#vanillachapters

ride.

quick one-shot | 18+

pairing. frank castle x fem!reader (Dad's Best Friend AU)

genre. dad’s best friend, rescue, protective, possessive, forced proximity, heavy heat

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, age gap, alcohol mention, rough touching, praise, public/car intimacy, heavy grinding.

word count. ~1k

summary.

When your ride falls through at a sketchy gas station diner in the middle of the night, you call the only person who will pick up without asking questions: your dad’s best friend, Frank. But riding shotgun in his truck with the rain crashing down turns a simple ride home into something explosive.

The neon sign of the diner buzzed against the black sky, throwing a greasy pink glow over the wet asphalt.

It was two in the morning, forty miles outside the city, and your phone battery was sitting at three percent. Your ride had ditched you, leaving you standing under the small metal overhang while rain poured off the roof in heavy streams.

You didn't call your dad. He was out of state until Monday, and the last thing he needed was a panic call. Instead, you dialed the only other number you knew by heart, the man your dad trusted with his life.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low, rough gravel over the receiver, heavy with the quiet stillness of someone who didn't sleep much anyway.

"Frank?" you whispered, shivering in your damp coat. "I'm... I'm stuck at the gas station off Route 9. My ride didn't show."

A heavy silence sat on the line for two seconds. You could hear the rustle of leather and the jingle of keys being pulled off a counter.

"Stay inside," Frank grunted, his tone flat, hard, and unyielding. "Don't talk to nobody. I'm ten minutes out."

He didn't take ten minutes. He took seven.

The heavy, dark grill of his Ford truck cut through the rain, pulling up right to the curb. The passenger door unlocked with a loud, heavy clack, and you scrambled inside, shutting out the storm.

The air inside the cab was warm, smelling of dark coffee, gun oil, and the sharp, masculine scent of Frank's leather jacket.

Frank sat behind the wheel, his broad shoulders filling out his dark henley shirt. His dark hair was short, his jaw set into a hard, dangerous line as he stared straight through the windshield. He reached over with one massive hand, grabbing a heavy wool blanket from the back seat and tossing it into your lap without looking at you.

"Put that around you," Frank muttered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the small cab.

"Frank, thank you," you breathed, pulling the warm wool over your shoulders. "I'm sorry to call you so late-"

"What the hell were you thinking?" Frank cut you off, his tone sharp enough to snap glass. He threw the truck into drive, the heavy engine roaring as he pulled back onto the dark highway. "Two in the morning out here by yourself? Your dad would lose his mind if he knew you were sitting in that dump."

"I didn't have anyone else to call," you said quietly, looking over at him.

Frank’s knuckles were white against the steering wheel. Up close, his profile was all harsh angles, the sharp bridge of his nose, the dark stubble along his jaw, and the quiet, lethal focus in his eyes. He was older, broader, and carried a physical weight that made every room he entered feel smaller.

"You call me," Frank growled, his jaw clenching hard. "Every single time. You don't sit out in the dark waiting for some idiot to pick you up. You call me."

"I called you tonight," you murmured, leaning slightly toward the center console.

Frank’s eyes flicked over to you for a fraction of a second. His gaze dropped from your eyes down to your wet lips, then down to where your hands were clutching the wool blanket.

"You're driving me crazy," Frank muttered under his breath, his voice dropping an octave, turning thick and dark. "You know that?"

"How, Frank?" you asked softly, taking a bold step forward. You reached over, resting your small, warm hand over his heavy forearm right above his watch. "How do I drive you crazy?"

Frank slammed his foot on the brake.

He didn't pull into a ditch, he swung the heavy truck into a dark, abandoned gravel pull-off hidden by thick pine trees, cutting the headlights. The engine idled in the dark, the rain pounding violently against the roof.

Before you could draw a breath, Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and turned in his seat.

His large hand came up, wrapping tight around the back of your neck. His fingers tangled into your damp hair, pulling your head back until you were looking straight up into his pitch-black eyes.

"You look at me like that," Frank rasped, his thumb pressing hard against your jawline, tilting your face up. "You've been looking at me like that for six damn months. Like I'm not twenty years older than you. Like I'm not your dad's best friend."

"I don't care about any of that," you whimpered, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. "I just want you, Frank."

Frank let out a low, guttural growl that hit you straight in the chest.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered.

