#finally reading his route

[padparadschaaa]

i want to give elbert a little kiss on the forehead so bad he deserves to be cherished and loved properly

[akkivee]

What are your thoghts on Shadamy?

this is such a crazy timed ask actually lmao i’ve been doodling them whenever i have the energy for it they are *falls to my knees* so much lmao

there’s a thread on twitter about their interactions in team sonic racing that i revisit whenever i need a serotonin shot lol that exposes how big of a soft spot shadow has for amy like it’s the way!!!!! he really wants her to rely on him and how proud he is whenever she accomplishes something with his assistance!!!!! like????? i mean????

something that’s been a little lost in translation over the years with amy’s character is that she wants to be an independent and wonderful lady and i’m hesitant to say we know what that really looks like for her, but what’s more important here is that shadow already acknowledges her as such based on whenever he’s teasing her in the game and like……. it’s just a refreshing dynamic for her to have when she’s been shown to struggle making a place for herself in sonic’s posse lol

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

motorcycle sketch featuring cross!! >:)

[irn-bru]

i know a lot of my fellow thrawn lovers are wanting to see a HTTE type storyline but with jonny boy and david's track record i honestly just want thrawn to take the L and go home to get screamed at by everybody who told him this would blow up in his face

[the-maladjustedjester]

I probably think this every time but legitimately season 7 is my favorite of all time now. I loved the stories they had, I loved the character development Rick’s been inching through, I could’ve had more Jerry but that’s my critique every season bc I have a fucking problem… the emotional connections and relationships were satisfying and felt real, and I love seeing Rick getting his ass handed to him every episode. It finally feels like he’s slowly clawing his way out of the hole he’s spent his entire life digging. And damn if the last scene didn’t make me tear up with an unexpectedness I hate to love.

[killjoy-prince]

I have now completed all the routes of Ray's After Ending

[mkmas]

silvio’s personality is obviously not for everyone but one thing i love about characters like him is that you can see their flaws clearly. im personally rarely into characters who have some kind of righteous front only to have some hidden dark side or whatever (if you like that good for you im not shaming!!!). anyway small spoilers and rant under the cut

i really didn’t think silvio would be my fav prince tbh. he really surprised me because he’s actually very smart and has reasons for his actions like the fact that he doesn’t actually like jewelries and he only wears them to show his worth to ppl seriously caught me off guard and i mean he’s right!! even irl people WILL judge your appearance, especially when you wanna do business with them. i originally thought he wore them because he wanted to show off or something. ofc he’s not perfect, his personality can be overbearing and too rude sometimes but it balances his character well. he treats rio badly but you can’t say he doesn’t care about him. the king ab*sed him while and favored rio,,,, i think people with siblings will understand why deep inside he has some negative feelings towards rio (ESPECIALLY if you’re the oldest sibling). even with that, we have flashbacks that show silvio wasn’t always horrible to rio. there was even that one interview where he said he went adventuring with rio when they were kids and they got matching earrings from that which they both still use btw.

i hate it when people have so much to say about a character without finishing their story. i dont like rio but i dont make hate trains criticizing him. yes i can understand why he’s so attached to mc but it’s not my thing so whatever i move on🤷‍♀️ it’s fiction and an otome game, ofc these characters will have redeeming qualities so you can’t blame people who like controversial characters. it’s a completely different story if it’s irl ofc. yelling about morals and ideals at an otome game is sooo boring imo like you must have very bland taste in romance novels…

**it’s kinda late, idk how to word things properly and i cannot english. the important point is i wanted to gush about silvio in the sea of hate🫶 thats all ty.

[fruit-of-infidelity]

// I sometimes forget how incredibly provocative some of Richter's poetry is. So, you just know I had to try and emulate that in the monologues for his route (yes, his route that im only just seriously working on):

(Snippet of the Dark Prologue monologue):

For too long have I ached for the relief of your lips,

And the embrace of your cavernous warmth.

I will not allow this despair to lead me astray;

My sweet relief is fast approaching, my love.

[frankotalk]

im having so much fun writing cadet because hes just like this every day

[meejijis]

ah yes today is the day where one of my most hated manga moments of all time gets animated and I’m already just salty just thinking about it

[hecksupremechips]

another thank you thank you thank you. friends reading my fics means so much to me and <3 i am so glad you enjoyed!!! they WILL get those onions theyre going in a very good stew

YESSSSSS 👏👏👏

[strangelittlestories]

After the occupation, the princess was confined to the palace.

