the books.

lastly, the elevator in your building. too many late-night visits. too many heated goodbyes.

one night you didn’t wait. you were kissing before the doors even closed. he had you against the mirror before the first floor dinged.

now he pulls you in by your coat collar every time you step inside. you pretend to protest—every time. but he knows better. you’re already lifting your skirt before the doors shut.

because fuck, you just can't wait any longer. your cunt is throbbing and you had been staring at his fuck hard ass cock for the last thirty minutes.

once, the elevator got stuck between floors.

neither of you minded.

🔖  .   @sammyreidslut  @mggskny  @theburgundyonmytshirt1989  @nesiamenick  @alastorssimp  @oldmanbunnylover  @nfwmb-gvf  @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap  @reidsbabyhoney  @qardasngan  @cynbx  @g3n3zshack

[jaybirdsboxofchaos]

As a child of two chiropractors, who gets adjusted every day, I suggest you reach out to me and we can talk. And maybe you can do some actual research instead of ranting on about this one piece of healthcare that I have witnessed actually change lives (including my own)?

"Like I won’t go so far as to say “Ban chiropractors” because doing so would definitely backfire, but you should literally never ever under any circumstances seek their assistance for any health problem at all." - do you hear yourself? plain and simple do you see how much you contradicted yourself in that sentence?

Note as I continue to read, I can list of several chiropractors that have over a decade of teaching. Also, did you know that chiropractors have to do continuing education every year? That they have to get a certain number of credits to pass, otherwise they have their licenses revoked?

"I don’t respect it enough to use it unless I’m mocking someone who’s defending it." - seriously? are you okay? Why do you need to stoop so low that you have to mock a form of medical practice? Like are you actually okay?

If you have never been adjusted, then go do research before you sound like a fool. And if you have, and you had a bad experience, then I apologize and I think you should do some more research. People don't stop going to therapy just because one therapist was shitty (speaking from very recent experience). You find a better therapist, and you work with them instead.

This isn't an attack, I'm not being sarcastic here, I am totally open to people asking me questions about chiropractic.

Periodic reminder that you should never trust a chiropractor with your body under any circumstances

[venusscore]

Hey, could you write a Jason Tod x reader. Where the reader is a sexual menace. Jason hadn't really told his family he was dating anyone. So when Barbara was out one day, going about her day, she saw Jason shopping with a woman[reader], and so being the person she was, she followed them around and from what she could see, the woman was a kind and sweet person so she snapped a pick and left unnoticed. She showed the fam the picture when she got home. A few days later the mystery was eating away at them specifically Dick. So he decided to pay Jason a visit in the middle of the night, only to hear Jason and the mystery woman going at it.

(I actually got so excited when I saw my first real ask on here.)

Jason x reader, but they’re in a secret relationship

I did make reader TECHNICALLY gender neutral, just a bit more feminine sounding with the way I described them. Either way, they can be whatever you want.

Contains: Silly relationship dynamics, nosy batfam, menace reader, implications of sexual activity (I’m sorry if you were expecting more details. I don’t know how to write smut)

When Jason met you, he assumed you were some sweet little thing.

He was walking in a book store, looking at some of the classics, when he felt a force knock into his chest.

He looked down to see your pretty eyes looking up at him, and he knew he was a goner.

What he didn’t know, however, was that you were the least innocent person he’d ever meet!

Sometimes when you both were in a crowded room, you would sweetly lean over, looking like an absolute doll, and then whisper the most despicable thing in his ear and make him turn bright red before choking on whatever he was eating or drinking, and if not that, then the air. It was like a game to you! (He loved it)

Today, Jason was taking you out to the mall. He likes to spoil his partner.

You had a few bags in hand, chatting to him about this and that, while his hand rested on your lower back, keeping you close to him at all times.

What you both didn’t know was that a certain someone (Barbara Gordon) was spying from around the corner. She watched the way he softly looked at you, how you naturally leaned into him.

He was so in love.

She didn’t want to interrupt you both, and you seemed like a sweet person, so she simply snapped a picture and sent it to Dick.

By that night, everyone in the family knew and were DYING to ask questions, but Alfred was very clear that they had to respect Jason’s privacy and wait for him to open up.

Well, eventually two weeks went by and everyone had either lost interest or succumbed to waiting. A few of them sneakily took photos of your dates with Jason, but that was all.

Well, Dick is unfortunately extremely nosy. So he made the decision one night to just… sneak into Jason’s apartment! What’s the worst that can happen right?-

Oh my gosh.

He sneaks in through the window, ready to interrogate Jason when he hears the completely unashamed moans coming from the bedroom.

He was frozen solid. Was that- no… it couldn’t be. Was he in the wrong apartment?-

Then he heard you say Jason’s name and he dismissed the thought. Okay, right apartment.

He was about to exit when the bedroom door opened.

“Dick?”

Dick turned around, still in his Nightwing suit, may I add, and just… stared.

Jason came out of the room in some shorts he just threw on, looking mauled, having marks all over him and lipstick stains (if you wear lipstick). His hair was a wreck, he looked a bit dazed, and definitely sore.

Jason went bright red.. “Did you-?”

“Dude…” Dick mutters. “You look… wow.”

Jason was questioning whether he would kill his brother or beg him to pretend this never happened, when suddenly a giggle was heard and you popped your head out of the bedroom, having slipped on a robe.

“Is that Nightwing?” You ask, clearly not shy.

Jason stutters and tries to figure out how to explain that his idiot of a brother is, in fact, Nightwing.

While Jason stood like a deer in headlights, Dick noticed that you looked… considerably less destroyed than Jason, and very proud of yourself.

“No way.” Dick suddenly calls out, trying his hardest not to laugh.

“Holy shit- Go home, Dick!” Jason snaps at him, not even trying to save face anymore.

Dick quickly scurried off, leaving an angry Jason and a confused you.

After a long night of explanations (and much needed rest), Jason wakes up the next morning to a text in the family group chat.

“When do we get to meet them?”

—————————————————————

Holy crap, wow! Wrote two things in one day. That’s a record.

Thanks for the request! This is different than my usual writings, but so fun! I’m so happy that people are liking my stuff!

Again, thanks for the support. Please add more suggestions/requests.

[levigarden999]

Maybe what if reader breaks up with Kaiser because he’s too selfish while he already bought the ring for them to pop the question? Can be angsty/fluff at the end?

different perspectives 𓍯 michael kaiser x reader

⋆.˚ notes : inspired by the req above , thank u anon ♡

you knew this day would come eventually when you’d have the hardest, most gut wrenching talk with your boyfriend kaiser. you had prepared for this discussion for a few weeks now, but it didn’t make it any easier. but it seemed like that breaking up was simply the best option available.

of course, it wasn’t a surprise to you that kaiser was a self centered bastard, literally. soccer was his whole life and he always made it clear to everyone how damn skilled he was. you were fine with his bragging and arrogant attitude, and somehow it was even a part of his charm. but what you weren’t okay with was his selfishness.

you would’ve never guessed how selfish the guy could actually get, even towards the woman he claimed so dearly to love.

the fact he always promised you more support, how he would be there for you more in the future and that he’d make more time for your relationship. the fact he promised to take you out more often and do those small things couples do that make you feel validated. however, all those promises were broken. straight up lies.

kaiser returned from practice that evening, hair slightly damp from sweat and the compress shirt clinging to his form, revealing the tattoo on his neck so beautifully. however, you didn’t even glance at him as he arrived home. in fact, you were already in tears.

”i’m home, baby” he started, the usual cocky and somehow cheerful tone in his voice as he slipped his shoes off.

”michael, we need to talk” you answered immediately. kaiser probably noticed the firmness in your tone because he obediently walked over to you in the living room, a confused tone in his voice as he spoke.

”yeah? what’s up?”

you turned to look at him from the couch, revealing your tear stained cheeks and trembling lips to him. the sight surprised him totally – kaiser’s eyes visibly widened at the sight of you so miserable. as if you hadn’t been suffering for the last few years with him.

”i-i’m so tired, mike… i… i can’t do this anymore” you whimpered, voice choked.

he blinked, not understanding your words.

”you can’t do what anymore?” kaiser asked, but you knew he knew what you talked about. the fear was evident in his tone.

”you know what. i… i’ve talked about our problems and… you never change. i’m tired. i don’t… want to be with you anymore” you continued sobbing and hiccuping, tears beginning to stream down your cheeks again.

at that, kaiser’s face twisted into something more emotional. there was confusion, even hurt, in his face as those blue eyes pierced through you.

”what about me? what about what i want?”

you scoffed and shook your head.

”that’s exactly what i mean. it’s always about you, isn’t it? always about what you want and what you need and what you require!” you suddenly snapped, the obvious frustrating booming through the room like an echo of misery.

kaiser fell silent. you could tell he felt like his voice was gone. for once in his life, he was goddamn speechless.

you huffed and stood up from the couch. you needed some alone time. the silence between you was too painful for you to handle right now.

”i’ll go take a walk” you mumbled, absent mindedly walking past him to the front door where he had left his duffel bag and… apparently something else as well?

”n-no, wait!” kaiser suddenly exclaimed, but it was too late.

you noticed yourself staring at a tiny shopping bag, which had a text in the front.

cartier . wedding selection

it took you a moment to understand what was going on. your mind couldn’t wrap itself around the fact what the small bag actually contained.

”… what is that” you whispered shakily, the words nearly getting stuck in your throat. you couldn’t even look at kaiser right now, not right now when you two clearly shared a different perspective over your relationship.

kaiser remained silent for a few seconds before he spoke, voice more pathetic and vulnerable than you’ve ever heard before.

”for you. obviously” he managed to utter out.

you then turned your head to him, needing more information. his eyes were on the floor, a few strands of blue hair hanging over his forehead. he looked so young, so vulnerable and troubled.

”i- i’ve thought about it for months now and… i bought it today. a ring for you” he continued. as you finally realized the gravity of the situation, your throat tightened even more and it felt like you would be sucked into the very core of earth at any second.

kaiser scratched his neck nervously, still not looking at you.

”i was thinking about proposing…. during our trip to italy next month”

trip to italy? since when were you going to italy?

”i-i remembered you mentioning how you want to spend more time with me and… i already bought plane tickets to venice for us. i… i remembered you telling me how much you adore water as an element and… well, there’s a, uh, river, so, i thought that proposing on a boat there would be perfect-”

”michael” you said.

he stopped rambling, those blue eyes finally meeting yours. you had never seen him looking at you with such eyes before. the deep blue was now lighter, the look in his eyes now so distant yet craving and needing. you saw his adam’s apple bob, a lump going down his throat.

”i’m not… you don’t have to take me to venice to be a better boyfriend. you don’t have to buy me a wedding ring to prove yourself to me” you sighed, the gentle words leaving your mouth without much else thought. your voice was still trembling.

you took a step closer to him, your eyes matching the vulnerability in his as well.

kaiser avoided your eye contact again as he shifted uncomfortably.

”but… you mentioned you wanted to spend more time with me. to have more dates, more romance from me” he muttered. it was almost unbelievable seeing his usually very arrogant and straight up annoying attitude gone.

you couldn’t help but soften from the inside.

”no. i asked for more support. i asked for your physical presence and… emotional presence as well. i don’t need vacations or rings, michael. i simply want to trust you again, i want to trust michael kaiser – i do not want some infuriating soccer star” you noticed a hint of a teasing undertone creeping into your words. kaiser fixed his gaze back to you, he was nearly pouting.

kaiser simply nodded, a pale hand reaching out and touching your cheek gently. it seemed like the first time ever he actually listened and understood what you had to say. you melted a little into his touch, since the moment felt so intimate and meaningful, which was something you hadn’t experienced in a while with him. he looked at you like he understood you, touched you like he actually didn’t want to lose you.