He pulled you straight across the center console into his lap. Your dress pulled up your thighs as you straddled his broad lap in the tight driver's seat, your knees planted against the leather upholstery on either side of his hips.

Frank’s mouth slammed over yours with terrifying, possessive force.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. He tasted like dark coffee and smoke, his tongue invading your mouth with heavy, authoritative strokes that took your breath away. His hands came down on your hips, his calloused palms digging deep into your skin, holding you pinnedflush against his broad chest.

"Frank-" you gasped as he broke the kiss, burying his face into the side of your neck, his teeth nipping the sensitive skin near your pulse point.

"You have no idea," Frank growled against your skin, his hands sliding under the hem of your wet dress, his rough palms scraping up your thighs. "No idea how many times I've wanted to drag you into this truck and do this."

His fingers hooked into the band of your underwear, tugging them aside. He drove two thick, rough fingers straight into your wet heat, making you arch your back with a sharp, breathless scream that bounced off the truck windows.

"Look at you," Frank praised rasply, his thumb grinding down flat over your clit while his fingers pumped deep inside you with a heavy, steady rhythm. "So wet for me. So sweet."

"Frank- !" you sobbed, hands gripping his broad shoulders, feeling the thick muscle flexing under your palms.

"I've got you," Frank rasped into your mouth, kissing you again as he worked his thumb in tight, fast circles. "Take it, sweetheart. Come for me right here."

The friction, the sheer size of his hands, and the forbidden weight of him underneath you pushed you over the edge instantly. Your core clamped down violently around his fingers, a high, shuddering moan escaping your throat as your body convulsed against his chest.

Frank held you tight, riding out every wave of your release, his heavy chest heaving against yours. When you finally quieted down, resting your forehead against his shoulder, he pulled his hand back, gently smoothing your dress down your thighs.

He wrapped his massive arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as the rain continued to crash against the roof of the truck.

"We're going home," Frank whispered into your hair, his tone returning to that quiet, protective rumble. "And you're staying with me tonight."

thank you for reading ♡

reblogs and comments mean the world to me.

motherlode.

one-shot

pairing. spencer reid x fem!reader

genre. fluff, comedy, domestic, boyfriend spencer, domestic fluff, soft reader

warnings. none! just unhinged Sims 4 gameplay, Spencer using his genius brain for virtual eugenics and build mode, caffeine overconsumption.

word count. ~1k

summary.

Spencer doesn't get The Sims 4. He thinks it's a statistically inefficient simulation of basic human survival. That is, until you hand him the mouse, and his hyper-fixation takes over completely.

"I just don't understand the psychological appeal."

Spencer leaned against the frame of your bedroom door, a steaming mug of peppermint tea held in both hands. He had his reading glasses perched on his nose and his hair slightly rumpled, watching you violently spam the ] key on your keyboard.

"Spencer, please," you said without looking away from the monitor. "I am trying to make this micro-home kitchen layout work without using bb.moveobjects on because the routing gets glitchy, and you're disrupting my flow."

Spencer took a slow sip of tea, stepping into the room and standing right behind your desk chair. He leaned over, resting his chin lightly on the top of your head as his eyes scanned the screen.

"They're pixels," he murmured, his thumb lightly stroking your shoulder. "And from what I've observed over the past three hours, you've spent ten minutes deciding on the colour of a rug, twenty minutes watching a virtual human wave their arms frantically because a plate was blocking a doorway, and twenty minutes drowning someone in a pool?"

"He was an elder with low energy and he wouldn't leave my porch!" you argued, clicking wildly. "Besides, it’s about control, Spencer. It’s a sandbox for architecture, storytelling, and light god-complex gratification."

Spencer let out a quiet, rhythmic hum, his classic I-have-a-paper-published-on-this hum.

"Statistically, the human brain seeks micro-gestures of control when external real-world stimuli become overwhelming," he recited smoothly, his breath warm against your hair. "However, the artificial intelligence of the non-playable characters appears flawed. Why did that female Sim just set a toaster oven on fire while possessing a Level 8 Cooking Skill?"

You stopped typing and spun your chair around to look up at him. He looked so cute standing there, tall, lanky, wearing his favorite oversized cardigan, giving a serious scientific critique to a game where people talk to cowplants.

"Sit down," you commanded, tapping the armrest.

Spencer blinked. "What?"