Once a month she'd be taken on a walk around the city, heavily guarded of course, to show the people that she still lived. It also served, of course, as a reminder of what they stood to lose if they made trouble. The princess did her best go wave and smile and give the people what encouragement she could.

The rest of the time, her life was spent in musty rooms and dusty towers. She filled most of her time scouring the castle for materials which she would sew into more and more elaborate outfits, which she would show off on the days when she was allowed outside.

Indeed, the public loved their princess and her dresses so much they'd often sketch or paint them along the route and pass the images on so that all could see the princess at least was well.

This pleased the occupiers for two reasons. First: it kept the princess out of trouble. Second: it gave them a reason to sneer and they did love a good sneer.

"What a vain creature she is!" They would remark.

"Doesn't even care we murdered her brothers so long as she gets enough satin to make her little dresses!" They squawked.

This was unfair, of course, for to call her creations "little dresses" was to call Queen Murderfun the Needlessly Genocidal "a tad piquey". Her dresses were gravity-defying wonders lace and pearl. They were thunderstorms captured in velvet and waterfalls summoned in silk. She was a wizard with silk.

Still, she bore their mockery with a tight smile and careful deference.

"Please, good sirs, my home, my people and my city now belong to you. Let me keep, at least, this one last joy."

And they sneered and they crowed most unpleasantly, but they let her keep her sewing room.

Of course, they would have known their mockery to be doubly unfair had they realised the true purpose of the princess's elaborate designs. For hidden in the intricate embroiderings across her gowns, jackets and fans, the princess had encoded secret (and very detailed) messages. When she would go on her monthly walk, the city's loyalists would line the route, sketching down the patterns to decode later.

Thus did the princess transmit all the occupiers' secrets (unearthed while supposedly 'searching the castle for old fabrics') to the city and thus did she build her resistance.

On the day the revolution finally came, she girded herself in armour of thick spider silk and whale bone. She cut a fine figure with a lacy handkerchief in her top pocket and a razor sharp knitting needle keeping her hair up.

As she waltzed through the castle to open the door for her army, the Usurper King tried to stop her and she simply unfolded her handkerchief and showed it to him.

Upon seeing the impossible arcane pattern emblazoned across it, he fell to the floor with blood streaming from his eyes.

She always had been a wizard with silk.

---

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so at https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

[lalunanymph]

KITTEN, BEHAVE ☆

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ there are consequences to teasing your biker boyfriend...

⋆｡°✩ semi-public s/ex, fem!reader, biker!sylus, reader wears a skirt, reader's a nasty gal <3, undertones of dom/sub (sylus is one kinky mf), finger sucking, finger gagging, petnames (kitten, baby), fucking on his bike (hehe), c/um countdown, unprotected s/ex (wrap it up babes), sylus matches our freak perfectly, based on this thot i had

⋆｡°✩ dawn says: i've been a nasty girl ive been a nasty girl nasty nasty (sorry zayne)

Sylus isn’t one to find beauty in the mundane but the wind whipping past his frosty locks and your arms wrapped tightly around him makes him feel like he’s on cloud nine.

“Kitten, are you alright?” he calls over the lashing breeze. 

His leather jacket is ridiculously thick, but even through the material, he can feel the heat of your cheeks seeping through.

You always flush whenever he calls you your favorite pet name, and Sylus forgets that just like a kitten, you can be just as playful. 

A slender hand tipped with French nails slides down his torso, leaving blistering heat in its wake. The thin compression shirt he’s wearing under his jacket can barely fight off the warmth of your palm bleeding past the material and onto his skin.

His heart doubles in speed, and in response, he revs the N-907 Ultrabike, its wheels kicking up more dirt and dust. Linkon City speeds into a blur, White Coves’ beaches in the distance and to his right, Bloom Forest spreads her velvety green arms open for adventurous outdoor lovers to play in. 

Your hand trickles down his abs, stealing his attention back to your whims, and he smirks behind his visor when he feels your dainty, pretty little palm resting on the front of his pants.

Looks like the little kitten wants to play a dangerous game.

Two can play the same. 

Sylus pretends to ignore you, and he can tell it only frustrates you more when he remains stone cold and unmoving; a statue you’re trying to thaw.

Your free hand creeps under the hem of his shirt, and thank fuck the wind is too loud because a groan slips past his clenched teeth—it would be absolutely embarrassing if you heard it. His mind works doubly hard to focus on not crashing the bike, maneuvering it down the winding steep roads.