”okay” kaiser said, quietly.

”okay?” you raised an eyebrow, words just as quiet.

”okay. i’ll do it. i’ll prioritize you”

you blinked.

”i want to say you’re my wife. i want to marry you, i want to see the diamond ring on your finger and be reminded of the fact you want to spend the rest of your life with me just as much i want to spend it with you” he continued, a small smile appearing on his lips. the moment felt silent and peaceful, even though your heart was hammering against your ribs.

you couldn’t help but smile.

he then chuckled. ”and i know, the ring can wait though. but i’ll make sure you’ll say yes when i propose you some time in the future”

both of his hands landed on your cheeks and he leaned in closer. kaiser’s face softened even though his voice took a more serious tone.

”i promise. when i propose, you’ll say yes in the happiest, most confident way imaginable”

[kdh-tally]

HIIIIII! Love your blog! I Love how you'd characterize these characters so much!

But out of all the characters in the movie, my favorite is Bobby! So if it's not too much trouble, how would Bobby handle the Saja Boys since you'd mention how he was their acting manager before they find a proper one? Like how'd he'd take the news? how'd he treat the Saja Boys and how did it feel like working on two KPop Groups?

Bobby Needs Therapy

Prompt : How is Bobby taking the news?

Author’s Note : I’m so glad we all love Bobby. He deserves the world!! I actually had two very similar requests so I just combined them both into this! The other request was from @marigoldbuzzing : But I want to know how is Bobby taking all of this, like with the Saja Boys and Hunter/x being under the same company, to being coworkers/working together to eventual romantic relationship?

This occurs after “This is what it sounds like”

Gwi-ma is defeated, the boys have temporarily disappeared and everything and Rumi has some magical/glowy/pretty patterns.

Bobby FORCES the girls to take a break and to explain everything to him

Imagine all of them in the penthouse. 

Rumi, Mira and Zoey are all squeezed onto their couch, Rumi in short sleeves (Bobby was so surprised). 

He’s just staring at the three of them and they all look so disappointed in themselves.

Whats wrong with his girls???

He asks them to explain what happens

They lie at first.

Telling him they had a past with the Saja boys and they’re sworn enemies.

Telling him the special effects are truly just special effects

Telling him that yes they may have jumped out of an airplane but they had invisible parachutes strapped to them?....

Telling him that no, they did not kill the Saja boys with magical weapons or anything the boys just left on their own.

But Bobby points out every single flaw he normally would have ignored.

He fell victim to the Saja Boys song and feels so responsible for the girls getting hurt too.

“I know what I saw girls,” he sounds so tired and defeated and worried.

Sure they’re safe now but how does he know they always will be?

Mira and Zoey look to Rumi, their leader. After the whole event, the girls definitely had a talk about keeping secrets from those they loved.

Rumi explains everything about her parents and the marks and her and Jinu.

Bobby, as vulnerable and human as he is, is someone they love.

“We’re magical demon hunters who kill demons by singing,” Rumi says slowly, almost like how one speaks to a frightened animal.

Bobby doesn’t speak at first and the girls think he must think they’re joking. 

Then he’d ask them to summon their magical weapons.

They’d look at each other before hesitantly summoning them. 

This is all the proof Bobby needs before he breaks down crying.

“You—you’re telling me you were out there killing demons while I was worrying about stupid concept photos?!” Bobby cries, grabbing a tissue. “I was booking you a showcase during an apparent demon apocalypse. I was printing photo cards when you were fighting evil, girls!”

“You could've gotten killed so many times,” he sobs. They quickly move over to where he is on the opposite couch before engulfing him in a hug. 

He’d just get so worried that his daughters had been fighting demons.

Then he would cry even more when finding out about Rumi being a half-demon and hearing her own struggles.

This would cause Zoey to cry, which would cause Mira to cry, which would cause Rumi to cry. So now everyone’s crying.

Once they calmed down a bit, Bobby asks about where the Saja Boys were now. 

The girl’s weapons then levitate, begin to glow and point out the window to their company building. 

“They’ve never done that before...” Mira eyes her guandao in suspicion.

“Okay,” he says slowly, still very cautious of the pointy weapons. “I know I’m not crazy. But I’m also not equipped for this. Do I need a magical weapon too?”

They all agree to follow where the weapon pointed, answering Bobby’s questions along the way.

By the time they get to the building, Bobby more or less understands 80% of the demon world as well as the whole singing hunters thing.

They enter the company building and follow the weapons into a dimly lit practice room where the weapons finally stop glowing.

“This place looks haunted,” Rumi mumbles, reaching around the wall for a light switch. 

The lights suddenly flicker on by themselves to reveal the 5 demons on the floor. They are all in a pile, like they were dropped on top of each other, and are half conscious.

Rumi, Zoey and Mira are staring at them. Jaws dropped.

Bobby’s just happy no one is actually dead.

When the boys finally awake, they’re terrified cause they expected to reform back in hell. 

They really didn’t want to go back to Gwi-ma.

But they’re all alive.

And like half of their powers have gone missing??

The group comes to realize that by killing the demons, they kinda stole their soul. 

Hear me out!

Jinu says Rumi gave him a soul so he gives it back to her. So what if! Jinu is really just in Rumi’s sword waiting to reappear?

This then brings up the question, why are the other boys alive???

Well, if we can assume that Jinu only gained a soul kinda after meeting Rumi (and more or less falling in love with her cause she gave him something to live for that wasn’t his selfish ambitions) then i think it's fair to assume the same works for the other boys.

Romance (not confirmed to be dead in the movie but we’ll say he was) and Abby (confirmed kill) more or less have “crushes” on Mira.

They therefore have a reason to live (even if it's just to annoy her by flirting) and therefore have a soul and are captured in her guandao.

Same thing applies to Mystery, Zoey and Baby (though I believe Baby just enjoyed being human and pissing people off and it kinda gave him a purpose). 

Anyways!

Their souls got released by the weapons (for reasons unknown!) and now the boys remain in the human realm.

Time skip!

The girls are back! Producing music and what not.

The boys are on a hiatus as Bobby attempts to find them a manager. 

He does act like their current manager though, because he’d come to enjoy hanging out with them.

He sees them as an extension of the girls, and they’re just new little babies to the whole world of kpop idols.

He is shocked that they did manage to drop two absolute BANGERS with no management at all. Its demon logic.

They boys like Bobby too, he teaches them all about human customs and cultures and takes them to watch movies with him

Bobby is like everyone’s wonderful sweet dad.

Huntr/x, wanting their awesome manager to themselves, keep on hiring managers to work with the boys.

No one ever lasts.

“That group is haunted”

“They never do any work?”

“I don’t understand how they’re famous”

The Saja Boys sabotage every single attempt the girls make to find them a manager. They don’t trust that many humans and would rather not be found out as demons. 

Also, Bobby interviews all the applicants and half of them are only applying so they can be SUPER close to the Saja Boys.

The other half are just trying to get close to Huntr/x

For this reason alone, I think Bobby would become the official manager for both groups. He’d just hire an assistant. 

The first person that comes to mind is the girl from the fansign who said “Your secret’s safe with me” to Rujinu 😭

She seems like she’d make a good manager, and she can keep secrets apparently lmao.

Of course at first the boys struggle against Bobby too.

He’d schedule them for vocal training, and instead they would just sit in the studio discussing if there was any true meaning behind random movies.

He’d send them to dance practice, and the boys would somehow convince the choreographer to turn it into an interpretive piece on redemption.

He books them to appear on a variety show and finds them halfway through writing a diss track about the girls instead of prepping for the game show.

It's their revenge for takedown and to be fair, it kinda slaps so he lets them finish.

Everytime they think they’d pushed Bobby to the end, he just snaps back into his bright energetic and supportive self. 

“Okay. I have five former demons with unclear moral alignments, my girls have glowing weapons that they seem emotionally attached to and these two K-pop groups keep flirting instead of focusing on their comebacks. But… no one’s dead yet. Great! :D”

The boys stop trying to get him to leave and just accept him as their manager, they love Bobby already, they just hate the idea of being babysat.

But Bobby gives them freedom.

And they love that they now have to live in a mega dorm (penthouse is for the weekends and vacations) with the girls.

He genuinely loves all of them.

Even if he sometimes has to drag Baby away from the spice aisle when they go for snack runs together.

Even if Romance keeps sending him “accidental” texts like: “Hi Mira 😘 I mean Bobby. Hi Bobby! Please tell Mira I said hi~”

Even if one time Zoey and Abby disappeared during practice and came back with some random dog they’d dressed in a Huntrix crop-top.

When finding out about their relationships he would not be surprised AT ALL.

After learning about demons and hunters nothing phases him anymore.

He’d seen the way Jinu looked at Rumi like she was the only girl left in the universe.

The man gave her his soul bro. Bobby has major respect for him.

He saw Mira, Romance and Abby bickering like a married couple.

He saw Zoey pretend not to blush every time Mystery helped adjust her mic.

He just decided not to get involved. He tried his best not to get involved.

“Mystery, you have to stop teleporting into Zoey’s room. It’s weird.”

“I didn’t mean to call her my girl it just slipped out!” <- Romance

“Sureeee Romance. Keep telling yourself that” <- Bobby

He definitely has questions though. 

Has a folder in his notes dedicated to things he needs to confirm. 

The number one thing on his list is “Confirm if ‘Zoey’s demon’ is a real title or just Mystery’s pet name.”

He has Mystery’s attempt at poetry saved in a folder titled “Confessions”

He’s got Abby’s “accidental” shirtless mirror selfies sent to Mira.

He’s got literal surveillance footage of Jinu giving Rumi a forehead kiss post-rehearsal.

He takes all his questions to Baby (cause Baby’s known longer than anyone).

He’s just waiting for one of them to slip up in front of them so he can bombard them with all his evidence.

That never needed to happen. One day, Zoey shyly comes up to him like “Bobby, there’s something else I think you should know…” and he just cuts her off.

“You and Mystery are dating. He smells like your shampoo and you made him a playlist titled ‘sexy emo boy’ I know.”

Zoey: 🧍

“Tell me something I don’t know next time,” he laughs before going back to watching some food eating challenge with Baby on his iPad.

He is really invested in the relationships, but gets really sneaky about it.

If you look closely at the schedule for vocal training, it somehow always pairs:

Rumi and Jinu for duets.

Romance, Abby and Mira for tension-heavy choreographies.

Zoey and Mystery for producing practices.

Coincidence? I think not

He gives Jinu pep talks like, “If you’re gonna love my girl, you better know how to harmonize with her in both life and song.”

The day he finds out “Free” exists is the day he tries to get them married.

“You can’t just make a beautiful song like that and not be married,” he’d insist while looking for a wedding dress with Baby.

He and Abby help Romance write his apology texts to Mira for his flirtiness.

He teaches Mystery how to express emotion through his words so the boy can feel more confident in his relationship with Zoey.

He also buys lollipops for Baby, his partner in crime.

He will be using their relationships against them though. 

“You don't want to dye your hair for the comeback? Shame.... I heard Rumi say she’d love to see you with blonde hair....” to Jinu.

“Funny how you had no energy in rehearsal, yet I saw you doing push-ups with Mira on your back.” to Abby.

“You’re grounded. All of you. No date nights until you finally learn this dance.”

He loves them so much.