"Sit in the chair. Play for twenty minutes. If you still think it's stupid, I'll turn it off and we can go finish that documentary on 19th-century postal routes."

That was the bait. Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. "The one about the Pony Express?"

"Yes. But you have to give it a fair trial."

Spencer hesitated for two seconds before sighing softly. He placed his tea on a coaster, took off his cardigan, and sat down in your desk chair, pulling himself up to the screen like he was about to analyze blood spatter patterns for the BAU.

"Alright," he said, taking the mouse in his long, slender fingers. "Where do I start?"

"Create a Sim. Just make a guy. Give him a job."

Two Hours Later.

You woke up on the bed to the harsh, rhythmic clicking of a mouse and the soft click-clack of mechanical keys.

You blinked against the dark room, turning over. The clock on your nightstand read 3:14 AM.

The only light in the bedroom was the glowing blue aura of your computer screen, illuminating Spencer’s face. His glasses were pushed up on top of his head, his face three inches from the monitor, and he was muttering rapidly under his breath.

"Spencer?" you croaked out, your voice raspy from sleep. "Are you... are you still playing?"

Spencer didn't turn around. His hands were flying across the keyboard with the speed of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I’ve cracked the economic framework," he said immediately, his tone deadly serious.

"What?"

"The career progression in The Sims 4 operates on a severely flawed linear meritocracy," Spencer explained rapidly, his eyes darting across the screen. "However, if you take the Painter career path, max out your Logic skill first to achieve the Inspired emotion state faster, and spend your Aspiration Points on the Never Weary trait, you effectively eliminate the eight-hour sleep requirement."

You sat up in bed, rubbing your eyes. "Spencer, did you give your Sim the Never Weary trait so he doesn't sleep?"

"He doesn't need to sleep!" Spencer snapped, though his tone was entirely fascinated. "Sleep is a waste of productive capital! Look at him!"

He gestured wildly at the screen. You leaned over his shoulder.

On tha screen was a dangerously accurate Sim version of Spencer Reid. He was wearing vest, had long brown hair, and was currently standing in a pristine, hyper-minimalist room with forty identical high-value paintings stacked against the walls.

"Spencer... why are there forty paintings of the sun?"

"Because Mathematical Precision paintings yield the highest return-on-investment per Sim-minute!" Spencer said, turning to look at you finally. His eyes were wide, wide awake, powered entirely by hyper-fixation and three cups of black coffee he must have brewed while you slept. "I've generated 142,000 simoleons in two hours. We can afford the 64x64 lot in Del Sol Valley by sunrise."

You stared at him, caught somewhere between utter shock and hysterical laughter.

"You said it was a stupid game."

"I was wrong," Spencer admitted freely, turning back to the screen and clicking furiously. "The algorithm is fascinating. Watch this."

He clicked on another Sim, a custom Sim he had clearly built to look like you, wearing a tiny knit sweater.

"I spent forty-five minutes tuning our compatibility metrics," Spencer whispered, a soft, rare little smirk touching his lips as he clicked a social interaction. "If I select 'Discuss Expansion of Universe' four times in a row, the attraction bar increases by 14% faster than standard 'Flirt' interactions. It’s remarkably accurate to real life."

You leaned down, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind, resting your cheek against his shoulder as you watched virtual-Spencer hand virtual-you a single red rose on the screen.

"Did you build us a house yet?" you asked softly.

Spencer paused his rapid clicking, his hand softening over the mouse. He cleared his throat, a light flush rising up his neck.

"I... well. Yes," he muttered, using the camera tool to zoom out.

Past the painting farm, he had built a sunlit craftsman house. It had a massive two-story library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a wrap-around porch, a little garden in the back full of dragonfruit plants (for maximum profit, obviously), and a cozy nursery with two cribs painted a soft sage green.

"Spencer," you whispered, your heart doing a sweet, heavy flip in your chest.

"The library has optimal lighting for skill building," he defended quickly, though his cheeks were bright pink. He reached up, taking your hand off his shoulder and bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft, warm kiss. "And... I thought you'd like the porch."

You laughed, kissing the side of his jaw. "I love it. But you have a briefing at Quantico at eight in the morning. Save the game and come to bed."

"Right. Good idea. Risk management," Spencer muttered, nodding to himself.

He moved the cursor up to the options menu. He clicked Save.

The little plumbob icon in the center of the screen began to spin.

And then... it stopped.

