#my writing reposted here

[ryllen]

"Don't u know what u're asking me with these?

'Abandon the sea, and stay on land'"

"Are you sure you know~ what u're getting into, Trey-san?"

[x] [x] [x]

[sergle]

I'm thinking abt that pretty fall leaves embroidery pattern post and about how like... it is categorically a repost, it's a reupload. right? a thing that is generally disliked. but because it's credited, it's genuinely boosting the artist in question. and it could ALWAYS be like this. reposting content could ALWAYS be a symbiotic relationship, but because sourcing back to the original creator of something is so uncommon, it's just easier to ask people not to repost it at all. and people still don't understand the difference. or they'll go to the effort of cropping out usernames/signatures to repost something, which is More Effort than literally crediting the creator of something you liked enough to want to repost. Like. I literally don't actually care if my own shit gets reposted, you have to understand. I just don't want it STOLEN. But "do not repost" is easier to write on my art than "you can repost this, but don't alter the image/remove my signature, don't you dare write 'credit goes to the artist' because that is not credit, please link back to my original post or someplace that you can actually find me. please use an actual link/url instead of writing a non-clickable link of my username, because making it text instead of a clickable link cuts the number of people who will go to the effort of visiting my own page in Half." All those aggregate themed accounts, those fuckin annoying as hell instagrams and facebook groups that are like "body positive art we love wamen 💕 hashtag feminism" and then MASS-STEAL plus sized art created by women, if pages like these that always go and steal my older self-portraits and other works... If they just put a link to my prints of those pieces in the text of those posts, or, fuck, my commission info page? I would literally be living on the moon right now. I would have a house on the moon

[milla984]

It's the Great Pumpkin, Spencer Reid

Summary: Spencer and Reader get to spend some quality time together on Halloween

Pairing: virgin!Spencer Reid x fem!reader, virgin!Spencer Reid x plus size Reader

Category: smut (NSFW, 18+, MDNI)

TW/CW: heavy kissing, handjob, fingering, brief mention of an anxiety attack, body image insecurities (both parts)

Word Count: 5.4k

This work is part of the series Spencer Reid, my beloved

“I am officially traumatized,” Penelope blurted out when the end credits rolled on the screen, “remind me to never watch another Halloween movie with you, guys!!”

You could almost hear Spencer squeak in disbelief. “What?! This is a classic!”

She stood up to adjust her skirt, the one with jack-o’-lanterns and spiderwebs arranged in a casual pattern all over the dark fabric, and the bats standing on top of her fuzzy headband wiggled in different directions. 

“Uh–uh, La Dolce Vita is a classic. This is what goes on in the twisted mind of someone who desperately needed a hug and a large cup of hot cocoa with a ton of whipped cream and sprinkles as a child.”

You smiled as you finished loading the dishwasher, amused by the discussion unfolding in your living room; in your heart you were the greatest admirer of Spencer’s ability to conjure up any kind of random information on the spot but the exact moment you saw him open his mouth you knew he was about to make the situation worse.

“In fact, Barker’s grandmother had a fascination with the macabre. She would often tell gruesome stories which she presented as true tales so he grew up with the fear of being murdered in his own house.” 

Garcia gawked and raised a hand in his direction, simultaneously turning your way. “See?! Forgive me if I don’t think that having my entire body ripped apart by giant hooks is the ultimate frontier of pleasure!”

“And I’ll never look at a puzzle box the same way! What if it’s a brain teaser from Hell and there’s one of those chattering monsters inside?” she added and you had to hold back your laughter because Spencer’s perplexed frown was probably one of the cutest and funniest things in the whole world.

The mustache glued to his upper lip and the cravat he wore over a white shirt and black vest were only adding to it so you forced yourself to remain serious. “I’m sorry… pizza and a movie from my dvd collection were all I had to offer on such short notice,” you said, to which she replied by shaking her long, wavy hair.

“Oh no, sweet pea! You did great, I’m just too attached to the illusion that life is a rainbow to be into the traditional Halloween gore,” she sighed and wrapped herself in a colorful poncho. “Hey, Raven Man! Ready to leave?”

Spencer squirmed: an IQ of 187 and still he was unable to come up with a semi-plausible lie when it came to hiding the truth from his friends. Feeling the weight of her curious stare he swallowed nervously.

“I was kind of considering the possibility of going to the midnight screening of Nosferatu, at the Silver Theatre. It’s the 100th anniversary so the Silent Orchestra will play the entire score live, have you ever heard of them? They use contemporary musical idioms to convey the art of pre-talkies films to modern audiences, they’ve been widely acclaimed for their work.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Midnight screening, huh?! Which means you don’t need a ride home… what a coincidence,” she teased, leaning forward to squeeze you in a passionate hug. “I knew it! I saw it the minute I walked in!”

This time was your turn to shrug with a puzzled expression: Reid and Garcia should have been on the opposite side of D.C. for a relaxed dinner at the Morgans’ after a thorough raid of all the neighborhood porches. However, Derek had called just as they were getting in the car to inform them that Hank got unexpectedly sick and forty-five minutes later All Hallows’ Eve enthusiast Reid (dressed up as Edgar Allan Poe) plus a very concerned Penelope had showed up at your apartment, making you wonder why on earth wasn’t she already busy baking since she kept repeating chickenpox called for the best pumpkin pie ever.

“Well, there goes our plan to keep a low profile,” you groaned as you closed the door behind her, and Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“How…?! Is this what they call ‘female intuition’?”

“Call it whatever you want but I’m glad she’s not mad we didn’t tell her right away,” you replied, proceeding to wrap your arms around his shoulders, “and I can think of another person who’s probably very happy for you, now.”

Spencer got rid of the fake mustache with a pensive stare. When it finally dawned on him that Garcia’s phone buzzing during your impromptu horror-themed movie night had in fact started out as live updates on their godson’s health and most likely turned into a gossip session about you two as a couple he squinted.

“I almost bailed on going trick-or-treating with them. I didn’t because I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but I also wanted to see you. It’s our first Halloween.”

You nodded. “Maybe we can still get tickets for Nosferatu. You’re a terrible liar, so I’m sure there really is a midnight screening at the Silver Theatre.”