“I thought you said you wanted to take me for a ride,” your voice touches his heated ears, innocent and alluring. 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing, kitten?” He tilts his head back slightly and hears your snort. 

Your antics will never cease to amaze him. Whatever possessed you to be bold also eggs you on to be audacious. Your hands travel further up his shirt, pressing right onto his broad pecs and you smirk when you feel the bike wobbling slightly under his control.

“Kitten,” he hisses. “Stop it.”

But, you don’t listen to him. You never do. 

This insolent prey. He tries his damndest not to buck his hips when you start to rub his bulge, merciless with your teasing. Your other hand reaches up to his neck, where his favorite leather collar sits prettily on his defined clavicles, and tug on it, earning another hiss.

The bike skids to a stop and you’re not sure how you ended up pushed against the pillion seat, Sylus looming over you. He kills the engine and kicks down the stand, the sudden deafening silence exacerbating your heavy breathing. 

“Wait,” you squeak, and he shakes his head.

“No more waiting. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

Looking around in a panic, you notice that he’s parked the bike under a secluded shade of trees, next to an empty strip of road. 

This was the same route you took to the edge of the N-109 when you were given the mission to retrieve Sylus a few months ago. 

“Familiar, isn’t it?” He reads your mind with a dark chuckle. 

Those ruby red eyes bore into yours with the grace of a predator provoked, and you, his favorite prey, will finally get what you’ve been asking for. 

“I think it’s high time we recreated some memories from the first night we both saw each other,” he drags his palm up your bare thigh, making you shiver. “It’s a good thing you’re in a pretty little skirt, kitten,” he hums, pushing the hem of your leather mini skirt—a gift from him—out of the way. 

Sylus inhales sharply when he notices the micro thong you’re wearing which barely covers anything, his nostrils flaring.

“Insufferable.”

“Sy,” you whine, unsure what he's waiting for. It's never like him to play with his food.

The press of his bigger body on top of yours cages you to the pillion seat, the friction burning when he unceremoniously drags you closer to him. 

Those intense eyes seem to devour you, and for the first time since you’ve been together with him, you see a shadow of his villainous evil in them. 

“Is this what you wanted?” 

Is this what you’ve been begging for? 

Sylus wraps a hand around your throat in broad daylight, not caring for morals or decency when he squeezes. Hard.

Your eyes roll back into your head, regret streaming in for how you teased him earlier. 

“A-ah—” you choke lightly. “Was jus’ tryna play around.” 

Sylus ignores your whimpers, a bored look on his face as he loosens his fingers, letting you suck in a wheezy breath. 

“Little hunters never learn their lessons, do they?” 

He smirks unexpectedly. 

“Remember that night you tried to tame me during our interrogation? In the end, I was the one who had you screaming, didn’t I, kitten?” 

You did remember—of course, you did.

The shine of your boots spreading his kneeling thighs apart. Leather collar around a pale strip of throat you just wanted to suck on and leave a mark. His smug leers, those glowing ruby eyes that shone like dying embers when he finally snaps off the handcuffs you placed him in and pins you to the ground for a taste of your own medicine.

As much as you hate to confront the truth, it stares you down with an impassive face and dark eyes—a truth that breaks the delusion that you were the one in control when it came to Sylus. 

He touches your thighs, spreads them further. Bright sunlight speckles through the trees, casting webs of shadows across his crooked nose and high cheekbones. 

Sylus takes his time to peel your thong off, and you bite down on your lip to muffle a whimper.

“What? Don't tell me you're all shy now?” 

He snorts in amusement at your attempts to be innocent, prying your lower lip free, stroking the curve of your plush mouth with his thumb until you relent and suck on his digit docilely. 

While you’re not inexperienced when it comes to such carnal submission, it’s the first time you’re doing it outside of the bedroom where anyone could stumble upon the both of you. 

The thought makes your thighs tense and your needy pussy clench down on thin air, something that Sylus doesn’t miss.

“You like this, huh? Being slutted out so publicly… it turns you on to be so open to me.” 

He continues to push his thumb around your mouth; pressing down on your gums, flicking the tip of your tongue, inspecting the ridges and juts of each pearly white tooth. Intentionally drawing out your humiliation. 

Satisfied with the oral inspection, he removes his thumb, swiftly stuffing your protests with two thick fingers. 

“You say ‘no’, but I can smell that sweet little cunt getting wetter,” he murmurs, flitting his dark gaze right to your folds flushing readily with need; right to that cleft which houses his favorite hole.