The screen went instantly dull grey. The music cut out with a sharp, static screech, and the dreaded Windows cursor turned into a spinning rainbow wheel of death.

Silence descended on the bedroom.

Spencer froze, his hand hovering over the mouse. He clicked once. Nothing. He clicked twice. Nothing.

"Spencer..." you whispered, your voice trembling as you realized what was happening. "Did you... did you save at all during the last three hours?"

Spencer’s head turned slowly, mechanically, like a robot short-circuiting. His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated horror.

"I... I was optimizing the income pipeline," he stammered, his voice rising an octave. "I didn't execute an auto-save protocol because I was in build mode! Is it... is it unresponsive?"

The Sims 4 is not responding. The white error box popped up right over his digital masterpiece.

A loud, wheezing laugh burst out of your chest before you could stop it. You slapped a hand over your mouth, but it was useless, you collapsed onto the edge of the bed, shaking with laughter as Spencer stared at the screen like it had just personally betrayed his entire family lineage.

"It's not funny!" Spencer gasped, pressing Ctrl + Alt + Delete with frantic, violent precision. "There was 142,000 simoleons in liquid assets! The dragonfruit harvest was four minutes away! The library had custom lighting!"

"In true... Sims fashion!" you wheezed, wiping a tear from your eye as you watched him slam his forehead lightly against the edge of the desk with a dramatic groan. "Welcome to the real Sims experience, Dr. Reid!"

"The coding architecture of this software is an absolute atrocity," Spencer muffled into the wood of the desk, his voice completely defeated. "Three hours of perfection... gone."

You reached down, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling his head up to press a big, sloppy kiss to his cheek.

"Come to bed, you ridiculous genius," you giggled, tugging on his arm. "I'll help you cheat the 142,000 simoleons back tomorrow with motherlode."

Spencer let out a long, tragic sigh, finally closing the laptop lid. "We're using the money cheat code first thing."

thank you for reading ♡

reblogs and comments mean the world to me.

peaches and proof.

short one-shot

pairing. spencer reid x reader

genre. comedy, fluff, domestic romance, info-dumping, cute awkwardness, weekend date

warnings. none! pure fluff, info-dumping, spencer being adorable, light teasing, food sharing.

word count. tbd

a/n. the fact that i had to do research about produce and stuff for this tiny one shot 😭

summary.

A simple Sunday trip to the local farmers market turns into a full-scale academic symposium when Spencer Reid decides to analyze the agricultural physics of organic produce.

"Did you know that the modern domestic peach is biologically descendant from a wild Chinese variety cultivated over 7000 years ago?"

You stopped mid-stride,a basket balanced on your hip, and turned around to look at your boyfriend.

Spencer was standing in front of a colorful fruit stall, holding a single, fuzzy peach between his long, slender fingers like it was an ancient relic. He was wearing his usual weekend cardigan, his satchel slung across his chest, his brown hair slightly tousled by the morning breeze.

"Spencer," you said softly, a amused smile tugging at your lips. "It’s a peach."

"It's an evolutionary marvel," Spencer corrected gently, his hazel eyes wide with bright, academic enthusiasm. "In fact, early wild peaches had only twenty-six percent edible flesh, whereas modern agricultural selection has increased that ratio to sixty-four percent! That’s nearly a three-fold increase in pulp density!"

The elderly farmer behind the wooden crate blinked slowly, shifting his straw hat. "They're two dollars a pound, son."

"Ah," Spencer said, blinking as if realizing for the first time that other humans were present. He quickly placed the peach back into the crate, adjusting his satchel strap with a slight flush creeping up his neck. "Right. Sorry. Fascinating crop yield, though."

You chuckled, stepping closer and dropping three peaches into your basket. You handed the farmer a five-dollar bill, pocketed the change, and took Spencer by his sleeve to lead him down the bustling paved aisle.

Sunday morning at the local farmers market was supposed to be a relaxing date. But taking Dr. Spencer Reid out into the public sphere always meant accepting that every artisanal cheese wheel, jar of jam, and loaf of sourdough would be subjected to a rapid-fire lecture.

"You're doing it again," you teased, brushing your shoulder against his arm.

"Doing what?" Spencer asked innocently, his long legs matching your shorter stride.

"Info-dumping on vendors who are just trying to sell their things," you smiled, looking up at him. "The honey lady looked like she was about to call security when you started listing the aerodynamic flight radii of European honeybees."