Spencer stared at you, entranced, then pulled you closer and in a heartbeat your lips met his - a sweet caress, tender and soft, your breaths entwined and your noses rubbing against each other in delicate strokes. You gave him a gentle push and he plopped down on the couch as you placed one knee on either side of his legs to straddle him; one of his hands sneaked behind you, exploring you as if he was trying to blindly map your whole back. 

You felt his other hand on your waist, hesitant. 

Three months had passed since the day you both came to the conclusion you were not “just friends” - three months made of late night phone calls from six different States, of handwritten silly notes you hid in his leather bag each time you drove him to the airport to catch a flight for Houston, three months of you hoping things would eventually move past the PG rated phase.

Three months of your self-consciousness sowing the seed of doubt in your heart, encouraged by the notion of whom he got to share his workspace with: you were no Emily or JJ and even if Spencer wasn’t the type to pay attention to details he frequently referred to as ‘trivial’ you were growing less and less confident.

“It’s fine, you can touch me,” you whispered, guiding his palm to cup your breast. They were pretty difficult to ignore, nevertheless he always seemed to steer away from them as much as he could.

You ran your fingers through his hair until you grabbed a small chunk of his curls; Spencer gasped for air and you brushed your tongue over his lower lip, letting out a muffled moan when the heat between your legs became almost unbearable. You started grinding on his lap to adjust tightly against his body.

“Wait…” he whined, squirming under you.

A second moan escaped from your throat while the pressure of his stiff cock hit your thigh but he shoved you away to free himself and spring to his feet, shaking heavily as if he was experiencing a full blown anxiety attack. 

His cheeks were flustered and his hair stuck to his dampened forehead so that he couldn’t even look at you straight - which gave him the perfect excuse to avoid doing it altogether. “I– I’m sorry…”

“No, no, I am…” you muttered, because the guilt building up in your chest felt so heavy you find it difficult to breathe.

Spencer was standing there, fumbling nervously with the cravat around his neck; his body language was screaming discomfort and he was clearly thinking of an excuse to remove himself from the situation. It was then that the hidden and irrational side of you, the one that desperately feared he would have disappeared forever if you’d let him go, kicked in and a rush of adrenaline came running down your spine.

“Please…” you continued, placing a hand over his, “it’s okay, really… there’s no way to control it, you should know better than anyone—”

“Why? Because I’m a man and men are supposed to have zero impulse regulation?!”

The embarrassment and shame in his voice broke you: you had sworn a thousand times in your mind to do your best to be his solace, yet now it seemed you were hurting him like no-one had ever done before.

“No,” you replied, “because you’re the genius, here, and you should know it’s a perfectly healthy and natural reaction.”

He huffed, visibly irritated at what he must have perceived as a patronizing tone. A different sort of emotion crawled under your skin, sparked by the amount of tension stagnating in the air.

You offered him a cushion and glanced at him with your usual no-nonsense attitude. “Sit down, so we can have a proper conversation? You know, like… functioning adults.”

Spencer pouted for a second, evaluating numbers and statistics about two years and a half’s worth of interactions. The truth was, intellectual affinity was such a familiar concept for the two of you that talking your way through an issue was indeed a synonym for a positive outcome. 

He grabbed the cushion and held it onto his stomach to shield himself from your gaze, though it was purposely focused on his face; you thought it was best to put some distance between your bodies when he sat on the couch again so you folded your legs underneath you, shivering like a cold draft had found its way inside the room.

“Listen, we can both agree this is not your regular, everyday casual topic of conversation… which is why we’ve never discussed premarital sex—”

“I’m not against it,” Spencer rushed to declare, “I’ve assumed it was the same for—”

“Sure, no! Ditto,” you confirmed.

His furrowed brows relaxed while his mouth curved in a timid smile. “Did you know that every person’s intimate relationships follow a script that has been written according to their own individual attitude towards all –uhm, sexual experiences?”

“I did not,” you admitted, and Spencer’s hands started dancing to the sound of his own words. 

“There are sets of guidelines for appropriate behavior, each partner in consensual encounters acts as if they are an actor following a script rather than acting on impulse alone. Researches indicate that women are more likely to initiate contact in well established relationships, negotiating sexual activity in developing relationships can be difficult 'cause both parts have multiple goals to deal with, such as providing relational definitions or following specific standards or morals.”

“Yeah, speaking about relationships… I think we’ve been in one since Christmas, we were just too dumb to say it out loud. And to each other,” you explained. “Sounds like a well-established to me but what’s your take on us?”

He curled into himself. “Every time we’re together I know there’s no other place I’d rather be. I’ve never even imagined it could be possible, I want to feel you even closer… and I’m so afraid I’m forcing this on you—”

“You’re not, I want it too,” you reassured him, “but to be honest I was starting to worry you were not into… me.”

Spencer’s beautiful eyes roamed over you and what you could see was all but repulsion. “Actually it’s the complete opposite.”

“So, what if my script says I’m ready to take things further?” you inquired, inching towards him to tug at the cravat of his costume. 

Spencer cupped your face and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Mine is on the same page,” he whispered.

Your fingers immediately went to the vest he was wearing and trailed the line of buttons in a slow movement; you undid them one by one, the hems eventually coming apart to reveal the white shirt underneath.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” you purred while you loosened the cravat to uncover his Adam’s apple. The way his muscles tensed as it bobbed up and down drove you crazy, so you teased him with the tip of your tongue - your lips grazing over the short stubble. 

Damn him and his impeccable bone structure: the scruffy look suited him so well it always sparked in you the urge to pin him to a wall and sink your teeth into his tender flesh. You loved how he could sport a smooth, professional style when the situation required it still wasn’t concerned with shaving each morning, almost as if it was an impractical activity which took energy away from whatever he considered to be a priority at that moment. 

You heard something flop on the floor and stopped your ministrations: the cushion he’d been holding over his stomach wasn’t there anymore, meaning you got to notice his trousers were becoming increasingly tight.

You squeezed his knee to make sure he was prepared for a more intimate contact then you slid it even further on his leg, giving him a couple of minutes to adjust to your gentle strokes before you felt confident enough to move the action to his inner thigh.