Would just like to add that Bobby and Baby would definitely dox anyone who hates on the group or any of the Huntr/x or Saja Boys members.

[diodellet]

i would take the suffering from you (jamil viper x gn!reader)

summary: some sleepytime fluff with best boy (and some thoughts about his hair) content warnings: -gn!reader is in an established relationship with jamil (and kinda navigating that) -some undressing but it's just taking off a few accessories than actual unclothing -light angst referencing jamil's backstory ++but it's all comforting in the end, i hope 🤞 smth short and sweet as i try to break outta writers' block again🤧 word count: 1.1k words

It seems that the day's events have won out because Jamil Viper is lying face down on his bed, still in his dorm uniform, still wearing his braids, his body utterly still.

You didn't even notice that he had returned to his bedroom.

He stirs a little when your hand touches his back, exhaustion palpable through the meager skin contact. You shake him, gently at first and then a bit more firmly. To no avail.

You're not strong enough to move him into a more comfortable position, but you could try to make his sleep a little less uncomfy. Getting up from bed, you walk over to his side.

"Jamil?" Another few seconds of shaking him—this time he grunts in response. He sounds annoyed that you disturbed his brief moment of REM sleep.

"I'm going to take off your uh, accessories..."

"...mm." That sounded like it was in the affirmative?

Onto the nightstand goes the two golden bracelets from his left wrist. The snake-shaped bangle on his right arm, however, takes a bit of maneuvering as you fumble it off in mostly one attempt. The necklace...

"Jamil? Can you sit up, please?"

"...too tired..." he mumbles.

"I'm sorry, I know. You can lean on me, just." It's hard not to let the guilt and concern seep into your voice. Your heart aches at seeing him pushed to this point of succumbing to fatigue.

Despite his grumbling, Jamil gives you his hand while using the other to push himself upright. His arm curls around your waist as he leans against you. "Could you also...my hair, too...?"

Under most circumstances, Jamil's hair is a part of himself that he doesn't allow anyone to touch. He may have (eventually) opened his heart to you and other prospects he'd initially brushed off as too idealistic. But his hair was—has been, still is—one of his few outlets for personal expression, something he could flaunt without consequence.

When you think of hair as a person's crowning glory, Jamil is the walking embodiment of that adage.

And in a way, it also stands as a tangible reminder that he persisted in spite of the tragedy that his life of subservience was meant to be—that he transcended it, even.

To lay a hand on his hair felt like you were disrespecting that, just a little bit.

He has to repeat the question, knuckles brushing against the skin of your hip as you unclasp his necklace. Something of a petulant noise comes from his throat.

"Oh, uh, sure. I'll do that." To say you were nervous was an understatement.

"…leave them…on the nightstand…" The I'll have to wear them again anyways goes unsaid.

"Okay. Hold onto me," you murmur, thumb stroking against his cheek in apology before you start unwinding the intricate braids.

It's not the comfiest position, having one of his arms wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed against your side, and you in a half-standing-half-sitting position against the edge of the mattress as you work. You have to go based off touch alone. You didn't want to further disturb his rest by switching on the bedside lamp.

The moment is still, seconds inching into minutes as you find the end of the braid, and work your way up, make sure that they don’t get tangled, that you don’t pull on his scalp. It almost feels meditative.

You’re broken out of your reverie by Jamil tugging on your sweater. “…wipes.”

“…Wipes?” It takes a few more moments for you to piece together what he’s asking for. “Oh. Hold on…” Another uncomfortable stretch of your arm and you hand him the pack of makeup wipes from the drawer.

Interspersed amid the crinkles of the plastic pack, Jamil’s hair ornaments clink together as you set them atop the nightstand.

“…’m done.”

The tips of his fingers are cool against your skin as you take the used wipes from him. Your mind drifts as you go back to unwinding his (third? Damn, you already lost count) braid.

How young was he when he had to start waking up at the crack of dawn? When he had to learn to get dressed on his own? When he had to present himself without flaw as someone who served under the Asim family?

How young was he when he had to start sleeping by himself?

(You're past getting angry at Jamil's circumstances. Wasn’t it better to make the most out of the stolen moments that you could share with him? It didn’t stop your heart from aching each time, though.)

"Sorry I'm undoing them really slowly. Don't wanna hurt you by accident."

"...'s nice that you're gentle," he says. And you feel the press of his lips against your side. "You're too good to me."

You can't tell the rest of what he's saying under his breath, but you catch a few terms of endearment he's used for you in his mother tongue.

Assuming they are, you’ve been too shy to ask.

"Well, this—this sort of thing should be expected of a—" you stammer, words getting knotted in your throat, it never gets easier to admit it aloud. "...of a significant other..."

Your meager reply earns you a second kiss that sends warmth surging through your frame.

(Oh, you don’t know what you’d do if he were fully lucid.)

Your fingers comb through the loose strands, smoothing them out one last time. "Okay, I'm done. You can lie back down now."

What you don't expect is Jamil's grip to tighten around you. "...I want to stay like this." And you hear a little quiet huff. How can a gesture be both out of character and so utterly Jamil at the same time? It’s so cute that it makes your heart want to explode out of your ribcage. You could paint the walls red with your affection for him.

"Yeah, no. Let's stay in a position that won't give you pain in the morning." Your palm pats his back, apologetic. And you move to get back into bed with him—

“…I have so much to do tomorrow…” He sounds so tired.

What was the right thing to say in a situation where words could do nothing for him? Your thumb idly stroked the back of his hand as you turned the question over and over in your head.

Maybe words couldn’t do much, but it didn’t hurt to say something that was true. Something that would go forgotten in the midst of one’s stresses, if left unsaid.

“I’m here for you,” you say quietly after pressing a kiss against the top of his head.

a/n: i was gonna just post this unbeta'd as a drabble, but then it got long and then i started looking for those scarabia character art references to double check if i was understanding jamil's hair right 🤧ouhh dont you love it when ur research spirals out of control? thank you @jessamine-rose for sparing ur fresh eyes😭💕 edit: AAHHHH FORGOR TO CREDIT THE TITLE, RIPPED THAT BAD BOY FROM THIS SONG

the jamil writing taglist: @viperwhispered @bibi-cha @scint1llat3 @sillystr1ngs @warriorpacifist

@pzlqpibz @mama-m1na @chloemari-e

(lmk if you wanna join the taglist in the replies!)

[meiyokbf]

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part four

author's note: sorry for the delay babes, been moving places and my life has been insane. alsoooo, thoughts about “beautiful chaos”? my top favorites are gabriela, gnarly and mean girls!! lmk if you guys are enjoying UYS, my asks are always open for ideas, questions or thoughts regarding the UYS universe :) hope you guys like this chapter xoxo

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara. smut, dry humping, p in v, fingering (megan recieving), dirty talking (ish), smoking, idek megan being avoidant and pookie coded again, lara also being avoidant.

word count: 6,8k.

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut, manon x lara, marz, daniela avanzini.

masterlist. | prev. I next.

you’d read the text so many times your screen had started to feel like it might file a complaint.

(y/n): my favorite jacket smells like you now. it’s kinda yours by law.

(y/n): you should come and reclaim your prize.

it was supposed to be funny. casual. something someone cool would send without immediately regretting it. and yet, by sunday morning, it had transformed into something too sharp to touch.

you sat curled on the end of the couch, wearing the hoodie like armor, knee bouncing like it had somewhere more confident to be. your annotated copy of pride and prejudice sat abandoned on the coffee table, open to a page you weren’t reading. you hoped that mr. darcy could wait; existential dread had RSVP’d early. and then you heard the sound of the door burst open.

— don’t ask me about rehearsal, i will cry or commit arson. — daniela’s voice rang out as she kicked the door closed with her heel.

you blinked up at her.

— oh. i didn’t know you were coming over.

— well, i needed to steal manon’s vegan protein bars and complain. and now i walk in and find this. — she gestured to your slumped posture, the haunted expression, the pride and prejudice trauma pile. — did someone die, or did you finally fall in love with a walking red flag?

— okay. both feel a little targeted.

she tossed her bag to the side, iced coffee in hand, and dropped into a squat next to you like she was assessing a casualty.

— talk to me, nerd.

you groaned, rubbing your face. — manon dragged me to that velvet room place on friday.

— the one that looks like the personification of a vanilla vape?

— yes. that one. and i… may have hooked up with someone.

daniela raised an eyebrow. — and i’m just hearing about this now?

— manon caught me doing the walk of shame. i told her. haven’t had a chance to-

— breathe? process? confess to your best friend?

— well, actually manon is my bes-

— to your best friend, daniela avanzini? betrayal. — she rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. — who was it?

you hesitated. — her name’s megan. dances under jade. she’s… something else.

daniela blinked. — wait. the dancer with the pink bangs?

— yeah.

— and you didn’t think this was worth a single text?

you cringed. — we went back to her place. it was… a lot. but then the next morning she was distant. weird. and last night i sent this.

you handed over your phone to daniela. she read the message, then looked at you like you’d just handed her a handwritten will.

— “yours by law”? what are you, emily dickinson with attachment issues?

— i was going for fun flirty with a hint of possessive chic.

— you landed on please haunt me. congrats.

you let your head fall back against the cushion.

— i don’t know what i’m doing.

— do you like her?

you hesitated. the pause said more than anything else. — i don’t know. but i can’t stop thinking about her.

daniela sighed, setting your phone on the table.

— okay. step one: you’re a disaster. step two: you’re a hot disaster, so it might work in your favor. but don’t let some emotionally stunted stripper turn you into a sad gay meme. you know you deserve more than this.

— i already am a sad gay meme.

— yeah, but now you’re main character sad. that’s a health hazard.

— thanks. i think. — you managed a laugh. soft, but real.

— always. now let’s hope she texts back before your pride files a missing person’s report.

as if on cue, the door cracked open again. manon shuffled in with a brown tote bag, dark sunglasses, and a drink in each hand. went straight to the kitchen and gasped as if she just found out that her husband had a 7 year old affair with her sister. — who stole my protein bars?

daniela raised a hand. — guilty. emotional crisis. you get it.

manon pulled off her glasses, eyes landing on you. — okay, you look like you just got ghosted or blessed. which is it?

— they texted their emotionally damaged girlfriend. — daniela supplied helpfully.

manon nearly dropped her drink. — you sent her the jacket text?

— yes. i panicked. it felt funnier in my head.

manon plopped down next to you, tucking her legs under her. — fuck. you’re such a loser, i love you for that. has she replied?

you shook your head. — okay. then we wait. like soft lesbians with too much time on our hands.

daniela leaned forward. — is she stringing you along, or do you think she’s just scared?

— maybe both. she’s so hard to read.

— then stop trying to read her and let her spell it out. — she paused and cringed at herself. — bad metaphor. ignore that.

you snorted. your phone buzzed. everyone froze.

you reached for it slowly, already bracing.

megan: if i come over, it’s not for talking.

you stared at it. your heart thudded so loud it was embarrassing, even for you.

— holy shit. — manon said softly. then you typed back.