Lewd doesn’t begin to cover how Sylus can treat you in bed. Outside the sheets, he’s content to play the role of your partner and friend, tagging along on your adventures and explorations. 

But the second he has you trapped in his bed, he becomes a different person. 

Meaner. Assertive.

Downright cruel. 

“Do you want me to touch you?” He goads, locks of silver hair falling across his damp forehead. Sweat dews across your chest, and you feel the heat of shame rising in you.

Sylus, I was just joking, you try to argue, but he’s not hearing it. 

“Didn’t seem like a joke when you were pawing at my cock earlier, kitten,” your lover hums, unable to take his half-mast red eyes off of you.  

He slots a hand between your thighs, and you swallow a cry when he drags your thong to the side, spreading your wetness around roughly with his thumb. Sylus rubs tight circles on your aching clit, forcing you to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans.

“Ssh,” he whispers when you give a tiny, choked cry. Sylus takes this chance to nuzzle your neck, inhaling your scent like a starved man. “We don’t want anyone to find us out, don’t we, kitten?” 

Evil, evil man. You bite on the inside of your palm to keep quiet when he lifts one leg to wrap around his narrow waist, effortlessly tugging his zipper down and freeing his cock. 

“One single sound and I will stop, do I make myself clear?”

There’s no choice but for you to nod. Sylus doesn’t waste a single second once he’s got you all nice and wet for him, grasping the base of his girthy and veiny length, stroking it a few times to make sure he’s hard and ready for you.

The thick tip breaches past your tight ring of muscle, and you bite down on a sharp gasp, squeezing your eyes close.

His breathing is getting heavier, and he curses the second he bottoms out in your tight heat. 

The bike begins to shake with every clean stroke, his thrusts making your toes curl and heels dig into his back. Luckily, the pillion seat is wide enough to accommodate your shaking bodies; never imagining for a single second that your lover would be boldly fucking you on it in the middle of a dangerous zone.

But, Sylus has always been like this—addictive, painful.

Dangerous. 

How he fucks you is no different. 

The blunt head touches the deepest spot inside of you, and you’re helpless to do anything but cling onto him like second skin, muffling your whines into his broad shoulder.

“Looks like the little kitten is enjoying her cream,” he murmurs, trailing his gaze down your body taking him so well. 

The veins on the back of his hands stand out, drawing your attention to him dragging the front of your blouse down, tucking your bra cups under your heaving breasts. 

Sylus’ mouth wraps around one turgid bud, sucking it till it’s shiny with his spit and throbbing from oversensitivity. 

He repeats the same motion on your neglected nipple, savoring your hitched breaths and muffled whines. 

Your thighs start to shake, and you turn your head to the side. 

Look at you, he coos and grabs your chin, forcing you to gaze at the spot between your thighs where he’s fucking into you. Look at how well you’re taking me. 

You’re so wet that droplets of white are trickling down your inner thighs, frothing into stickiness where his cock is rutting shallowly inside of you. 

“Sy,” you moan softly, eyes glossing over with tears of pleasure.

He loves how needy and pathetic you look for him with your swollen, parted mouth and tight nipples just begging to be pinched or flicked.

A furrow creases between his brows, drops of sweat trickling down his jaw. 

You surprise him by leaning forward, flattening your tongue and lapping it right up, shameless in your desire for him. 

“Naughty girl,” Sylus purrs, his red eyes darkening to an impossible black until you’re sure not a shred of your sweet boyfriend remains. Two thick fingers part your mouth open, sliding down your welcoming throat until he’s knuckle-deep in you.

Sylus chokes you out as his other hand trails down your body towards your clit, rubbing the flushed nub until your hips buck and you cry out; a master at bringing your body closer to the pleasurable brink. 

The tears beading in your lash line finally freefall down your face, triggering his devilish satisfaction. 

Returning the favor, Sylus licks them clean, chuckling cruelly at the arousal turning you cross-eyed. 

He loves it when you look this fucked out, and one day when you’re comfortable enough, he hopes you’ll relent to him taking a picture of that messed up, pretty face for his safekeeping.

Baby, you gurgle around his fingers. I’m close… 

Yeah? He goads. Gonna break for me? Come on this cock? Make a mess? Fuck—do it baby. Mess me up. Make me feel so good because that’s all you’re good for, huh? 

He grits his teeth, fighting back the cresting pleasure, needing you to come first.