Spencer gasped, surprised rather than shocked or disturbed by how close you were now to where he was aching, and he leaned back to ease the pressure of the fabric but kept his eyes on you. 

He gave a silent nod in response to your interrogative stare, so you finally traced the outline of his hard cock between your thumb and index.

He jolted this time and muttered under his breath, a deep rasp in his voice you didn’t expect: you were unprepared to hear your name spoken as it was the quintessence of pure desire and you quivered, the throbbing in your ears rolling to your core.

You kissed his temple as you pointed at the waistband of his trousers. “Can I…?”

“Y– yes…” he muttered.

His clothes didn’t have any space left to accommodate his bulge. You palmed over it and felt an impatient twitch, which nearly had Spencer cursing; it was becoming torture for him so you reached for the zipper. 

For a split second the historical inaccuracy of a Victorian era costume featuring a device first introduced years after Edgar Allan Poe’s death hit you - a remark Reid himself would have been very appreciative of, which showed how much you could relate to the way his brain worked. Then you shook out of it and peeled his slacks open.

You crumpled the shirt over his stomach and marveled at the sight of his soft belly, the flawless navel, the dark fuzz pointing directly to his raging erection. With a cautious approach you freed it from any restraint, chewing on your lower lip as you often did when you were entirely focused on a challenging task. 

You couldn’t exactly say you had many options in your mind to compare him to but you had done a lot of fantasizing: now that he was in front of you, undressed and defenseless, you were downright mesmerized by—

“What’s wrong?!” Spencer screeched, interrupting your train of thought. “Is it odd? Does it look odd?!”

You shook your head, taken aback. “... odd?! No, why?!” you asked. “It’s just…” you petted the roundness to demonstrate, “I like your tummy so much.”

The way it pressed against his belt whenever he sat next to you on your couch or his was overly inviting and in the past weeks you had to fight the temptation to sneak a hand inside his shirt to squish it, because you didn’t know how he would’ve reacted. 

“Really?!” he marveled, confirming he wasn’t even aware you had a thing for soft tummies. His soft tummy, to be specific.

You smiled and leaned forward to rest your forehead against his. “Are you okay with me doing this?”

Spencer nodded, his eyelids half-closed, so you let your fingertips follow the trail of hair below his belly button; his hardness twitched again when you got near, then you wrapped your hand around it. 

You both moaned in unison, a harmony of pleasure that filled the silence of your living room. You moved along his entire length, feeling the satiny skin sliding over the shaft, and he threw his hair back in a movement that left his jugular exposed: his neck was too inviting and you sucked on it, the groans vibrating in his throat reverberating on your lips.

You gripped tighter when he got used to your caresses. As soon as his muffled whimpers seemed to increase in frequency you circled your thumb over the tip, spreading his leaking precum over the sensitive head. Spencer was at loss for words, a good indication that he was definitely enjoying the moment.

You were enjoying it too; you started to rub your legs together, your imagination running wild and picturing all sorts of scenarios. The mere thought of having him inside of you made you want to touch yourself but you resisted: Spencer was undoubtedly new to this and deserved someone in his life to love him and shower him with attention, so you decided to put his release before your own.

When you twisted your hand at the base of his cock he jumped, missing the bridge of your nose by a few inches.

“Too much?!” you cooed, and he seemed to come out of a sort of drunken stupor.

“No, no… it’s good, I like it…”

You sighed. “Spence, you have to tell me if—”

“It’s really good,” he replied, the urgency sensible in his tone. “Don’t stop,” he pleaded, low-key ashamed of how needy he’d sounded.

You pecked him on the nose as a reassurance you accepted and cherished this version of him: he wasn’t the kind of man to be interested in the crude physical aspect of sex, he’d made it clear. He wasn’t desperate for just anyone to satisfy him - he trusted you to do it, because he knew you were safe in each other’s arms.

You shifted to adjust at his side and returned to your previous occupation; you let your other hand wander over his thigh as a forewarning, then you sheepishly cupped his balls so you could provide additional stimulation and send him over the edge.

He bucked his hips, a loud “Oh, God!!!” escaping from his mouth before he grasped a fistful of your hair. He was hungry for you, his tongue sliding lustfully against yours and his breathing so ragged you were sure he was getting close. 

Kissing him was your drug of choice but you also wanted to watch him come undone, thanks to you, so you turned your head while he tensed: he arched his back and bucked his hips once more, nipping at your earlobe. He became harder as he spilled himself over your fingers, wrist and his own stomach with a feral growl.

You didn’t let go of him, not even when his whole body finally slumped down.

The well-defined jaw and unruly curls falling on his face, now so serene, made him appear like a Botticellian masterpiece. Botticelli would have never painted one of his subjects in such a disheveled state, for sure, but the contrast between his angelic aura and the fact he was sprawled on the couch with his trousers unzipped and his softening cock still in your hand was a vision to behold.

“Hey,” you hummed as he re-opened his eyes and found you looking at him, “you’re too cute to be real, you know that?!”

Embarrassed - yet adorably proud - Spencer lowered his gaze, only to grimace at the stickiness on his belly. And on you. “I made a mess, I’m s—”

“We made a mess. Besides, it’s nothing a towel can’t fix, don’t be sorry,” you said, patting his tummy.

You were almost tempted to ask him how long he’d been saving it for, in a clumsy attempt to remind him you’d fallen so head over heels for him you were not at all grossed out; at the last moment you ruled the joke out, though, stretching your legs to get up instead. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

He flashed you the most awkward smile and you forced your feet to move towards the bathroom. 

You washed your hands under the hot running water and silently watched a part of Spencer swirling down the drain; the floral scent of the soap was now in the air but you could still feel his - coffee and cologne, accentuated by the faint traces of sweat on his skin. 

You had just discovered something new: Spencer was often oblivious of how good he looked (despite the dark circles under his eyes) and that was no mystery, but the idea he might have been insecure about different parts of his body was something you’d never taken into account. If being a couple was the natural consequence of the emotional bond between you - rather than a result of some physical infatuation alone - why was he so preoccupied with your reaction to his half-naked self?

Your brain was going in severe overdrive. 

You inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, your fingers gripping on the honed marble of the countertop, then you dried your hands with a towel, grabbed a fresh one and returned to the living room; the instant you approached your couch you realized Spencer had been doing a lot of thinking of his own, and your heart sank into your stomach.

“Wunderkind, are you alright?” you questioned as you offered him the towel so that he could clean himself up. “What’s going on in here?” you added, tapping lightly on his temple.

He shrugged and proceeded to meticulously remove any trace of his seed from his belly and clothes before tucking the shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “Nothing special.”

His left eyebrow raised, due to an involuntary movement of his facial muscles: it was a flash, a glimpse, the undeniable proof he was hiding something. The sound of your intrusive thoughts and fears got so loud you wanted to scream to cover their noise.

“Your microexpressions say otherwise,” you retorted.

Spencer lifted his head to meet your eyes, mouth agape, and you couldn’t decipher the meaning of such a bewildered reaction. You had always been able to recognize his lying frown, his anxious smile, the suspicious squint and a hundred more variations: you were not a member of the BAU but you were an expert on detecting and classifying his emotions, yet you’d never seen that one before. 

“It’s… uhm, I’m wondering if it was good for you.”

Your heart leaped and bounced back where it belonged. His job required him to be the one calling people out on their behavior, not the other way round; your presence in his life forced him to face a situation in which his skills as a profiler couldn’t shield him from his own vulnerability, so he was in serious need of some consolation.

You bent over to whisper in his ear. “It was.”

“But you didn’t...” he nervously licked his lips, “and I want you to. Just tell me how.”

In the back of your mind you were 100% sure it would have been the right moment to confess you’d been harboring a few insecurities of your own but your fight-flight-freeze response was already answering on your behalf, making you freeze on the spot.

“Spencer…”

“You don’t think I can?!” he inquired, still convinced his lack of experience was the motivation behind any episode of miscommunication. 

“NO! It’s not about you,” you responded in a hurry, hugging him as he was still seated on the couch. “Or maybe it is… ” you gestured to your whole figure, “I guess I’m a bit worried this isn’t what—”

Spencer wrapped you in an equally sweet hug, his chin dimple pressed on your abdomen. “This is soft,” his hands ran to the back of your knees, trailing up, “it’s so soft I’ve got only one thing in mind every time you hug me and I have to stop myself…”

He stopped talking mid-sentence when you guided his palms over your chest and he finally laughed, fascinated by the feeling of your breasts through the shirt.

If he was so happy at the idea you were starving for his touch and was clearly eager to reciprocate it was time to consider the strong possibility he wasn’t just settling for less. “Do you really—”

“Yes!” he replied, enthusiastically. “But I could use a few hints, you know.”

You knew. “May I sit on your lap, kind sir?”

The ‘are you even serious?’ pout on his face deserved an award; now you were both allowed to act silly without the slightest concern one of you was making fun of the other, high on the intoxicating concept of true intimacy.

You positioned yourself so that you were seated on his groin, your back flat on his chest and your head nestled in the crook of his neck, thanking Mother Nature for the existence of refractory periods. Not that it was necessary, but Spencer hooked his left forearm around your waist to secure you as his tongue glided over the soft skin behind your ear. “How do I start?”

“Step one: make some space,” you tipped him.

He gulped loudly and began to caress your knee, ghosting his fingers along the thigh-bone. You shivered in anticipation and when he tried to reach for your inner thigh you spread your legs apart; he flattened his palm, gripping on your muscles and rubbing back and forth - still keeping some distance from your most delicate spots. 

You turned to offer him your lips. “Tease me… up and down, light touches.”

He did as he was told. When he ran the back of his hand over your mound you whimpered, the oversensitivity being too much to bear combined with the mind-blowing taste of his mouth over yours.

“Isn’t it frustrating for you?” he managed to articulate in between kisses and you rocked your hips against him.

You could already feel the familiar and insistent throbbing, accentuated by the fact that delayed gratification was a real pain; you were dying for him to placate the fire his hard cock had sparked in you, so you grabbed his wrist and guided it over your stomach, down the front of your panties.

He gasped at the feeling of your tender flesh, the curly hair, the dampness - too many sensory inputs to process all at once. “You’re so… warm?”

“Core body temperature is higher than the temperature of the skin,” you reminded him. 

“So warm,” he kept repeating, basic biology facts lost on him because his brain seemed to have switched off. 

His palm grazed over your folds and your legs fell further open to give him better access; you stroked his left forearm and tilted your head back. “Only two fingers now, Spence… up and down. But don’t go straight for—”

You tensed when his fingertips danced on your clit and he gripped you even tighter. “Sorry,” he mumbled, but the sensation was so good you could only smile.

“If you plan to go there it’s left and right. And draw a few circles around, big and small...” you explained before words turned into muffled moans as he put your suggestions into actions.

You were still grinding on his lap, your back glued to his chest, and he took advantage of the proximity to trap your earlobe between his teeth, sucking lightly at each change of the pattern he was tracing.

You squeezed his wrist when the flame inside of you grew fiercer. “You can slip your finger in if you want.”

Spencer let go of your earlobe and paused. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks,” you admitted, the weight of your secret vanishing in the air like a puff of smoke.

He sighed and shifted underneath you; just as you were ready to tell him he didn’t have to if he wasn’t comfortable with the idea he slid his middle finger past your entrance and you shuddered in his embrace. His hands were elegant, veiny, and his slender digits made for playing piano or reaching your hidden crevices - you had no doubts about it, but judging by how he was sitting still he had more than one question regarding what to do with them.

“How do I feel? Spence...?”

Even if you couldn’t really see his face, you knew he had a confused-slash-excited look on. “Hot… and wet, I never thought—”  

“You like it?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?!” he asked in the cutest high-pitched tone and you laughed, making you both wince at the sudden movement. 

All the words in any existent language put together couldn’t describe the amount of affection you had for him. “I like it, Spence,” you hummed, “and it would be even better if you tried curling your fin— FUCK!” 

Spencer wasn’t one to waste time once he was given a specific instruction.

He pushed his finger forward and curled it as you said, gliding in and out to slowly familiarize himself with the different textures of your inner walls. He adopted a very empirical approach, experimenting several techniques based on what he’d learned not so long before, while you whimpered and moaned his name; he was moaning, too, and so prettily you couldn’t control yourself.