(y/n): wasn’t planning to talk.

the reply came a beat later.

megan: that’s good.

a hush fell.

daniela stood. — well. that’s one way to break tension.

manon handed you the last of her stolen protein bars. — chew on something before you do anything dramatic.

you nodded. still staring at the screen.

whatever this was, it wasn’t nothing. and somehow, that was both terrifying and kind of thrilling.

what was meant to be playful had become this jagged thing you couldn’t stop prodding. you sat at the edge of the couch, your favorite leather jacket; megan’s scent still lingering, laying next to you, knees bouncing like they were trying to escape.

the rest of your apartment felt cluttered, to say the very least. you spent the afternoon waiting for megan trying your best to keep your mind off of her. a couple piles of comic books alongside uni stuff, your laptop still open to this morning’s quiet reading of your favorite the picture of dorian gray review, half-empty coffee mugs scattered. this was your world today: soft and rife with longing.

manon had left twenty minutes earlier; went to dinner with another friend of hers and gladly used it as an excuse to make you get laid. while daniela promptly texted you a “if she fucks you up, text me a knife emoji and i’ll take care of it.”

when the knock came, your heart jolted so hard you nearly dropped your phone.

you stood, straightening your outfit while preparing yourself mentally to open the door.

and when you finally did, megan stood there, silhouetted half in the hallway light, half swallowed by the doorway. makeup smudged, sweat dampened the ends of her hair; she looked unsteady in the best possible way. beautiful as ever.

— you look tense. — she said, voice low. observation, not accusation.

— i’m… holding up. — you managed, stepping aside. she came in without a word, scanning your place; the english lit books, the star wars and batman posters, the carefully labeled-by-a-label-maker hard drives by your desk.

her eyelids flicked over a shelf where your dungeons and dragons figurines stood, miniature warriors poised for battle. you thought you saw a familiar curve of nostalgia cross her eyes.

— god, you’re a nerd. — she said, half-smile playing on her lips.

— guilty as charged. — you replied, matching her tone. the room hummed with unsaid weight. you both sensed that something raw was coming.

— couch? — you offered, voice steadier than you felt.

— sure. — she said, shrugging off her jacket. you sat on one side, her settling five feet away. distance felt safe but electric.

you tried to look casual. watched her as she wiped her palms over her jeans, every motion deliberate. your eyes flicked to her boots, the way her fingers flexed, the faint sheen where the late-afternoon light caught her skin.

— so… — you began. — …you said you weren’t here for talking.

— i meant it. — she said, gaze fixed on the table. — not today. not right now.

— then we don’t talk — you said softly. — we do something else.

she shifted. the couch creaked. your heart stumbled at how close she’d moved, now two seats away. you smelled her: sweat, faint spice, heat that stayed with her.

— what do you have in mind? — she asked, voice careful but curious.

— you tell me. — you said, finally looking at her eyes. — you’re the one that despises casual conversation.

she exhaled sharply, then leaned back. your heartbeat thundered.

— you’re such a tease, (y/n). — she muttered. — tell me, is this couch worth getting ruined?

you moved one arm to rest on the back of the couch. your knee brushed hers, you didn’t pull back.

— only if it gets you closer. — you almost whispered. her breath hitched, and then she cracked an edge of a smile. the most beautiful smile you could ever lay your eyes upon. megan’s eyes flicked up, tracking the movement carefully like a tiger analyzing their next prey.

she swallowed, then leaned forward, pressing her palm flat on the couch next to yours. invitation, you thought. and so you closed the gap, hand grazing hers in a casual, deliberate way. that small electric spark hummed louder than the world outside.

— so… — she whispered, dragging a fingertip across your jaw. — i’m here. now what?

you took a breath, chest tightening at how deliberate she sounded. she was testing you. measuring the room. measuring you.

— show me what you came for. — you teased.

— challenge accepted. — she muttered under her breath.

her fingers curled around your jaw, thumbs brushing your lips as her gaze dropped to your mouth. you parted, inviting, and she slipped in: kiss deep and greedy, mouth warm and real. your hands found her waist, chest gliding between ribs. the weight of her presence filled every corner of your mind. she pulled away, just enough to murmur while feeling your breath against hers.

— that couch’s gonna regret it. — you said while she leaned in again, harder. you wordlessly let her climb into your lap. the furniture creaked under her weight. she pressed you down, knee on the cushion, hands tangling in your hair. everything felt sharp; her skin, her breath, your thoughts.

— you’re such a nerd. — she whispered, voice rough with desire. — this is going to be hilarious.

— only if you laugh. — you shot back, grinding into her.

the friction made both your breath hitch. her hands tightened in your hair, head tipping back as she moaned. the contrast of your nerdy persona and raw lust sent heat flaring through her chest.

— tell me something filthy. — she demanded.

— you want truth or dare? — you teased.

— truth. — she hissed.

— i want… — you said, carefully, swallowing your nervousness. — i want to wring moans out of you until your throat hurts.

she inhaled sharply, then slammed your head forward, kissing you again. lips rough, teeth grazing. your hands roamed up her back, over her tank top, tracing the curve of her spine. at this point, the knot below your belly button only felt tighter and tighter. an itch that only megan could scratch.

— you’re fucking insane. — you said, breathless when you pulled away. — and totally hot when you’re trying not to feel anything.

she froze. for a second. then laughed, harsh and joyless.

— god, don’t you dare feel fucking sorry for me. — she muttered, grinding herself into your lap. — feel this instead.

her body rolled with yours, every movement fierce. you slipped your hands under her top again, dragging it up, feeling her ribs, the arch of her stomach. she sighed, leaning back so you could slide it off. no bra, obviously. skin gleaming where your fingers passed. she smiled once she saw your reaction to it; you knew you probably looked like a boy seeing a pair of breasts for the first time.

— damn. — she muttered. — you’re glad i didn’t wore anything underneath?

— fucking glad. — you breathed, and then she cupped your cheek, with a fierce look on her eyes.

— then let me fuck that out of you. — she whispered.

she crushed her lips to yours again, one arm braced on your shoulders to hold her steady, the other pulling at your shirt. you helped her, half-pulling, half-yanking the fabric until it tore free. you tossed it across the room. skin met skin; a shock of heat and urgency. she grinded into your thigh, voice thick and needy. she wanted you more than she was ready to admit. your cock was already rock hard, trying its best to free itself from the fabric of your pants; failing miserably.

— you’re so hard. shit, you’re hard for me.

you smirked, sliding your hand to her thigh, squeezing. — turns out i get like this around you.

— around me? — she paused mid-motion and breathed, as if she was holding it back for ages. — god.

then she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to yours. your bodies moved, friction building. you slid your hands under her jeans’ waistband, brushing skin. her hips lifted, another invitation.

— want this?

— yes. god, yes… — she groaned, her voice filled with need, making you smile. the way her defenses went down every time you got her like this made you feel like the biggest person on the planet.

you kissed her collarbone, hands fumbling with her buttons, pulling her denim pants down. your fingers decided to put her underwear only to the side; something about fucking her while she wore it kinda drove you insane. her pulse pounded in her neck, then she caught her breath.

— you’re so fucking cute when you’re desperate. — she whispered as she tugged her jeans free.

— so are you, when you’re trying not to feel feelings. — you teased.

she laughed. soft, close to tears maybe.

— shut up and fuck me. — she snapped, voice rough with need.

you slid a hand between her legs, fingers teasing. she gasped and bucked, pressing against you with no shame. you adored seeing her act like a complete bitch upon you.

— damn, megan, you’re soaked… — you said, fingers slick.

— yeah? — she whispered, closing her eyes. — turns out i get like this around you.

— then make me yours tonight. — you whispered, without even thinking about what you said.

— i don’t do that. — she moaned softly, pressing her mouth to your temple.

— maybe you just forgot how. — you said, pulling her closer. she froze. your words landed, the air shifted.

— fuck, (y/n). — she hissed. — stop doing that.

— what did i do?

she never answered to that question. though, you already imagined the answer. you kissed her temple as you rubbed slow circles on her swollen clit, while her back arched with need upon you as she tried to get as friction as possible. the couch groaned under pressure as bodies moved, the world shrinking to each moan, each breath. neither of you held back; both pushed, fought and surrendered. you slipped two fingers inside her, slow, deliberate, and she trembled and instinctively bit your shoulder.

— oh, fuck… — she rasped. — you’re deep, so deep.

— want more? — you asked softly.

— yes, (y/n). — she murmured. — fuck, yes…

you moved, slow at first then harder. you ground up, her body wrapped around yours. the movement was instinctual, feral. the way it was supposed to be.

— you like it when i fill you up like this, huh? — you asked rhetorically, voice low.

— it feels so fucking good… — she moaned, making you smile once more. maybe, just maybe, you could never get enough of her. and accepting that was one hell of a task. you picked up the pace, matching her rhythm. every thrust hit her g-spot as if your fingers were meant to be inside of her.

— please, don’t stop. — she whispered, her grip tightened in your hair. you felt the shift, the trembling of her body ready to break. her pussy swallowed your fingers as if it wanted to crush them, to trap them inside and never let them go. she was close, you could tell. and now it was you that wanted to give her something she would never forget.

— let go for me, baby. i got you.

her head fell back, silent whine rising to a scream. her body trembled as if an earthquake took over her, nails gripping on your skin painfully but it was definitely a pain worth feeling; seeing her like this, for you and because of you, was absolutely priceless. she collapsed into you, and you followed not far behind, arm circling her waist to keep her steady. when it ended, you both froze, chests rising and falling, heads touching, skin slick and electric.

— we can do this again. — she whispered after a while, voice small. for some reason, the tables were turned. you, being the loser that you always were, felt protective over her for reasons you failed to understand, with a wave of confidence hitting you every time you felt that the people you cared about showed their most vulnerable side. and megan, of course, promised herself that she would never let those types of feelings take over her mind again. and yet, here she was. small and sweet, scared and wounded.

— we can. — you said softly. — and we will.

the room around you flickered with late-afternoon light, but everything narrowed to the heat between your bodies, the slick of sweat, the taste of salt and fear and something more tangled. the place was quiet but for the faint hum of the city outside, reminding you both this was sunday afternoon, again. but neither of you spoke of time.

megan’s fingertips traced the stretch of your shoulder, light and tentative, like she feared your skin would crack. you swallowed when she leaned closer, breath grazing your collarbone. your pulse hammered at how close she dared to be, then pulled back.

— you feel so… intense. — she murmured, voice low like she was scolding herself. you’d kissed her temple; your hand drifted to her face, your thumb caressing her cheek slowly.

— intense works. — you teased, voice thick. — you like it raw, right?

her nails dug into your arm, reflex, and she shook her head.

— i like control. — she said soft, barely letting it out.

you smirked, palms sliding up her sides. — control’s overrated.

she stiffened, but didn’t pull away. her eyes flicked closed when your hand hooked into her underwear’s waistband.

— maybe… but i like knowing i can stop it. — her voice trembled, not with fear but drive.

you didn’t dare to remove her underwear, so you slid your hand between her legs once more, fingertips brushing her wet pussy. she gasped, body tightening.

— control’s overrated until it comes undone. — you whispered.

she didn’t respond, just let you guide her down onto your bare chest. her skin landed warm and damp; your cock brushed against the middle of her legs. she froze for a heartbeat.

— go slow… — she murmured, voice low, far from certainty.

you braced your hand on the couch, steadied your breath. — slow it is.

your fingers pressed into her back to hold her close as she shifted. your member pressed at the denim, friction rippling through both of you. her hips rolled against your lap, trying her best to get a single drop of your touch.

— fuck. — she whispered, voice thin. — you feel so… real.

you curled your free hand into her hair. — so do you.

her head tipped back, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. she bit her lip to still a moan, but failed.

— don’t. — she breathed. — don’t get soft…

— maybe i don’t do soft easily. — you replied low.

her hips ground again. just gentle, teasing. her gaze dropped to your throat, then shot up to meet your eyes; searching, afraid to trust.

she swallowed hard and moved again, humping her cunt on your cock with mastery; slowly, but surely. you pressed her closer, hands sliding over her ribs.

her hands gripped your arms as she kissed you, soft at first, then hungry. her fingers decided to tangle in your hair while the rest of the world dropped away.