"I was merely pointing out that her claim of 'locally sourced within five miles' was mathematically supported by forage patterns!" Spencer defended, adjusting his cardigan collar. "It was a compliment!"

"She thought you were conducting an audit, Spence."

"I don't even work for the Department of Agriculture," he mumbled softly, a faint, adorable pout touching his lips as he looked down at the cobblestone path.

You stopped in front of a small, wooden stall smelling heavily of melted butter, vanilla, and warm sugar. A chalkboard sign out front read: Fresh Warm Cinnamon Pastries & Berry Danishes.

Your stomach let out a subtle rumble.

"Okay," you said, turning to face him and resting your hands against his chest. "I am going to buy us two warm cinnamon pastries. I need you to promise me one thing."

Spencer looked down at your hands on his chest, his gaze softening instantly, his dark eyelashes fluttering. "What thing?"

"No lecturing the pastry chef about gluten, yeast fermentation rates, or the history of Cinnamon."

Spencer opened his mouth, clearly about to state an interesting historical fact about the 16th-century Dutch cinnamon trade, but caught himself just in time. He clamped his mouth shut, his lips pressing into a tight, endearing line.

"Can I at least comment on the Maillard reaction?" he whispered hopeful. "It's what causes the golden-brown crust-"

"Not a single word, Dr. Reid," you laughed, reaching up on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Or I eat both of them."

That quieted him instantly.

Two minutes later, you were sitting together on a green wooden park bench at the edge of the market square, surrounded by blooming flower beds and quiet sunshine. The paper bag in your lap was warm, filling the cool morning air with the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar.

You pulled out a large, flaky pastry, pulling off a warm piece and holding it out toward Spencer.

Spencer leaned forward, taking the bite directly from your fingers. His eyes closed for a second as he chewed, a look of pure, boyish contentment washing over his sharp features.

"Good?" you asked.

"Remarkable," Spencer hummed softly, swallowing before looking at you with a soft, affectionate expression. "The ratio of sucrose to lipid content creates an exceptionally high sensory pleasure index."

You raised an eyebrow at him.

"I mean... it tastes really good," Spencer corrected quickly, a shy, boyish grin breaking across his face.

"Better," you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder.

Spencer rested his arm along the back of the bench behind you, his fingers lightly twirling a lock of your hair. The noise of the market hummed in the background, people laughing, acoustic guitar music drifting from a nearby busker, the fresh scent of herbs and rain in the air.

For a man whose mind was usually filled with crime scene statistics, behavioral patterns, and dark data, sitting on a sunlit bench with a warm pastry and you was the highest statistical anomaly of all: pure, uninterrupted peace.

"Hey, Spencer?" you murmured, looking up at his side profile.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about the peaches again."

Spencer turned his head, his hazel eyes lighting up with that brilliant, irrepressible spark that made you fall for him in the first place.

"Really?" he asked softly, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

"Yeah," you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "Tell me everything."

thank you for reading ♡

reblogs and comments mean the world to me.

take the lead.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. spencer reid x fem!reader

genre. romance, submissive spencer, soft dominance, heavy foreplay, praise, slow burn, domestic intimacy

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, submissive male, soft dominance, light overstimulation, praise, height/size difference, slow pacing.

word count. ~1k

summary.

Spencer spends his days running calculations, analyzing human behavior, and giving orders in high-stakes situations. But back in the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, all he wants is to stop thinking, and let you take total, gentle control.

Spencer’s mind was always running at a hundred miles an hour.

Even at midnight, sitting on the edge of your plush mattress, you could see the faint tension carried in his posture. His long legs were drawn up, his lanky frame wrapped in a soft grey t-shirt, and his dark eyes tracking your every move as you walked across the room. He had spent forty-eight straight hours profiling a suspect in Chicago, his brilliant brain forced to lead, dictate, and analyze without pause.

Now, he was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally.

You walked over to the side of the bed, stopping right between his parted knees. Spencer didn't move away; instead, he leaned his forehead forward until it rested right against your hip, letting out a long, heavy sigh that vibrated through your clothes.

"Too much noise today," Spencer murmured, his voice low, raspy, and entirely stripped of his usual rapid-fire cadence.

"I know, baby," you whispered softly, your fingers sliding into his soft, slightly unruly brown hair, gently massaging his scalp. "You're done for the day. You don't have to think about a single thing now."