“Spence, I need more…” 

He nipped at your jaw, his long hair tickling your cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, I promise”, you panted, almost out of breath.

When he slipped a second finger in you realized that his arm wrapped around your waist was the only thing still keeping you in place: your legs were giving up on you, your hips swayed to let Spencer’s fingers plunge deeper as your back arched and your fists closed around his clothes. He was pumping relentlessly, overwhelmed by your wetness and the way you were taking him inside like he was a missing part of your own body; he tried to reach for your mouth and you turned to grasp the nape of his neck.

“Your hands are perfect,” you whined, “you are perfect…”

He huffed, his heart pounding fast. “Are you…?”

“Please... make me come, Spence,” you begged him in a whisper.

He pressed his thumb on your clit and started alternating between rough circling motions and the upward movement of his fingers, as you bucked your hips at a frantic pace; your thighs muscles contracted, you clenched around him and you ears plugged as you climaxed - something that had never happened to you before.

You tugged at his hair and screamed his name, before settling against his body once the tension faded. 

He kept his fingers inside and he cuddled you throughout the aftermath of your orgasm, planting butterfly kisses wherever his mouth could reach and cradling you like his only mission in life was making you feel safe and protected. 

Your self-consciousness awoke first, despite the rush of feel-good hormones flowing in your bloodstream.

“Am I crushing you…?” you mumbled, and he grunted as you wriggled free to lean forward and pick up the towel from the floor. 

He stared at his wet fingers with a pensive frown, then he wiped them clean and turned to face you - now seated on the couch with your legs across his and your forearm rested on his shoulder, so that you could play with his curls. 

“Doctor, you deserve a gold star for your performance.”

He smiled and lowered his gaze for a second. “I’m very good at following instructions.”

“You’re not bad at improvising, either,” you pointed out, “the thing you did with your thumb…?”

“I figured it was only a matter of combining the exact pressure and the right angle. Technically speaking—”

“Spencer?!” you cut him off, before he could lose himself in his own rambling. “Thank you,” you added, kissing him lightly on his lips before you stood up to fix your panties and trousers. “You can tell me all about the mechanics behind one of the best orgasms of my life on our way.”

“Nosferatu. First Halloween together…?” you elaborated when he looked at you in total confusion. “You’ve changed your mind.”

He shifted on the couch, his hazel eyes fixed on you. “Is that okay?”

This time you looked at him with your best ‘is ice cream cold?’ frown: you wanted to spend eternity with him, not just an hour or two more. You climbed into his lap and tangled your fingers in his hair while he cupped your breasts.

“What if I get…? I mean... again?!”

“Well, it’s not going to happen right now, Professor!!" you snorted, and his giggle sounded like celestial music. "But don’t worry, we’ve got the whole night."

NB: I'm not using my regular taglist for Spencer Reid smut fics but I'm obviously tagging only the users who sent a request. If you wish to be added you can send me an ask or leave a comment below with the request to be added.

[peachfruitcake]

well gosh

[renirae]

I made designs for all of Gertrude's assistants!!

obviously they were not all working at the same time, so I just drew each of them how they would have looked when they were hired :)

note-free version:

[krislgfox]

Made a thingy • ▽ •

Orig:

[aire1111]

[bluesinnamonroll]

Mostly based on my own au but also somewhat inspired by this one fic series on ao3 i like,,, theyre having a sleepover or something idk,, anyways soul bf you will always be real to me <3

[teething-possum]

Galaxy Grim

By: Harper A. (@teething-possum)

(A poem about Laika, the Soviet Space Dog, who I’ve been referring to as “little Cosmomutt, the smallest of the Cosmonauts” for the past like. 17 hours.)

-

In Europe, long ago,

They would bury dogs in new cemeteries,

To have them guide souls to the afterlife,

So no human would be forced to stay

They called them Church Grims, Little Cosmonaut,

And you have seemed to become our Galaxy’s Grim,

Guiding our space cadets to the vast void if they don’t return to us,

And I can think of no one better for the job

Little Cosmonaut, did you understand your role?

Did you know you wouldn’t return?

That you would never feel wind in your fur as you ran again?

Did your young mind know you would die, alone, hot and scared?

Some may say you were a mutt,

But you were *our* mutt,

With stardust in your fur and pride in our hearts

We are honored to have been served by you

And we will honor your service forever in return

Oh, Little Cosmonaut, do not fret,

You may chase the planets through orbit for eternity,

No one will mind, you did your job,

You were a good girl, and we remember you

We will always remember our Galaxy Grim, Laika,

The First Soul in Our Solar Graveyard

[crownedinmarigolds]

Her head turned at the sound of the door opening. Her beloved Nythanel entered the room, one arm linked with the man of the hour himself: Raymond Mulder. Raymond was a middle-aged hunter of the supernatural they’ve made acquaintanceship with over these last few years as they've slowly laid the groundwork of their Empire. Her Kingmaker, she secretly called him. He was very tall, relatively handsome, though he seemed always exhausted. No doubt were she to take a sip, it would be cheap coffee instead of blood. He was very no-nonsense and took his… community service very seriously. In exchange for helping him with cases, he supplied the ash - or perhaps if they were lucky enough, the vitae - of the kills he and his partner made. His partner in crime no other than her beloved older brother, Joaquin. They both had believed the other dead for nearly two decades, reunited at last... forced to act distant and aloof with the ever watchful though thankfully clueless Raymond acting as Joaquin's chaperone. Tonight the hunter would be giving them his latest loot, Joaquin no doubt sitting in the car again. Maybe Nyth would distract Raymond for her just a bit, and she could slip downstairs for a brief moment… Nyth smirked, letting go of Raymond and walking quickly towards her. In Spanish he cooed, “Joaquin is absolutely pouting down there. Miserable as always.” Of course, her darling knew exactly what she was thinking. He always did. Her hand quickly went to her mouth, covering her smile as she tried and failed to hold back her laughter. It was so exciting to think about Joaquin suffering without her beside him. Him thinking about her and wanting to be with her, tortured by their lack of touch despite being so close again. Their separation renewed her affections like crazy, and it also renewed her absolute delight in him being miserable - at least when it came to their being apart. His loneliness made her own loneliness worth it. It turned the room into an inferno every chance they got to meet. It was like being home in Mexico again… It won’t be so much longer now. As Nyth drew near, her hands reached out. And then, his forehead bloomed.