— say it. — she murmured mid-kiss. — say you want me.

your breath caught and you pulled back slightly. — i fucking want you, megan.

she pressed her forehead to yours, lips parted. — good. don’t make me regret it.

— regret what? — you asked, necessity in your voice.

— letting you keep kissing me. — she bit out, voice raw.

you kissed her again, slow and deep. her hands ran down your chest, over your cock pressed against your denim. goosebumps rose along your skin, as if it wanted her more than you did.

— i need to be inside you. — you whispered, voice thick.

megan’s breath hitched. — then fill me up again. — she said, firm.

you unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down with your own underwear; megan stilled as your cock spilled free, dripping with arousal and pre-cum.

— fuck, you’re still so hard. — she whispered, eyes on you.

— your fault. dick. — you answered, voice husky, remembering your last conversation.

she left your lap so she could lay down on the couch, then snapped her fingers against your chest. — come here.

you moved upon her, cock sliding along her thigh. she guided your hands on her torso, letting you explore her ribs, her waist. she seemed smaller now, vulnerable; and it broke your chest wide open.

she closed her eyes and turned into your touch. your cock slid between her pussy, slick sound where she was wet. neither of you flinched, bodies locked.

— let me feel you, baby. — she said.

you pressed forward, just your tip. she inhaled sharply, legs squeezing reflexively. for a moment neither of you moved. then you pushed inside her slow; nothing rushed, it felt sacred.

— holy fuck, you’re so big… — she gasped as you stretched her open. her walls held you tightly. your hands braced on her hips to guide the rhythm. her arms wound around your back, nails trailing across your skin.

you moved deeper, slow and deliberate, letting her absorb every inch. her breath caught each time you shifted. when she finally started moving; gentle hills of motion, your heart hammered.

— shit- don’t stop. — she murmured.

you slid out halfway then back in. — not stopping.

she cried out, pressing tight against you. the room echoed with soft sounds: skin, breath, low gasps.

you flicked your hand to her clit, grinding gently. she groaned as she rolled her eyes again. — fuck, i want to be loud.

— you want to make noise? — you asked, voice teasing, which she promptly denied.

— i want you to make them hear me. — she snapped.

you increased pace; push in, pull out, fingertips flicking her bud. her back arched, nails dragging down your chest. her cries grew louder. raw and unfiltered, just like her.

— you like that? — you asked, voice low and charged.

— yes! fuck, yes… — she choked out, body trembling. for you, and you only. and that was enough for tonight.

letting your intrusive thoughts win, you slapped her clit, hard enough to sting. she almost cried, it seemed. but the smile on the corner of her lips assured you that everything was fine.

— god, you’re such a tease. — you grunted, giving more.

she groaned, bucked, pushing harder. you rattled between control and abandon.

— fuck, yes… i’m so close. — she screamed, voice raw and shaky. — (y/n)…

you pressed your hand underneath her navel, feeling the bump of your own cock going in and out of her; the action making her body tremble almost instantly. — go ahead. cum for me again, megan.

her body spasmed, cry tearing through her throat as her pussy swallowed your member and her orgasm took over her entire body. you followed right after you rode her through it, making sure to cum on her stomach this time around. you both trembled, breath ragged, locking together in sweat and shadows.

you lay there tangled; skin slick, bodies still humming from everything. her leg draped over your hip like gravity hadn’t decided which of you to pull harder. the room smelled like sex and your shampoo. it was the kind of quiet that felt heavier than the silence that had settled between you, like neither of you knew what to do with the tenderness left behind.

megan stared at the ceiling like it was trying to tell her something she didn’t want to hear.

your fingers traced the dip of her spine, slow, careful. she didn’t flinch, but she didn’t lean in either. that was the thing you noticed about her; she let you close, just never close enough.

— you good? — you asked, voice soft.

— yeah. — a beat passed. — just… thinking.

you waited, but nothing else came. her hand curled against your chest like she didn’t even know it was doing that. you counted the seconds she stayed there. one, two, three. then she pulled away.

she sat up and swung her legs off the couch like she couldn’t get dressed fast enough.

your chest tightened. — you leaving?

she nodded, already reaching for her shirt, her pants.

— is this about what i said earlier? — you tried. — you don’t have to-

— it’s not. — her voice was clipped, but not cold. she yanked the shirt over her head, then paused, fingers trembling for half a second before she covered it by tying her hair up. — i just… i don’t do well with this.

— this?

— staying. the aftermath shit.

— you don’t have to stay here. but you don’t have to run from me, either. — you sat up.

— i’m not running. — she said it fast; too fast.

you didn’t call her out. you just looked at her. and she wouldn’t meet your eyes.

she zipped her jeans. grabbed her jacket. then she hesitated, thumb brushing the leather like it was trying to say something she couldn’t.

— megan… — you started, she shook her head.

— don’t. — softer now. — don’t ask me to stay. it’s easier if you don’t.

your throat tightened. — you think i’m gonna break if you leave?

— no. i think i am.

and there it was. the crack. the jagged edge behind the bravado, the flinch under the smirk.

— you’re not gonna break. — you half-whispered.

— i will. — she said it like a fact. — i’m good at sex. i’m good at pretending i’m not scared shitless of people. but i’m not good at… this. whatever “this” is.

you stepped forward, slow. not touching her yet.

— i’m not asking you to be good at anything. i’m just asking you not to disappear.

her laugh was dry. it cracked in the middle. — i’ve already disappeared, (y/n). that’s the only thing i’ve ever been good at.

your heart broke a little. you could see how much she wanted to stay. how much it scared her to even consider it. you reached for her hand, she let you take it.

— then just… text me tomorrow. or don’t. — you said, letting the words fall gently between you. — but don’t pretend this didn’t mean something. even if you don’t know what it meant yet.

she squeezed your hand, eyes burning like the sun through smoked glass.

— it did. that’s the fucking problem. — she said.

then she dropped your hand, turned and walked to the door. you didn’t follow. didn’t beg.

she looked back once, only once, her expression unreadable. then she stepped out into the hallway and let the door shut behind her. you stood there aching, watching the spot where she’d been like she might reappear if you stared hard enough.

she didn’t.

you sat back on the couch, the fabric still warm where her body had been. the smell of her lingered. so did the ghost of her fingers on your jaw, her voice in your ear.

this time, she’d left slower. softer. maybe that meant something, maybe not.

but you knew one thing for sure. you’d wait. just a little longer. just in case.

the sidewalk glinted under the streetlights like it had something to prove. megan walked with her jacket half-zipped, her work lingerie already on her body to spare her the change, hands shoved into the pockets, and eyes fixed forward. while lara trailed a step behind, absently thumbing at her ear, scowling like the missing earring owed her money.

— okay, this is not happening. — lara muttered, voice sharp like she could intimidate the universe into fixing her problems. — i swear i put them both in here.

megan glanced over her shoulder, uninterested. — the earring?

— yes, the earring. the hoop. the gold one that makes me look expensive and emotionally unavailable.

— well, one of those is accurate. — megan offered.

lara didn’t laugh. her fingers kept raking through lipsticks and receipts and an emergency knife. no second hoop.

— this is a crisis. i can’t show up asymmetrical. it’s bad luck, i’ll get haunted.

megan grabbed her lighter and pack of camel’s and lit her cigarette, inhaled deep like she needed the smoke to ground her. — maybe the ghost will steal your exes and save you the trouble.

— or maybe the ghost will remind me of my worst decision in the last six months. — lara snapped, louder than intended.

megan didn’t reply. just kept walking. the silence stretched between them, thin and electric.

lara clicked her tongue and broke it. — so. are you gonna talk about it or just keep vibrating with internalized panic until you spontaneously combust?

— about what?

— about the fact that you went over there. — lara said, quick and sharp. — that you saw them again. that nerd from friday with that tight lord of the whatever shirt and the haunted eyes.

megan exhaled. the smoke curled out of her mouth like a sigh she hadn’t earned. — it wasn’t supposed to be anything.

— and yet here you are. smoking like you’re in a noir film and brooding like it’s your full-time job.

megan stopped walking. traffic hummed in the distance, a car horn echoing from some other life. lara watched her for a second, then fell into step beside her. took a long drag of her cigarette in an attempt to smoke her feelings away.

— you know i’m not judging you, right? — she said, tone lighter now. — you feel things harder than most people. you just don’t know where to put it.

— says the girl who ghosted a woman because she offered to watch a movie with you. — megan quipped back, lips twitching despite herself.

lara grinned. — it was the way she said the word “we”. gave me hives.

they started walking again in silence for a few beats, boots hitting pavement in time with passing headlights. megan’s shoulders looked too high, like she hadn’t stopped bracing for impact since she left your apartment.

— you liked them. — lara said, voice soft.

megan didn’t reply.

— i mean, fuck, you like them. don’t even try to tell me it’s not still happening.

— i saw them twice. — megan muttered.

— you fucked them on a couch for hours today and then ran away like your life depended on it. — lara corrected. — that’s not “twice,” that’s a limited series.

megan’s hand twitched in her pocket.

— you don’t get it.

— no, you don’t get it. — lara shot back. — you’re out here trying to convince yourself you’re incapable of being loved just because you’re scared of what it feels like to stay.

megan flinched, but it was small. her lips parted like she might say something, but lara beat her to it.

— and before you go all “i’m a broken person, it’s safer this way.” — lara air quoted. — don’t. i’ve used that speech. it’s bullshit and it’s fear wearing lipstick.

they stopped at the corner. the velvet room’s neon glow flickered just up ahead, violet light bleeding into the cracks of the sidewalk like spilled ink. lara turned to her, finally still.

— i left manon’s because she smiled at me like we’d already made a memory. — she said plainly. — and i couldn’t handle it. i can’t handle it.

megan’s brows rose, barely, while lara looked away, scowled at the traffic like it offended her. — she’s… she’s loud. in color. not scared to want something soft. and i’m not wired like that. i break shit just for the noise it makes. you know that.

— so why are you telling me this?

lara looked at her, dead in the eyes.

— because i’m not gonna let you become damaged like me. you want them. and they want you. don’t fuck it up just because your fear’s louder than your hope.

megan looked down at her boots, then threw the rest her cigarette away. her hand stayed clenched around the edges of her jacket. silence pressed between them, heavy and crackling.

— you gonna text them? — megan didn’t answer. — what’s the worst thing that can happen? they don’t reply?

— no. — megan shook her head. — the worst that happens is they reply, and it means something. and then i have to figure out what the fuck to do with that.

lara nodded slowly, like she got it in her bones. then she pulled a stick of gum out of her jacket and shoved it into her mouth.

— feelings are messy. — she said, popping the gum. — but silence is worse.

they stood there for a minute, letting the streetlight hum over them like the city was waiting for a verdict.

megan’s phone burned a hole in her pocket. she could feel it. the small text thread. the way she would left things hanging like a half-finished poem. the way your hands had felt against her skin. careful. present. wanting her even when she didn’t know how to be wanted.

she pulled the phone out. unlocked the screen. the chat thread glowed, still open. no messages since that morning. megan stared down at the small message thread, thumb hovering, heart stupidly loud.

it had been hours.

the jacket text still sat there, ridiculous and sincere and somehow still soft in her chest. like a bruise she hadn’t meant to earn. she typed. deleted. typed again. then eventually, she hit send.

megan: just so you know, i didn’t hate today.

sent. no emoji. no follow-up. punctuation, even. like a breath she let out mid-sentence.

it wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t not one.

she locked her phone too quickly. like it might burn her.

lara clocked it instantly. didn’t say anything at first. just gave her that sidelong look; the one that meant megan was being obvious again.