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly at your words. He tilted his head back, looking up at you through his long eyelashes. The sharp, authoritative Dr. Reid was completely gone. In his place was a man who looked at you with total, unreserved trust, hesitant, soft, and quietly desperate for you to take over.

"Tell me what to do," he whispered, his large, slender hands coming up to rest lightly on your waist, not pulling, just holding on like an anchor.

You smiled down at him, resting your hands over his shoulders and applying just enough downward pressure to push him back against the pillows. Spencer let out a soft breath, yielding instantly, letting his long body fall back onto the bed while keeping his eyes locked on yours.

"Just lie back," you instructed gently, crawling onto the mattress to straddle his thighs. "Hands above your head, Spencer."

Without a single second of hesitation, Spencer lifted his arms, resting his wrists flat against the headboard. His knuckles twitched, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths as you leaned over him, trapping his body beneath yours.

"Good boy," you praised softly, watching the faint flush immediately rise up his neck to the tips of his ears.

Spencer swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "Please," he rasped, his hips shifting slightly beneath you, seeking your weight. "Please take your time."

You took your time.

Instead of rushing to strip his clothes, you began a slow, agonizingly gentle path of worship across his skin. You leaned down, pressing your lips to the warm pulse point on his neck. Spencer’s head rolled back against the pillow, a quiet, helpless sound catching in his throat as your mouth trailed down his collarbone.

Your hands slid down his sides, your palms smoothing over the lean, firm muscle of his ribs before hooking into the hem of his grey shirt.

"Sit up for a second," you murmured.

Spencer complied instantly, lifting his shoulders just enough for you to pull the shirt over his head, leaving his long torso completely bare. The contrast between his pale skin, the slight tremor in his muscles, and the absolute stillness of his obedience made a hot pulse throb between your thighs.

You pushed him flat again, your hands smoothing down his chest, tracing the line of his ribs down to the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You're so responsive for me, Spencer," you hummed, leaning down to press a soft kiss right over his beating heart. You felt it hammering against his ribs, fast, erratic, completely undone by your touch. "Do you like when I take control?"

"Yes," Spencer gasped out, his fingers tightening against the wooden headboard as if physically fighting the urge to reach out and touch you. "I... I like not having to make decisions. I like when it's just you."

"Then let me have you," you whispered against his cheek, your hand sliding down past his waistband, palming the heavy, burning length already straining hard against the fabric of his pants.

Spencer let out a high, breathless whine, his back arching off the mattress as your palm pressed flat against his core. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching as you began a slow, firm friction through the soft cotton.

"Ah- fuck, sweetheart- " he choked out, his hips rolling up into your hand instinctively.

"Ah-ah," you chided gently, taking your hand away for a second. "Did I tell you that you could move?"

Spencer opened his eyes instantly, his dark pupils blown wide, filled with a mixture of sheer pleasure and sweet, desperate apology. He forced his hips to go still against the sheets, his chest heaving as he stared up at you.

"No," he whimpered softly, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. I'll stay still."

"That's a good boy," you murmured, rewarding him by sliding his sweatpants down his long legs and tossing them off the edge of the bed.

He was completely bare now, slick with pre-cum, his heavy length resting flat against his stomach, throbbing with every hard beat of his heart. The vulnerability in his expression was intoxicating, a man of infinite words, completely reduced to quiet, needy whimpers under your gaze.

You leaned down, taking his lower lip between your teeth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like warmth and devotion. At the same time, your hand wrapped around his root, your thumb sweeping over the sensitive tip, spreading his own warmth over the head.

Spencer’s entire body went taut beneath you. His toes curled into the bedsheets, a shudder running from his shoulders all the way down his long legs.

"You feel so good," you whispered into his mouth, stroking him with a deliberate, agonizingly slow pace. "Look at me, Spencer. Keep your eyes on me."

Spencer blinked through the haze of pleasure, his dark eyes fixing on yours with fierce, unyielding devotion. Every time you stroked down to his base, his breath hitched; every time your thumb swirled over his tip, his chest heaved, a soft, pathetic whine escaping his lips.

"I'm... I'm getting close," Spencer confessed rasply, his voice breaking as his hips twitched despite his best efforts to stay still. "Please... I want to be inside you before I lose it."