She felt the impact of viscera against her before she realized what had occurred. The follow up crack of a gunshot rang throughout the room. Glass was shattered behind her, the bullet somehow missing her. She felt a twisting pit in her gut as a silent scream wracked her body, and she tried to rush forward to Nythanel but she wasn’t close enough. Her best friend’s corpse hit the ground like a doll and she wanted to tear herself apart in grief as she stumbled to him.

As if granting her wish, she felt the deep impact of something sharp stabbing into her chest, its aim true as it struck her heart. She had never experienced paralysis before, and she felt panic and terror as her entire body refused to obey. A prisoner trapped behind muscle and bone. She immediately fell forward thanks to the locking of her legs, and landing nearly face down the stake was pushed further inside of her. Every inch thoroughly felt. She wanted to scream and call out and cry at the agony, but who could help her now? Somewhere downstairs was Joaquin, would he even know what happened? Will they ever be together again? She had never expected her spirit to fare well whenever she finally achieved Final Death. Her frozen, outstretched hands landed with a thump inches away from Nythanel, who now was missing half of his stunning face. The eye unmarred by Raymond’s gunshot stared back at her with a milky distance. Her own eyes were held open by the paralysis, and though they couldn’t move she could still see enough. The blood seeping into the vinyl, a blurry form of the Hunter in her periphery.

There was silence. Agonizing silence that made the air thick with awful anticipation. Then she could hear Raymond finally exhale, hear him messing with zippers and making the wait even more unbearable. She wished he had just granted her the gift of a quick death like poor Nythanel. They could be together sooner if he had. But no, he didn’t seem to want to grant her that luxury.

“They are not people. They’re monsters.” She heard him mumble to himself before she could hear the sloshing of liquid and quick steps. There was the sound of an unscrewing lid, the awful and familiar scent of gasoline. Oh God. Oh God. Inside of her body she motionlessly, wordlessly screamed. Her Beast as trapped as she was, it felt like it was trying to rip out of her skin but it was no use. Animal! Animal! You’re going to burn me and I have to watch and feel every moment of it, you bastard! Bastard! It made her entire body want to tremble and shake as she felt the liquid pour over her, the awful scent burning inside of her head, but she just couldn’t. She couldn’t move and it was painful! It burned her eyes and poisoned the inside of her mouth and singed her nostrils. Even with a body not living it soaked and stung and hurt. Her rage was so strong, her terror so real. Not even the stake could hold back the tears she wept as blood dripped down her cheeks and mingled with the gasoline. The gas, the blood, poured onto the floor and mixed with Nythanel’s cooled vitae - its watery black color staining her arms and dress and soaking her She could not look up at his face, but Raymond’s shoes stopped dancing around and the pouring also ceased. She couldn’t even grit her teeth in anticipation for the fire as she waited for the noise of a lighter. The striking of a match. Instead, she got something worse. Justification.

"I…" His voice warbled slightly, he couldn’t even kill them with confidence and it made her sick. Her vitriol was absolute and deep, and she wanted to rip him limb from limb. Dead forever. Obliterated. I hate you Raymond Mulder. I hate you! “We both know what you are. I don't know how much of it is your fault. What is the beast controlling you or you acting on your own. But that doesn't stop you from being what you are, and I'm sor-" In another moment nearly as fast as the gunshot that took Nythanel, there was a thundering and sickening crack as Raymond’s speech was cut short. He landed with a satisfying, dull thud on the floor beside her. His legs were slightly twitching, she could not see his head still, but she could see another pair of legs now that Raymond had fallen. The new person wasted no time taking their weapon continuously to Raymond’s upper body. Over and over again they grunted and spouted obscenities as they hit and hit and hit. Her tears continued as she recognized the voice. Joaquin roared furiously at Raymond’s now lifeless corpse, pulverized like butcher meat. His strikes still not yielding. “You bastard! Motherfucker! How dare you! Bitch! Motherfucker- Fucking piece of shit motherfucker - fucking -” She could not call to him, and in her silent atrophy she waited for him to calm down and work it out of his system. Still forced to stare at bloody shoes and half of Nythanel’s face. Soon the weapon, a piece of scaffolding pipe it seemed, was thrown to the ground and her body was jerked upwards off of the floor. He turned her over, the lamplight directly in her eyes as he frantically looked her over. His face was streaked with blood splatter, his eyes were wild and his hair was matted, one of his large hands pushed her sopping hair out of her face. He was beautiful. “Fucking Christ Noa. Oh Noa-”

Wasting no time, Joaquin leaned in and kissed her. She was covered in brain matter, in gasoline, in blood, in bone, and his lips still desperately tasted her. Her blood red lips would strengthen his affections even more, thanks to whatever quirk her Embrace gave her. He may never let her go now. The moment would have been so delicious were it not for every other awful thing this night has thrusted upon her. The stake, Quino. The stake! Take out the stake for God’s sake! Nythanel has been shot! Free me! There's no time for this! He pressed his body against her and slipped his tongue between her parted lips, and there was a brief moment where she thought he would actually have her here and now. But the wood handle of the stake poked him in his own chest, and he was pulled out of his feverish stupor. “Shit, fuck, okay let me just-”

They both knew stakes didn’t kill, and he tried to be gentle as he wrenched it from her. Her body reacted violently as complete motor functionality returned. She shook and she trembled as if seizing and she let out a loud and inhuman scream, slowly feeling herself react to her brain’s commands again. Her forehead touched to the floor and her hair covered her like a soaked blanket as her fingernails dug in and she felt everything primal bubble up and overflow. She screamed more, and more, and more, and when she was tired of screaming her gaze went to Raymond’s corpse. A pancake for a head now. But it wasn’t enough. That wasn’t punishment enough! “Fucker!” She roared, the words escaping her that she hardly spoke. Vulgar and crass. She leapt at the body on all fours, her manicured nails digging where bone had split skin. Tearing at him and beating him and biting him and draining with her mouth what still warm blood was left, but lacking the real satisfaction of his pain. He was dead, he was no more. Joaquin stole her kill. Joaquin stole it. Her eyes looked to Joaquin who had scarpered to the other side of the meeting room’s table. He was frozen in place, his expression stoic as he waited for her to calm down. He stole everything from her. How much of her now wouldn't be if not for him twisting her and twisting her and- “Noa. We gotta go.” His voice was so gentle. Her body continued to shake, and she wanted to lunge at fresh blood. Giving someone real suffering was so close. She wanted to inflict this agony onto someone else SO badly. “I hate him!” Her voice was ragged, ruined, childish. She was sobbing and her legs were barely able to hold her up. Her Beast like a little girl who couldn’t get her way. The feeling of being utterly helpless. Of true paralysis. Nythanel's injury. It was all her fault. All of this was her fault. Nythanel was hurt and it was all her fault.