— smooth. — lara muttered under her breath.

megan scoffed, pulling her jacket tighter around her ribs. — shut up.

her thumb grazed her phone screen like she didn’t mean to check it again, like she wasn’t hoping. like she hadn’t just handed someone else the thread to something sharp inside her chest and dared them to tug.

you hadn’t texted yet.

that was fine. she wasn’t waiting.

they reached the velvet room’s entrance. music thumped from behind the doors, muffled and wild. lara went to grab the key to her locker as she entered the club, hand brushing her bag, and stopped; something hit her once she put her hand back in her purse.

megan clocked it instantly. — what?

— i didn’t lose it. — she whispered.

megan raised an eyebrow. — and?

lara stared at the earring like it had just told her a secret she didn’t want to know.

— i left it there. — lara said, annoyed. — i wore them last time on friday and i went to manon’s that night. fuck.

the realization hit like a punch to the gut. and for the first time in a long time, lara looked terrified just for the idea of having to talk to manon again.

while that happened, right across the city, you were on your couch, the light from your phone glowed faintly in the dark.

you hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. hoodie still on. there was some random episode of the big bang theory in your tv but you refused to give it enough attention; like something might change if you stared at it long enough.

your phone buzzed. a soft, single sound.

you didn’t check it right away. you didn’t have to. fingers trembling slightly, you turned the screen over.

megan: just so you know, i didn’t hate today.

that was it. no joke. no wink. no plans.

but something about it made your stomach twist up with hope. you curled tighter into the couch, a flood of excitement coming through you, slightly. whatever this was; it was still happening.

so you texted back, quiet.

(y/n): i didn’t either.

then you locked your screen. exhaled slow. didn’t smile. not exactly. but your chest felt a little looser. your heart, a little steadier.

she’d texted first. and that had to mean something.

[81astriss]

just let me be close to you | alex albon (2)

singer!reader x alex albon

fc: lyn lapid, lily muni he, others on pinterest

when the internet notices some similarities between you and alex, they decide to take matters into their own hands and pull a nassie ;)

a/n: part 2 !!! i really enjoyed making part 1 so i made this almost immediately after posting the first one hehehehehehe HOPE U ENJOYY 🫶

playlist | part 1

⎯

now playing: Buttons - Lyn Lapid

alex_albon song so good i had to buy you dinner _ynln 🔥🔥

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, _ynln, and others

↳ _ynln i was peer pressured into this

alex_albon but you had fun, right? _ynln yeah...!!! 😬😬 _ynln KIDDING it was nice we actually have a lot more in common than i thought

↳ lando is this what i think it is

↳ charles_leclerc wow mate i was not familiar with your game

↳ user1 MISSION SUCCESS????????

↳ user2 THIS COUNTS AS A DATE RIGHT

↳ georgerussell63 Damn, someone stole my bitch 💔

_ynln im returning him georgerussell63 No you can keep him 😄

⎯

↳ alex_albon why are all your pics of me eating

tagged: alex_albon

now playing: BMF - SZA

_ynln thank you all so much for the love on "Buttons" !!! ❤️ i appreciate each and every single one of you (special thanks to alex for paying for dinner heh)

liked by laufey, tatemcrae, alex_albon, and others

_ynln cause you ATE 🔥🔥🙏😈 alex_albon are you calling me a big back _ynln you ask so many questions

↳ user1 young and fine and dark and handsome

↳ lewishamilton Cute dog. What's his name?

_ynln ...nico user2 nico rosberg still haunting lewis' narrative i see 😭

_ynln i have w rizz

↳ laufey i take it you've figured out how to talk to him?

liked by radvxz, tatemcrae, and others

↳ user3 bmf by sza? y/n you aint slick

↳ tatemcrae we're almost there lando

liked by lando and others

⎯

↳ alex_albon i see you had fun with carlos

tagged: carlossainz55, alex_albon, williamsracing

_ynln IMOLA !!!!!!!!!!!!!! thank you sososososo much for inviting me alex_albon congrats on P5

liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc, alex_albon, and others

_ynln YUPPP it was so nice to see my fav driver again !! and you ig. alex_albon "i feel like you're just here for the zipline" 😐 carlossainz55 Don't be jealous, alex

↳ user1 i fear this is the closest we'll ever get to a tour 🥀

user2 "y/n is gonna tour soon!" i say as they drag me into a white padded room

↳ scuderiaferrari bro

user3 first carlos and now y/n HASJDKAJHKJWHS

↳ user4 ferrari should hire y/n as their strategist if they want her support back LMAO

user5 what would she do 😭 charles_leclerc anything is better than what we have rn. _ynln we have a job offer for you liked by lewishamilton

↳ lando always great seeing you in the paddock

_ynln im still genuinely scared of you but nice seeing you too oscarpiastri it's okay you get used to him

⎯

tagged: alex_albon, tatemcrae, laufey, radvxz

_ynln MAYhem

liked by alex_albon, laufey, tatemcrae, and others

↳ user1 look who made it in the may dump!

↳ laufey i live for your inconsistent monthly dumps

liked by _ynln

↳ user2 just say y'all are tgt atp no need to hide it

user23 bro i wish

↳ tatemcrae THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TOURRRR

_ynln you were AMAZING babe

↳ alex_albon where the FUCK did you get that last pic

_ynln secret ( georgerussell63 )

↳ user3 who are you and what have you done to y/n where is the red

user4 the only red we got is a SHOE.

↳ user5 nico is adorable!!!

_ynln he has an ig now 😈 _nicoln alex influenced me to make one

↳ albon_pets alex_albon will nico be joining our family?

alex_albon george i swear _nicoln alex_albon do you not accept me 👹👹

↳ lando alex where's your may dump

alex_albon mate i don't do dumps

⎯

↳ lando I DONT DO DUMPS MY ASS

now playing: Risk - Gracie Abrams

alex_albon MAY i be yours

liked by lando, georgerussell63, _ynln, and others

↳ _ynln thanks for the support on buttons! the 19 kids in my basement are eating well

alex_albon how'd it go from 17 kids to 19 _ynln don't worry about it 😊

↳ user1 RISK BY GRACIE?

user2 "i think that it's sweet, yeah, i think that you're sweet" user3 hes DOWN BAD

↳ user4 y/n is a huge gracie fan mate you ain't slick

↳ user5 the day they actually reveal they're together is the day i can pass away peacefully

↳ user6 answering on behalf of y/n, yes i will be yours ❤️

⎯

The time was 2:53am. Alex was exhausted from training and yet, here he is just laying in bed staring into the void, with nothing on his mind. Actually no scratch that, he had one thing on his mind. You.

Until few months ago you were just some random girl who happened to be a singer until you both posted something with similar captions. Sure, the internet tried to force your interactions but something about you two just felt... natural.

He couldn't stop thinking about all the times you hung out. About how whenever it was time to say goodbye, he would try to drag it out as long as he could, just so you'd stay a little longer. There were also the times you hugged just a little longer than normal, the times you touched when there was no need to and the way the sparks lingered on his skin whenever you'd let go. It consumed him and it was getting harder and harder to hide it.

He reached for his phone, hesitated for a bit, then opened your contact.

⎯

⎯

📌 ↳ _ynln 🙌🙌

tagged: _ynln

now playing: From The Start - Laufey

alex_albon what's cookin good lookin

liked by _ynln, lando, georgerussell63, and others

↳ tatemcrae our job here is done

↳ lando ABOUT DAMN TIME

liked by georgerussell63, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, and others

lando pleasure working with you

↳ user1 MISSION SUCCESS

↳ user2 yall can have nassie i'll have alexyn

↳ georgerussell63 FUCKING FINALLY

↳ user3 MAMA Y PAPAAAAAA

↳ albon_pets welcome to the fam _nicoln

_nicoln thanks 👍

↳ user4 the cheer i just cheered

↳ carlossainz55 have i been demoted as favorite driver

_ynln ofc not. never let your boyfriend stop you from finding your husband alex_albon ??????

↳ laufey thats my bff!!!! and you're there too ig

alex_albon omg laufey noticed laufey how can i not? she yaps about you nonstop alex_albon is that so _ynln SHUSH

⎯

↳ n1ckwilkins nice job man

liked by cassiesbookss, sei4strii, and others

📌 ↳ alex_albon lebron lebron lebron james

tagged: alex_albon

now playing: Ever Seen - beabadoobee

_ynln i used to have hoop dreams until i found out there were other ways to score 😈🙏🔥🏀⛹️🔥🔥

liked by alex_albon, tatemcrae, lando, and others

↳ tatemcrae so sweet i got diabetes

↳ user1 caption is so unserious

↳ lando looking forward to seeing you in the paddock more often

_ynln looking forward to terrorizing ferrari's strategists so i can go back to supporting that team user2 THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE charles_leclerc job position is still open btw liked by lewishamilton

↳ user3 OUR POSTER BOY

_ynln omg goddamnit i should've used that song instead

↳ radvxz hard launching to my song i see

laufey its the least she can do to pay us back for all the times she yapped abt him nonstop liked by alex_albon and others _ynln STOP EXPOSING ME

↳ user4 he has the prettiest eyes she's ever seen 🥹🥹🥹

↳ user5 THE CUTEST :(

↳ _nicoln i'm no longer fatherless lets gooooo

↳ user6 we will miss your red era 💔

_ynln me too 😞 this is what i get for letting a man infect my color scheme

⎯

↳ cassiesbookss still not on this side of the internet but i'm so glad this worked out for you !! 🫶

liked by n1ckwilkins, sei4strii, _ynln, and others

↳ tatemcrae we thank you for your service

tagged: _ynln, alex_albon

now playing: poster boy - Lyn Lapid

sei4strii so glad y'all saw my vision 😋😋

liked by tatemcrae, lando, and others

↳ lando couldn't have done it without you

↳ user1 the internet has done it again 🙌

↳ user2 can't wait for our next project

↳ user3 thank you tate, lando, and sei4strii we all say in unison

⎯ end

sorry if the ending was a bit underwhelming :( i didn't know how to end it actually xd regardless, i hope you liked reading as much as i had fun writing it !! please lmk how i can improve my future smaus, fanfics, and others thank youuu <3

♡ xine

[bestruction]

Can I go down on you?

Summary: you give him his first blowjob

Warnings: dick description, cum eating, shy sasuke

It was quiet in the Uchiha compound, as it always was. The wind whispered through the wooden frames of his rebuilt home. After all the years of blood and war, this silence was his sanctuary. Unlike other nights, tonight it wasn’t silence that wrapped him in comfort, but you. 

You were on his lap, warm and hungry, your weight grounding him more than anything ever could. You were straddling him like you were born to sit nowhere else, your hands in his hair, your lips ghosting over his in that slow, insistent kiss that left no space for breath, only soft gasps and softer moans.

Sasuke knew many things but about love? He was new. He had spent so much time focusing on killing his older brother, then destroying the village, and then war came…He didn’t have such a thing as romance in his life or even interest. This was new and it felt fucking good with you. He loved these movie nights where you two ended up forgetting there was a movie going on because you are too busy grinding on his lap while he kisses your neck. 

You pulled back just enough to whisper his name, your voice warm and low like honey melting into his ear. “Sasuke…” 

He could swear every time you said his name like this it went straight to his cock. He hummed, lips chasing yours, half-lidded eyes trying to focus through the haze. You kissed his jaw, then his neck, tasting the faint salt of clean skin and heat.