You smiled down at him, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to his forehead before shifting up his body. You guided his broad head to your entrance, aligning yourself over him.

"Take a deep breath for me," you commanded softly.

Spencer took a shuddering breath, his large hands finally coming down to gently rest on your hips, not steering, just holding you softly, offering his body up completely for whatever you wanted.

You lowered yourself down in one smooth, unhurried push.

Spencer let out a loud, broken moan, his head thrown back into the pillows as you filled yourself with him completely. The stretch was incredible, his thick, hot length burying all the way inside your core until your hips rested flush against his thighs.

"God," Spencer sobbed quietly, his thumb stroking the side of your hip as he looked up at you with pure, unadulterated worship. "You feel... incredible. So good."

"Stay right there," you instructed softly, resting your hands flat against his chest as you began to lift and lower your hips in a steady, rolling rhythm.

Every time you dropped down, taking all of him, Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips parting as soft, breathless praises spilled from his mouth.

"You're so perfect... so good to me..." he whimpered, his back lifting off the bed to meet your downward strokes just a fraction before catching himself and settling back down, letting you set every single detail of the pace.

The friction inside you built rapidly, white-hot and overwhelming. You picked up the speed, your hips grinding flat against his, the sound of your skin meeting his filling the quiet bedroom alongside his heavy, desperate gasps.

"Spencer," you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I'm close."

Hearing that was his absolute undoing.

"Come for me," Spencer begged softly, his hands tightening on your hips, holding you firmly in place as your internal muscles tightened around his length. "Let me feel it."

You shattered above him, a loud, breathless moan tearing from your throat as your core clamped down in violent, rhythmic waves.

The tight, pulsing pressure of your climax milked him relentlessly. Spencer let out a sharp, guttural cry, his head digging back into the pillow as his own release hit him hard. He poured himself inside you with heavy, involuntary twitches of his hips, his entire body trembling under yours as he gave you everything he had left.

Afterward, the room was completely still save for the sound of your shared, heavy breathing.

You collapsed forward against his chest, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Spencer’s arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you flush against his warm, slick skin, holding you close as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

He didn't speak for a long time. He just pressed soft, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your hair, his large hand gently stroking up and down your back in a soothing, rhythmic pattern.

"Thank you," Spencer whispered softly into the dark, his voice filled with a profound, quiet peace.

You tilted your head up to look at him, smiling softly. "For what, baby?"

"For taking care of me," Spencer murmured, kissing the tip of your nose. "For taking the lead."

You snuggled deeper into his chest, closing your eyes as his steady heartbeat lulled you into sleep.

thank you for reading ♡

reblogs and comments mean the world to me.

good catch.

short one-shot | 18+

pairing. frank castle x fem!reader

genre. age gap, possessive frank, caretaking, heavy foreplay, size difference, slow burn to high heat

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, significant age gap, heavy physical touch, praise, slight overstimulation, rough/firm touch.

word count. tbd

summary.

Working late at Frank’s quiet off-grid workshop means dealing with his constant, watchful eyes. But when a heavy wooden crate nearly knocks you off your feet, Frank catches you, and decides it’s time to remind you who’s really running the shop.

Frank Castle didn't talk much, but he paid attention to everything.

Especially you.

When you took the part-time clerical job organizing inventory for his small, off-grid auto repair and metal workshop, you knew he was older, much older. He had silver dusting his dark hair, deep lines carved around his jaw, and broad, scarred shoulders that made him look like he could pick up an engine block with his bare hands.

He treated you like something delicate, even when you insisted you were old enough to handle the workload. He’d stand in the shadows of the garage bays, heavy arms crossed over his black thermal shirt, dark eyes tracking every movement of your hips as you reached for high shelves or carried heavy toolboxes.

At 8:00 PM, the garage was quiet save for the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

You were up on a metal step stool in the back storage room, trying to pull down a heavy crate of brass fittings. You gripped the rough wood, hauling it toward your chest, but the weight shifted too fast.

"Whoa- " you gasped, your foot slipping on the metal rung.

Before you could fall, two massive, rock-hard arms locked around your waist from behind, slamming your back flush against a chest that felt like solid steel. The crate clattered uselessly onto the concrete floor, but you didn't even hear it, all you could feel was the sheer, suffocating heat of Frank Castle holding you in mid-air.

Frank set your feet down on the concrete, but he didn't let go. His thick arms stayed wrapped tight around your stomach, pulling you back into him until there wasn't a single inch of space left between your bodies.