“He’s gone now. He's dead. You’re safe. We have each other now. For good this time. No hunters. No family. Us.” Joaquin reassured her, staying back and speaking softly. “You’re safe. I love you. I love you.” He kept repeating I love you, it made her want to collapse. “I- I just...” She looked down at her bloodied feet, saw her best friend, her soul mate, half blown away. Her Beast seemed to roll in on itself as she tried to will it back. There was just so much to do. Her beloved... Maybe there was still time. "Joaquin, we need to call Julian. We need to call the Family. I need to fix this."

[milla984]

Spencer Reid doesn’t shake hands.

That’s the first thing everyone usually notices when they meet him.

Spencer Reid doesn’t like hugging.

He’d just say it’s a basic inference based on both his not-so-subtle germaphobia and his tendency to avoid physical contact as much as possible, albeit not 100% accurate.

Spencer Reid doesn’t like to be touched by strangers but doesn’t mind hugging his friends.

It only happens on a few, special occasions: he then buries his head in the crook of your neck, so close that you can feel his warm breath on your skin and smell a hint of coffee mixed with his favorite aftershave, while his soft curls brush over your face – a silent confession he cares a lot about you.

The entire world disappears and words cannot define what it means to get lost in the moment when he holds you tight against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you safe even if he’s the one showing his most vulnerable side.

Because for Spencer Reid, hugging is a serious business.

@matthew-gray-gubler-lover, @reidselle, @reidsbookclub, @thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid, @pretty-boys-book-club, @spookydrreid, @f-me-reid, @redwithjoon, @gublerpals, @foxy-eva, @hopefullawyerfishprofessor, @scorpiofangirl1109, @a-potato-wearing-plaid, @cynbx

»»»— read pinned post for taglist info —«««

»—— Gifset Masterlist link in my bio ——«

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

we're being self indulgent again

[ser-estinien]

The Nicest Touch

Chapters: 12/12 Fandom: Persona 5 Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren Characters: Akechi Goro, Kurusu Akira, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Sakamoto Ryuji, Takamaki Ann, Niijima Makoto, Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Kitagawa Yusuke, Okumura Haru, Sakura Sojiro Additional Tags: ShuAke Week 2023, Post-Canon, Prostitution, Akechi has a LOT of money, Akira is an escort, I accidentally channeled the concept of pretty women, Slow Burn, slow burn but they keep having sex, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Difficult Emotions, Living Together, Contracts, side makoann, side ryusumi, Akechi Goro & Takamaki Ann Friendship, Possessive Akechi Goro, Smut, a lot of it tbh, Top Akechi Goro, Bottom Persona 5 Protagonist, Anal Sex, there's a bit of degrading language tossed around regarding Akira's profession, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Attempted Suicide, Past Abuse, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Choking, Voyeurism, Arguing, akira picks fights with people, if Goro Akechi own's Akira's contract can he also be a sugar daddy to him?, Sugar Daddy, in the lightest only spoiling sense, Anal Plug, Akira is a menace tm, hands are briefly thrown, Overstimulation, they get clingier every chapter, Barebacking, Birthday Sex, how not to take a video call, Cockwarming, Threats of Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Light Masochism, Panic Attacks, Thoughts of Self-harm, Sexual Assault, Semi-Public Sex Series: Part 4 of ShuAke Week 2023, Part 1 of Buy my love, steal my heart Summary:

It has been ten years since Goro Akechi has seen Akira Kurusu. So, when fate conspires to give him Akira as an escort, he resolves to keep him in his life in the most unconventional way possible - as a kept man. But how many times can Akechi sleep with the person he used to be in love with before those feelings return? The answer may (not) surprise you!

 ShuAke Week 2023 D2 (nsfw) - Prostitution

[sugarwithsarcasm]

Ludwig never really considered himself socially inept, sure, but this, this was just embarrassing. He knows he should be more focused on when did Feliciano consider themselves a married couple, but right now, he's arguing with Feliciano about cars.    And he kind of doesn't hate that.

---

“Ludwig, can I ask you something?” Feliciano sipped his espresso, smiling at Ludwig who hummed as he reviewed hastily typed work documents Alfred had sent him at 2 am. 

“I’m not lending you any more money.” Ludwig deadpanned, his eyes never leaving the astonishing amount of grammatical errors written in comic sans on his computer.  

Feliciano laughed, shaking his head. Ludwig shifted to look over at the bubbly Italian briefly, smiling to himself as Feliciano calmed down.

“Let’s do something stupid.” Ludwig sighed, powering off his computer. “Something dumb and mortal and fun and not work related-“ 

“Feliciano get to the point! We don’t have all day, we both have better things to do then listen to you ramble.” Ludwig side-eyed Feliciano, who giggled and took a bite out of his pastry.   

“Let’s go on a date!” Ludwig’s face turned a bright red as Feliciano rambled on. “We can both get all dressed up and I can pick you up and we can go to a fancy dinner and get gelato and then maybe walk around a garden or something with some coffee and then we can go to this lovely little bakery-“ 

“A date? Like a romantic kind?” Ludwig’s mouth went dry as he struggled to make up a coherent sentence. “ALSO WHY DO ALL YOUR DATES INVOLVE FOOD?”