“Can I go down on you?” You whispered against the shell of his ear, and he felt his blood reaching his face quickly. The thing is: You have been dating for a while after he came back to the village, but between planning to kill his older brother, destroying the village, going to war, and then to prison? He didn’t have that much experience with women, let alone sex. 

His brain glitched for a second and his entire body stilled beneath you, not from rejection, but from confusion. Shyness bloomed across his skin like an unfamiliar feeling, his eyes were wide for a fraction of time and he could swear his hands forgot where they were for a second. His mouth opened…He tried to organize his thoughts and convince himself you actually asked him that so openly. 

Why was he blushing anyway? He was the last person who should blush at anything and yet your question echoed in his mind like a dropped metal in an empty hall. He knew how to fight, how to fix the things in his house, how to avoid people but you asking so sweetly, so recently to suck him off disarmed him more than any enemy ever had because he wasn’t used to receiving. Not kindness. Not softness. And especially not…this. 

“I…” he murmured, throat dry, voice a low scratch of thunderclouds and hesitation.

You leaned in again, brushing your nose along his jaw. “It’s okay,” you said softly. “We don’t have to.”

He looked at you and heard “why not?” in his head. He loved you, damn he was already hard for you so why not? 

“I want to,” he said, voice low, rough, the syllables shaped more from feeling than thought. “It’s just…” His brows knit faintly. “I’ve never—done this. Like this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. He was always careful with intimacy. 

“I know.” 

You slid down his lap, trailing kisses over his stomach, he watched you with a wariness that wasn’t fear—but wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe this wasn’t a genjutsu. That you were really here. That this was happening. That you wanted him in that way. His body was too still, too tense, like he was waiting for a battlefield, not getting some head. 

You kissed the spot right above his belly button, trying to make him relax a little before reaching for his waistband. You looked endearing, too sweet for someone with such a mischievous smile while you pulled his pants down to free his cock. 

It sprang forward with an elegant curve, soft pink tip and pre cum leaking from his arousal crowing it. It was thick, overwhelmingly thick and long enough to make you clench around nothing, thinking how good it would feel inside of you and his veins were prominent around the base. 

He had a pretty dick. Almost infuriatingly so just like all the rest of him. It made your eyes widen a little, and you licked your lips without thinking.

“Sasuke…” your voice was horny-drunk already “You’re… so pretty.” He didn’t answer. Actually, he couldn’t. He just looked away, ears tinged red, jaw tight like he was on the edge of having a heart attack. 

You leaned in slowly, lips barely brushing his mushroom head while looking at his eyes, searching for any sign of discomfort and found none. You gave it a small kiss and he twitched, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. 

“Fuck—” His hand reached for your hair, playing with your strands while you flattened your tongue along the underside of his shaft, slow and deliberate, from base to tip. His whole body tensed like you’d pulled a string through him. When you wrapped your lips around his head, warm and soft, and sucked gently, Sasuke’s hips jerked—just a little—like he hadn’t meant to.

You made a mental note about his tip being sensitive and smiled giving it small licks that made his eyes turn back. You looked up at him with wet lashes and mischief in your smile. “Still okay?”

He nodded and you took him deeper in your mouth, lips stretching, breathing through your nose and being careful with your teeth while he groaned, low and guttural and you felt your panties soaked because seeing him all flushed and melting while you suck his dick made the butterflies in your stomach crave for more of that image. 

You did your best to fit everything, the moment he passed your throat and your nose brushed his pelvic bone you looked up and he had to hold himself back to not cum. You were gorgeous at that moment. 

Sasuke let his head fall back against the couch, the muscles in his abdomen tightening under your touch and mouth, your wet, warm and relentless mouth. His hand was tangled in your hair in a messy ponytail, not forcing, just gripping because it felt so damn good. 

You passed your tongue around his tip and lowered your head again before bobbing it up and down a few times to repeat the process while using your hand to stimulate what you couldn’t reach. His breath was uneven and his jaw locked, he was losing all the self-control he ever learned. Sasuke never thought You were on your knees between his thighs, looking up at him with eyes that made him forget the years of discipline and battle could feel so fucking good.  He might be inexperienced but he did get himself off sometimes and that felt so different from his hand. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer if you kept sucking like that because he was already close. So embarrassingly close in his head. 

“Damn, baby, you look so good like this…” He murmured watching you swallow his cock again and again. 

You moaned softly around him, wanting to respond but moved and tried to ignore the ache between your legs, making the sound of your voice vibrate on his dick and that was his last straw. 

“Fuck,” he choked, his voice cracking. His grip in your hair tightened just enough to make you feel it. “Baby—baby, wait—if you don’t stop right now I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum in your mouth—”

He wasn’t warning you because he didn’t want to. He was warning you because he thought you might not want that. He wanted to be respectful to you. Because this was you, not just some quick fix, not some lonely hand in the dark. You were his soft and sacred girl and the only goddamn thing in his life that didn’t carry a blade behind the back.

It made your heart warm and pulse faster, just like your poor pussy begging for attention. So you didn’t stop. You just looked up at him, your gaze smoldering, lips sealed tightly around the thick, flushed length of him and kept going. You hollow your cheeks and moaned again, dragging your tongue along the sensitive part of his pink cockhead  in a way that made his thighs snap taut, made his chest stutter with a ragged gasp.

You felt him tremble a little as his hips jerked and he tried to hold back but couldn’t. His hand flew from your hair to his mouth to cover his sounds. 

“Aah…Shit, fuck, just like that” He moaned feeling you play with his balls as you bobbed your head. 

He came hard with a broken and hoarse moan that he couldn’t hold back, bowing off the couch as he spilled himself into your mouth, pulse pounding deliciously against your tongue. And you took it all. Every thick, warm drop, swallowing him down because he was worth savoring.

Sasuke tastes clean. Surprisingly sweet, even—subtle and smooth, like the first sip of cooled tea after morning kata. There's no bitterness, no sharp sting, just the warmth of him: a hint of salt from sweat-slick skin, faintly musky in a way that makes your stomach flutter. All thanks to his discipline. He trains daily and he eats well. You always joke around saying he only eats rice, steamed greens, fresh fruits, grilled fish and drinks water like it’s life blood but thank god because it makes his cum far from acid or bitter. 

You told yourself you could get addicted to it while you swallowed his warm, slightly thick cum not just out of devotion but because your body welcomes it. 

When you pulled back slowly, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, you looked up at him with that wicked sparkle still dancing in your eyes, equal parts innocent and devastating. He told himself you would be the death of him. 

Sasuke stared at you dazed for a few seconds. His dick now soft in your hands while he tried to breathe properly. 

“…Where the hell did you learn that?” he asked, voice wrecked and rough, still breathless.

You rolled your eyes chuckling a little because of course that’s the first thought in his possessive head. 

“Jealous already?” You laughed, breath warm against his neck as you climbed onto him, legs wrapping around his waist again, your lips brushing his ear. “I’m not planning on doing it for anyone else, you silly” You gave him a small peck. 

He smiled squeezing your waist “Good” 

You laid your head on his shoulder and grinded a little on his thigh, you were still so wet that it was annoying. He noticed your hips moving, placed a small kiss on your forehead and said “Should I return the favor?” 

[bokettochild]

Okay, quick question:

Why does Legend have violet/purple eyes in your Stories? Like idk it’s my hc now too because I’ve read it so often but where does it come from?

Oh boy, I know I've answered this one a few times, but I don't blame anyone for asking again LOL

It was sort of impulse? Mostly? I remember when I was writing my first fic, I actually sat down and tried to decide what color eyes everyone would have, because eyes are incredibly important to me in my art, be it writing or sketches, and a character always feels incomplete until I can visualize them somehow while working with them.

Anyways, I don't know precisely why I chose violet for Legend, maybe because I have this character (Thane) who I wrote with violet eyes and I thought it would be a fun trait to give to someone, and so I gave it to a random Link who wasn't my current favorite (at that time, I was a huge Wild stan). It became really key to me though because, thematically, it suits him; it plays with various sorts of imagery and symbolism that make my fangirl heart scream in joy!

His eyes are the color of Fi's hilt, while Sky's are the color of her blade. His eyes are the color of a night sky, the place where stars stay, a place of peace in darkness. In my mind, I can see Hyrule as a kingdom regarding their royal family like the sun; a brightness and light that brings life. But Legend, the hero, is the light in the darkness, a star himself, who reminds them that there's hope even when the sun can't be seen. And, well, the sun is just the star closest to us, so he's a sun himself, in a way, just a distant one :)

Additionally, this works as a nice contrast to Ravio! Where Ravio has green eyes, black hair, and wears purple, Legend in my HC would have purple eyes, golden hair, and wear green, so they appear more as a reversed version of each other, just as Fable's blue eyes are a reverse to Hilda's red. (Which also means that, between the four of them, they have red, blue, green and violet! Kind of like Four!)

I also just like how it breaks up the sea of blue eyed boys. like, Hyrule is hazel to me, and Four has grey that change depending on his mood/mentality, and Wind is a ocean blue so they're almost green at times, but Legend's the only one with purple. Which means that he himself also has a blue, green, red, and purple color scheme, between his clothes and his eyes, which, in my early fics, made for another fun similarity to Four (I like tying them together, thematically)

Last of all? It's just pretty. Like, our boy changes his hair all the time, like a girl changes clothes (if you will), but purple eyes? Those go with anything! The black he had during OoX, the red, green, blue (whichever you like, or all if you prefer) of TFH, the typical blonde, or even his traditional pink! they soften his appearance some as well and give him a unique look and feature amid a sea of look-alike-links!

So yeah, there's a lot of "reasons" which mostly boil down to the fact that I thought it'd be fun and then I made it important because It Just Worked

And it's stuck with me! and some other writers have even started doing it too! Granted, I see a lot of brown eyed Legend, green eyed, and of course, the traditional blue, but it makes me smile when I see Violet in anyone's work, because while I'm not saying I've definitely impacted the perception of him by the fandom, I am saying it's nice to think of it like I have, and imagine that in some way, I got to be part of crafting a really cool character, even if it's just through a color contribution :)

[bewitched-hours]

Okay...could i request a 007n7..x reader....

So basically like reader was married to seven but then he got forsakened...so when the specter puts us in we see 007n7 who is sitting down watching the others play go fish or something we like run in his arms crying...i really like fluff guys..

YES I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR A REQUEST LIKE THIS YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW- Ahem- Yes-

Reader gets She/Her~

Life went downhill ever since they disappeared...

First c00lkidd... Then 007n7...

You were sure this was some sort of curse put on you. Having your only family disappear couldn't be just a coincidence.

Your biological family weren't nice people and made it clear they weren't interested in changing. They treated any misfortune as a joke and didn't care who got hurt as long as they got their laughs.

It was cruel and made you file a restraining order when they refused to let you be after you tried going no-contact.

You still remembered sitting on a park bench the day you filed that order and felt utterly exhausted.

It wasn't easy to just let go of family like that, even if they were cruel...

But that day you noticed a little red child coming up to you and stringing you into a conversation. It was simply adorable and a perfect distraction for the pit that had formed in your stomach from the anxiety earlier.

His father joined soon after and you two got along better than you thought, even exchanging numbers as you offered to help with babysitting.

But who were you kidding? You simply wanted to see c00lkidd again because he seemed like such a sweetheart.

It was a matter of months before you and 007 started dating and moved in together, becoming a dual income household and finally living a normal life of sorts... You even got married after just a year or two!