Come on, baby. Come with me. Five… four… three… that’s it, baby. You’re so close, aren’t you. Don’t come until I reach zero. Fuck—that pussy’s so tight. Two… one… fuck, fuck. 

High strung keens are escaping past the cracks of his fingers stuffed in your mouth, your entire body shaking violently that Sylus thinks you’re being wrecked by an internal earthquake.

Zero. Zero. Fuck, baby. Come for me. Come on, give it to me. Give me that sweet cum. Yeah, that’s it, that’s it—

He grunts, his patience breaking, flooding inside of you in waves of heat; filling you up to the brim.

In this moment of weakness where anyone targeting him can put a bullet right through his head, Sylus thinks that if he dies right now, he would do so happily in your arms.

His forehead gently thumps onto yours and you must be as fucked up as him because you push his hair back, scratching his scalp lightly.

Your sculpted, 6’2 menace of a lover who’s seen death and destruction since the day he could speak, groans and nuzzles your cheek like a weak puppy. With every version of Sylus that you have seen before, this will always be your favorite one—where he’s comfortable enough to kiss you affectionately, bringing you down from the high.

He hums. “Satisfied?” 

Sylus would never say he loves you out loud—that’s not in his nature.

But, his actions scream louder than words when he adjusts your rumpled clothes and gives you a peck on your cheek.

“Do you still want to visit that mad scientist or should we scrap it for another day?”

The implicit invitation tempts you. 

A boring lecture or a whole day spread out on my sheets, kitten?

“Let’s go home,” you choose the latter, and Sylus tries his hardest to hide his smug smile when you refer to his penthouse as your own home.

“Of course. But, for the sake of not violating any more public decency laws, you better keep your paws to yourself until we get home, kitten.”

Proving your disobedience and your unwillingness to learn your lesson, you sink two fingers under his collar, dragging him close enough for your lips to touch. 

“That depends on if you can get us home fast enough, Sy.”

He takes it as a challenge, a grin touched with a hint of lunacy splitting across his face.

“Is that a challenge, sweetheart?” 

“No, I—”

He pulls you into a kiss, devouring your breaths until your lungs are filled with nothing but him, him, him. 

His fingers in your hair, an arm wound tightly around your waist so his favorite prey can never escape him. Sylus breaks off the kiss, ruby eyes like two bloody pools when he stares at your warm cheeks and puffy mouth. 

“You should know I always—always—win our petty bets.”

— feedback and reblogs are appreciated luvs <33

©️ lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or translate to another site

[tojisun]

something about best friend simon not knowing any boundaries (or, deliberately bulldozing through boundaries)—

the way he’s the one who picks you up in the airport even though you and your boyfriend already made arrangements for the pick up, but simon just says he offered to take over because your parents needed help setting things up in their lake house and that your boyfriend offered to help them.

(simon made him offer to help. it’s hidden so well behind honest concern that your boyfriend didn’t notice that simon’s been pushing him into the role until simon's calling out his goodbye's, saying he's off to pick you up now.

"oh, i can-"

"don't sweat it, mate," simon replies with a pinched smile. "i'll drive carefully, promise. bring her back, all safe and lovely.")

you didn’t even know simon’s invited to the vacation, but you gladly murmured to him your thanks, too caught up in your exhaustion to notice the little mean grin that tugged his lips up.

you clamber to his rover messily, blinking slowly, and before you can reach over to buckle your seatbelt, simon leans over and does it for you.

"could've done it myself, y'know?" you whine.

"sure you can," he grunts as he pulls himself back to his seat. "not like y'were one blown wind away from keeling over, but sure."

you roll your eyes at him playfully before biting a giggle when he scrunches his nose at you in reply.

he takes the long route back.

"want anythin' to eat?" simon asks after a while.

"don't we—" you pause, yawning. "need to hurry back?"

"not really," he replies, eyes flicking to the side mirror before he rounds a sharp curve. your body jostles, falling to the side, slipping towards the gear, and simon's hand falls to your lap to steady you.

he doesn't remove it even when the road straightens.

"okay," you finally reply, tired eyes blinking at the size of his hand on your leg. "m'kinda hungry."

he huffs a fond laugh and says he knows a place close by.

it's a local burger joint, apparently known for their fries and milkshake. simon buys you one.

"aww," you croon, grabby hands pulling the cold cup closer to you. "thank you, si."

you two eat in his rover, too lazy to actually settle in the diner.

it's greasy and messy and delicious. simon says you look filthy, before reaching over to wipe the stray milkshake on the corner of your lips. you poke your tongue out to him in reply; he says to swallow that back in before he yanks it out.

you laugh, chucking a balled-up napkin towards him before jumping out of his SUV to run to the bathroom.