“Yes, like a romantic kind! Luddy, I didn’t think I’d have to explain this all to you, really,” Feliciano paused, “I really should start listening to your brother but it’s just so much fun to disassociate whenever I see him!” 

Ludwig tried to ignore the butterflies that were violently attacking his stomach as he looked at Feliciano’s smile. “What makes you think we should go on a date romantically? Are our nations requiring an alliance? Did I miss an email-“ 

“LUDDY NO!” Feliciano reached over the table and smacked Ludwig who had been reaching for his phone. “I mean it in a romantic way! Not! Because! Of! Work!” Feliciano took one last bite out of his pastry and a swig of his espresso as Ludwig stared at him in confusion. “Plus, come on! We’re practically a married couple at this point!” 

Ludwig clutched his chest as he felt himself have his third heart attack of the day. “WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” 

“Oh come on!” Feliciano threw his hands up dramatically. “We are having breakfast together for the third time this week! I made you coffee! I’m literally petting your dog in your pajamas! We slept in the same bed last night!”  

“You broke into my house! If I could, I would have you banned from the entire nation of Germany centuries ago!” Ludwig swatted Feliciano with a nearby notepad, causing the bubbly man to squeak, muttering apologies in rapid (incomprehensible) Italian. Ludwig’s German shepard Aster, let out a soft yelp as Feliciano took his hands off his silky, shedding fur. 

Felicino vigorously shook his head, his auburn bedhead hair flopping around his head like his arms had when Ludwig had first tried to introduce him to weights years ago, a childish pout gracing his soft, tan face. Just as Ludwig began to apologize for being rude (Just as Ivan’s therapist had told Ivan to do, and Ivan had eagerly told just about every other nation in the Northern Hemisphere.), Feliciano began to shake his head and laugh.   

“Oh Ludwig,” he started, his laugh dying down into a soft smile, “you don’t mean that. You know you,” Ludwig watched Feliciano bite his bottom lip and fiddle with his hands that were now both placed in his lap,“you know you like me!”  

“No I do not.” 

“Yes you do.” Feliciano hummed as he got out of his chair, taking his dishes to the sink. Aster lay down at Feliciano’s feet as water began to flow from the faucet as Feliciano washed his dishes singing, “Luddy’s got it bad for me, Luddy’s got a crush on me”, to himself. 

Ludwig paused for a moment and smiled as he watched Feliciano dance and sing to himself as he washed the dishes, the sunlight streaming through the sheer, gaudy floral curtains Feliciano forced Ludwig to put up. He found himself standing up and taking a few steps over to Feliciano who stopped singing and dancing, looking over at Ludwig with a kind of teasing confusion, a daring look in his eye unique to Feliciano. 

Well, Ludwig reasoned to himself, maybe he did feel a little less lonely, a little less hopeless when he was with Feliciano. Maybe he slept a little better near him and wouldn’t push Feliciano off of him immediately when he would find the smaller man clinging to Ludwig and nuzzling into his chest. “Maybe if I have a few hours of undisturbed work ,” he swatted Feliciano’s mischievous smirk with the back of his hand, hiding a playful smile, “then we can have dinner at home and, um-” 

“kiss!” Feliciano dramatically cradled his cheeks in his hands making a kissy face while closing his eyes. 

“NO!” Ludwig yelled, his face burning and his voice cracking. He muttered indignantly to himself and attempted to regain control over Feliciano’s hysterical laughter, “I WILL NOT HESITATE TO STOP EXPORTING YOU YOUR STUPID LITTLE ITALIAN GERMAN CARS.”  

Feli gasped before grabbing a clean, metal spoon and shaking it in Ludwig’s face, “NO PLEASE NO, LUDWIG THAT'S OUR CHILDREN YOU CAN’T-” 

“IT'S A BUNCH OF CARS FELICIANO, ALL IT IS IS A METAL AND ENGINE AND-” 

“YEAH WELL HOW DO AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT YOUR NOT A TOTAL HUNK OF METAL AND I’M ACTUALLY AN ENGINE-” 

Against his better judgment, Ludwig let out a warm laugh, Feliciano quickly joining him in laughter. They stood for a few quiet moments, stupidly laughing together, smiling together, happy together. 

“Feliciano?” 

“Yeah Luddy?” 

His heart skipped a beat, “Make dinner tonight, we’ll clean the kitchen together and walk the dogs in the evening.” 

Feliciano’s eyes lit up, “Can we watch a movie together afterwards?” 

Ludwig smiled, “Deal.”

[constellation-of-disasters]

October, 7 PM

The water,

Gods, the water,

There’s something about it 

It pulls and moves and drowns and lifts

A cacophony of noise and the press of silence on covered ears

Muffling the world above

An infinity 

Poised between, a balance of air and light and breath and

Nothing

Silence

The struggle beneath, gasping and clawing and fighting 

Breaking the surface is an act of penitence

An acknowledgement of subservience 

A prayer

And so prayers litter the surface, 

Foam the remnants of a battleground,

Nets strewn and the bright buzzing of red, counting down down down until 

It

All

Stops

.

.

.

It’s quiet, and so, so loud now

The screams of jubilance and pain

Family is something made in blood, here

Not the blood which runs through veins but the kind that drips, drips, drips

Tipping off of noses and coloring the surface maroon

Sliding off of nails, painting hands red with the violence and the love and the pain 

Pouring into a battleground, a declaration of strength

Into the screams of victory, hands held high, 

The warmth of seven souls pressed together as one

Unified in a stubborn promise

The clasp of hands whispers of war

Home is found here.

In the blood and cold and breath.

In the silence.

In the water 

[6okuto]

aww im a little sad ur archiving bc u r one of my favvv writers on here i lovelove ur work sm!! obvi if its whats right for u then i support 100% but that being said thanks so much for all uve done <3333

🥹☹️🥹☹️ THANK U FRIEND.. this is so sweet.. goh... Means the world 2 Me. ☹️🩷🩷

i'll probably be back by the end of the year to be honest !! i think i just need a fresh start... if you see a new blog in the tags who likes akaashi and joke bear. um. hey. fair warning it probably won't be a Writing Blog TM but. i'll be there.! if u like me for my whimsy and heart i guess.. shrug emoji.... (silly) (not at all offended if u don't follow me there LMAO)