No more cruelty, no mean jokes, your mistakes were treated with love... You felt your heart melt whenever 7n7 helped you fix it.

But now..? Now you were lying in your shared bed, staring at the empty space besides you and listening to silence...

The only actual sound was your sniffling as you cried into the pillow. It was like your perfect family had been ripped away in an instance and you had no one to turn to.

You knew your husband's past. You were well aware he wasn't someone with many people on his side to speak of and you didn't have anyone either so you were basically alone in your grief.

The world felt dull and grey without them. No more laughter and drawings, no one to share the morning bacon with...

It was almost more like mercy that you suddenly ended up in this realm.

When you woke up, you saw the night sky above and heard the faint sounds of chatter and fire crackling. It was almost comforting if you weren't still confused on how you got here.

Sitting up, you noticed immediately you seemed to be on some kinda camping grounds and looked around.

A large cabin with smaller ones at the side, a group of strangers huddled around a fire, your husband leaning against a-

wait... WAIT A MINUTE-

You couldn't believe your eyes when you saw that familiar burger hat and blue shirt. Tears forced their way into your eyes as you got up and shakily made your way over to him and collapsed against his back, hugging him tightly.

Before he could even question the sudden motion, your voice brought the realization to him immediately. "I missed you..."

Your sniffling soon exploded into quiet sobbing as 007 turned around to hug you back, tears escaping his eyes now too as he couldn't believe his luck.

Within seconds you were both cuddled up and telling each other how much you've missed the other. With you talking about the countless nights where you'd hug his pillow for comfort and him talking about the countless times he got anxious thinking about if you were still safe.

But you were here now... That was what mattered to you both.

You eventually introduced yourself to the other survivors, making sure they knew of your past after hearing 007 wasn't so liked among them... They were shocked to say the least.

Hell, you even showed them your ring that 7 and you got custom-made for the both of you. It had a message engraved on the inside that was meant to remind you both of the other.

The other survivors were conflicted with you, knowing you hadn't done anything to warrant caution besides being married to the ex-hacker and protecting him so fiercely.

But you didn't care. You were happy sticking with your husband and discovering more about this realm and your new abilities.

And at least you'd be able to see c00lkidd during rounds... Even if just for a short time...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[certifiedsexed]

do you have any good, beginner resources for learning about STDs? keyword beginner here because i feel like there’s so many kinds and it’s so confusing. they all do different things and come from different places. i would like like, a cheat sheet or something. i also have a couple of questions that stand out to me

can two virgins having sex give each other an std? or is it only something you can get from someone who got it from someone else?

are dental dams really necessary. i hear no one uses them. thoughts?

what’s some basic information or key notes that you can give just as a quick overview? anything you think people should be more aware of?

Check out the STI Files on Scarleteen! They're great beginner resources on STI/Ds and keep it pretty simplistic.

Two virgins can absolutely give each other an STI/D because you don't have to have sex to have an STI/D. Something being an STI/D just means it's commonly spread through sexual contact, not that there aren't other ways to get them.

(For example, you can get a cold sore through a kiss from a relative! Often, people don't realize because it takes awhile to show and often, when people get sick and get a cold sore, they don't think herpes even though it is herpes and even if they realize, they don't know what the cause was. But that's still a type of herpes and you can spread that to someone else through sex or even just making out!)

What's "necessary" entirely depends on you and your partner(s). What things are you trying to protect against, what are your boundaries, what feels best to you, etc.

Dental dams work and they prevent STI/Ds, specifically ones that are commonly caught through oral sex, but some people find them inconvenient or too expensive or just don't care, so they don't use them.

People do use them though, it just depends on the person. There are also lorals, which is actually a type of underwear that works just like dental dams, though I hear they're expensive and not accessible for fat folks.

I feel like my best information that more people should know is that getting an STI/D is not a death sentence to you or your sex life. Yes, get tested, use protection, but while it can suck, if you do catch something, it's okay. if you do get something, it can suck but its okay.

I hope this helps. I'm not sure if this is exactly what you were looking for but let me know if you have any other questions! <3

[thecowboyfiles]

ok my mind has literally been rotted (for days mind you) about forcing bob (reynolds) to drink waaaaayyy to much water under the guise of hydrating him…

at first it’s soft and encouraging and he LOVES when you do that so he drinks as much water as he can but now it’s 2 pm and he’s gonna leak everywhere and you just pressing on his bladder encouraging him…. 😔😔😔

It starts off in the morning with you looking at the weather forecast. A record-breaking heatwave is about to make its way through the city, and instead of thinking about how high the air conditioning bill is about to be for who knows how long, you're mind is turning dirty, about how you can make this heatwave more fun.

The rouse is easy, Robert is already sweating even in his sleep, his hair is sticking to his forehead, and you can see the sheen layer of perspiration across the top of his body that isn't covered by the sheets. You run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp before you head to the kitchen and grab the biggest glass you can find, filling it with water.

By the time you get back, Robert is just waking, rolling over and rubbing at his tired eyes before sitting up in the bed. "Good morning sunshine," You smile, holding out the glass to him.

"Good morning," Robert rasps out before he clears his throat and takes the glass, gulping it down without question. He was always thirsty in the morning.

"It's gonna be hot today," You inform casually, "Heatwave apparently, but you'll need to stay hydrated."

His eyes flick up to yours, and there's a hint of recognition there. He knows, these sorts of play sessions always start with some variation of telling him how important his hydration is. "I need some more," He says, gently holding out the glass back to you.

You take the glass and raise your eyebrow at him.

"Please," He adds, dropping his gaze to the sheets.

***

That's how the day goes, with Robby politely asking for more water or you telling him that it's been too long since he's had a drink and passing him another glass. Now, you're sitting in the tower, something on the TV that neither of you is really watching. Robert is too busy trying not to squirm, and you're trying not to watch him— both of you are failing.

When Robert brings a hand down to squeeze his cock through his pants, you get up, refilling his glass and bring it back to him. It's the first time he hesitates. "I can't," He shakes his head. "I'm so full... m'gonna leak."

You hum softly, but don't pull the glass away. "It's so hot out. You don't wanna get dehydrated, do you, Bubba?" Your tone is light and caring, but there's a hardness in your eyes; this is non-negotiable.

With a shaky hand, he reaches out and takes the glass, bringing it to his lips. You watch him, just to make sure he actually swallows his sip, and then you bring your hand down to press against his distended bladder.

Of course, Robert whines and squirms, water sloshing in the glass. "Please, please, I can't—I have to go so bad I can't hold it," He begs, entire body tensing under your hand in an attempt to keep the flood inside. Both of you drop your chins to look down at the goofball-sized wet patch that was appearing on the crotch of his pants, and you can't help but tsk.

"Look at you. So desperate, you're making a mess of those pants." You press down a little harder, making him let out a choked sob. "Well, since you started, you might as well just go." You shrug, but the disappointment is evident in your voice, and Robert shakes his head quickly. You know he hates disappointing you.

"No, no, please. I can hold it, I can." He insists, even though you can see the wet patch get darker, he's leaking again.

"I don't think you can, baby, but it's okay, I want you to go now. You've been so good for me. I'll help you go." You lean in and press a kiss to his lips. "Be a good boy and let go for me, hm?" You press harder on his bladder still, steady pressure this time, not letting up even as his body's natural reaction is to fight against you.

When his bladder finally gives out, Robert sobs out, loud and broken, breathing heavily as the hot piss rushes out of him, soaking his lap and the seat underneath him before it drips in a steady stream onto the floor. "God, oh god, oh god," He pants out under his breath, chest heaving and body relaxing as he finally gets relief.

"Look at you, look how full you were," You muse, giving one last push to his bladder, just to be sure. "You're such a good boy." You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

[ms-demeanor]

Hiya I have a quick question, I was helping someone with something and they've been using PayPal's direct debit thingy which says it gets you paid faster but like I was like lmao why do you need this sort of thing (like we have stuff in the UK which can give you predatory payday advances like micro loans and there's some companies which do some other predatory stuff with payday advance payments for like financial collateralisation) but like during chatting with them they said it was pretty normal for companies in the USA to still give people cheques and you then have to cash them which takes like 7 days?

Like seriously is that still super common? You don't have like first of all that's a long time ours is max like 4 days and it can appear next day with some cheques, secondly what if you lose your cheque? Thirdly you don't just have automatic transfer? Like how many jobs literally give you a cheque? I've never had that even on my job which was a temp job for like one day doing ticketing they just pay straight into your account. The PayPal stuff said it includes government jobs what???

Checks/cheques are not uncommon in the US, and often they actually take 10 days to clear. Direct debit is becoming more common, but.

Okay.

SO. I got my first personal checking account with Washington Mutual when I was 19. It was a free checking account that didn't have any minimum deposits or requirements.

Washington mutual ate shit in the financial crisis and my bank closed. Chase picked up my account, but there was a $15 monthly fee and I had to carry a minimum of $100 in the account or they would close it. So I closed the Chase account because I couldn't afford it and for the next four or five years I would take my paychecks to the issuing bank, cash them there, and would hold on to the money. I had a credit card at this time, so I used to take cash from my cashed check to either a stationary store or walmart to buy a money order to pay my credit card. Sometimes I'd also cash my check at walmart, but you pay a fee for that and you don't pay a fee if you cash the check at the issuing bank.

I don't know what kinds of minimums and fees banks require in other places, but in the US banking can be expensive, especially if you have limited options nearby and rely on cash for anything.

Paypal is often a stand-in bank for people who either don't have bank accounts or whose bank accounts are difficult or expensive to use.

If you lose a check, you ask the person who issued it to cancel the old one and re-issue payment. I know that happened at least once with my paycheck. (Lost checks aren't like lost cash; to accept a check you need to verify that the person handing it to you is the account holder, which you do by checking their ID; I remember at the gun store we used to write this little cross on the corner of the check where we'd put the person's Driver's License number and our name and the date and something else to say who it was who took the check and verified the ID, so it wasn't like someone else could pick up a found check and use it to pay for something)

Most jobs can give you a check if you insist on it, but I think direct deposit is more common these days. I have uncashed checks from one job that I had for two hours and from a class action lawsuit filed by Denny's employees (I worked at Denny's for about a day, so my portion of the settlement was like seven dollars). I get my tax returns as a check, and older people still give checks as gifts sometimes.

The government payments to PayPal may be paychecks, but more likely it's for stuff like social security payments or tax returns.

[thydungeongal]

I generally don't like the model of dividing a game up into separate player's and GM's books (and sometimes a separate bestiary) or you know just dividing your ruleset into multiple books (I love you Rolemaster but why are your rules split between three to four books) but if you must do it I think Dolmenwood actually presents a model which I think is okay.

The Player's Book features all the relevant rules, and like literally, you don't need to actually refer to a separate GM's book for rules questions, it's all there in the Player's Book. The other two volumes are the Campaign Book and the Monster Book.

The fact that it's a Campaign Book and not a nebulous and ill-defined GM's guide is very important. It means that with these three books all together you have everything you need to start playing right now. While a prospective GM could very well benefit from having a few prewritten modules they can slot into the sandbox presented in the campaign book, the campaign book is meaty enough in and of itself to actually facilitate play (and the game already contains procedures for creating and populating adventure sites so while a prewritten module is nice it's not necessary).

Anyway it's really nice imo. There are some things about the specifics of Dolmenwood I'm a bit cool on (as much as I love both the game its rules are based on, Old-School Essentials, and its fairy tale fantasy setting inspired by British folklore I'm actually not quite sold on the combination of the two, but it's not a dealbreaker), but I think the game more or less justifies being divided up into three books.