(you didn't notice the throngs of messages coming in from your boyfriend nor the way simon swiped your phone from your back pocket and kept it.

he remembers your passcode—still unchanged even after all these years—and reads the messages that your boyfriend sent.

he's asking if you've landed or if you and simon are on your way back. he says he also misses you dearly, and that he can't wait to finally be with you again.

simon deletes them all.)

the two of you return when it’s well into the night, and everyone's gone to sleep. you sigh, feeling the exhaustion hitting you harder now, and amble to your room where you know your boyfriend must be waiting for you, only to stop when simon holds your arm.

"wanna sleep with me?"

"what," you begin, turning your sleepy eyes up at him. "no that's alright. my boyfriend's—"

"asleep, already. probably got ordered 'round by your pa, huh?" he smiles, his thumb swiping along the side of your forearm. "y'might wake up the poor lad if you go there so why don't you sleep in my room just for tonight?"

simon's words wash over you and you know, somehow, there's something wrong with them, with him, but your mind is bogged down by your drowsiness. you can't rationalize what's going on, so you say yes.

that's all simon needed to pull you to his room and into his bed.

you slip out of your clothes, per simon's instructions—his words all muffled as you try to stay up awake—and slip into something loose and baggy—stretched in its overuse but so comfortable on your skin.

it's simon's shirt, you'll learn tomorrow, but for now, you drop to the bed, your eyes shut close, and fall in deep sleep.

the last thing you feel is the heavy dip on the mattress behind you before a thick arm is thrown over your side, pressing into the fat of your stomach to push you back and into simon's front.

limbs lay tangled together, breaths shared, and the summer heat buzzing as skin meets skin.

-

simon doesn't get any better after that. he gets so clingy, and intrudes in your space and forces your boyfriend out.

your boyfriend complained, of course he did, but what could you do? what could you say? simon's your childhood friend so there's nothing malicious between you two. there's nothing more into it.

he gave up fighting then, fists tucked close to his sides as you kissed his jaw and told him to trust you on your words.

but—

how can he calm down? how can he not burn in anger when he sees the way simon pulls you to his lap and you readily nuzzle close. granted it's all because the two of you are watching some game on your phone and the position must be the only way to watch it comfortably, whatever, but it rubs him so wrong how familiar you and simon fall into each other.

how can he not doubt your words when he catches simon's eyes narrowed at him in quiet delight, before deliberately curling his arm around your stomach, and throws the other one on your lap, so dangerously close to your crotch.

it's even worse when the family gathers to the lake, and you and simon are chasing each other, playfighting in front of everyone. simon picks you up with ease, big hands digging into the fat of your belly or your thighs or gripping your ass like simon's so intimately familiar with your body.

how can he not hate himself a little bit when he realizes that it was always you and simon. that that's the dynamic.

-

(and if simon successfully seduces you during this vacation, well—)

-

ext

[emphistic]

If there was one thing in the world that Boyfriend!Sukuna hated, it would have to be books.

Not because he was illiterate or some shit like that, but because you were always reading them. Everyday, from morning to night, books, books, books. He just couldn't understand why you were paying so much attention to mere words on paper when you could be paying attention to your super awesome, smart, handsome, super awesome boyfriend, instead.

After suffering through this dilemma for years, he's finally come up with a plan. Operation: Make Girlfriend Unable to Read was now a go.

Comfortably seated in Sukuna's lap, you were just seconds away from flipping another page of your novel, when, you felt a ticklish sensation on your neck.

"Sukunaa," you whined, shoving at your boyfriend's face, "stop it."

(Spolier alert: he didn't stop.) Sukuna's much larger frame had you trapped in a hug—his arms wrapped around your waist—as he trailed his lips down your clavicle, peppering kisses along moles and freckles en route.

"And why should I do that?"

". . .Because I'm trying to read, you asshole."

"Then, read," he said, never once putting an end to his kissing, and instead, wrapping his arms around you just a bit tighter, "I am not stopping you, am I?"

His lips brushed your throat, before pressing a long, dragged out kiss, and heat instantly rose to your shoulders as you shivered, blindly throwing your book into a random corner of the room.

Yeah, you did not get much reading done that evening. Operation: Make Girlfriend Unable to Read was a success.

[incognit0slut]

Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he’s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense. 

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

“A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,” you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.