"Told you to leave the heavy boxes for me, sweetheart," Frank growled low into your ear, his raspy, heavy voice vibrating right down your spine.

"I had it," you breathed out, your pulse skyrocketing as you rested your hands over his forearm, feeling the thick veins and callouses under his skin. "I'm not a kid, Frank."

Frank let out a low, dark huff against the shell of your ear. His grip tightened on your waist, his thumb hooking into the waistband of your jeans, pulling you back hard against his front. You could feel the thick, heavy ridge of him straining against his denim, pressing right into the curve of your lower back.

"Didn't say you were a kid," Frank rasped, his lips brushing against your jaw as he spoke. "You're just small. And entirely too headstrong for your own good."

"Frank-"

"Look at you," he murmured, his hand sliding up your waist, his large palm spreading over your ribs before slipping under the hem of your shirt. His rough, calloused fingers met bare skin, making you shiver violently. "Slipping off stools, driving me crazy all damn night in these tight little clothes."

"You're the one who's always staring," you whispered back, tilting your head up to look at him over your shoulder.

That was his undoing

Frank turned you around in his arms so fast your breath hitched. He lifted you easily by the hips, setting you down on the smooth edge of a heavy wooden workbench. His massive body slotted right between your knees, trapping you completely.

"Yeah," Frank growled, his dark eyes locked onto your mouth with a fierce, possessive intensity. "I stare. Because you're half my age and you've got no business looking at me like you want me to take you apart."

"But I do," you dared to whisper, reaching up to lay your small hands against his broad arm.

Frank’s jaw clenched hard. "Don't test me, girl."

"I'm not testing you," you whimpered softly, sliding your hands up to his neck. "I want you, Frank. I've wanted you since my first week here."

Frank let out a guttural sound deep in his chest, part groan, part surrender. His large hand came up to wrap around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled your face to his, crashing his mouth down onto yours.

The kiss was heavy, deep, and completely dominant. Frank claimed your mouth with the desperate hunger of a man who had been starving himself for months. His tongue slid against yours, heavy and rhythmic, making your head spin as his other hand came down to cup your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around his hip.

"God," Frank rasped against your lips, breaking the kiss just enough to trail hot, biting kisses down your throat. "You feel so good... so small."

His heavy hand slid under your skirt, his calloused thumb sweeping over the lace of your underwear. You gasped loudly, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he pressed a firm, deliberate circle directly over your sweet spot.

"Frank- ah-" you sobbed out, your back arching off the workbench.

"Hold still," Frank growled into your skin, his rhythm steady, heavy, and completely unhurried. He worked you through the thin fabric, applying just enough firm pressure to drive you crazy, making your core throb against his hand. "You like when I touch you like this? You like knowing how you make me feel?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your hips rolling forward into his palm helplessly. "Yes, Frank, please-"

"Good girl," he purred low in his throat, his thumb sliding under the damp lace to touch your bare, slick skin directly.

The heat was instantaneous. Frank swirled his thumb over your center, his dark eyes watching your face intently as you unravelled in his arms. Every time you tried to squirm or rush the pace, his heavy hand on your waist held you pinned to the bench, forcing you to take every agonizingly slow stroke he gave you.

"Look at me," Frank commanded softly, his voice heavy with authority. "Keep those pretty eyes open."

You looked up into his dark, fierce gaze as the friction built to a white-hot peak. Your core tightened violently, waves of sheer, overwhelming pleasure crashing through your body. You let out a high, breathless cry, your nails digging into his leather-clad shoulders as you came hard against his hand.

Frank held you tightly through the peak, his thumb smoothing over your slick core until your tremors finally subsided into soft, ragged gasps.

He leaned in, pressing a long, tender kiss to your forehead, his large hand gently smoothing down your thigh as you rested your head against his chest, listening to his heavy, rapid heartbeat.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Frank rumbled softly into your hair, his tone shifting into something warm and deeply caretaking.

"Yeah," you breathed, smiling softly into his shirt. "Yeah, I'm more than okay."

Frank chuckled low in his chest, his arms wrapping tightly around you, lifting you right off the workbench and cradling you against him like you belonged there all along.

"Good," Frank grumbled fondly, kissing your cheek. "Because shift is over. And you’re coming with me."

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mwah.

tiny one-shot

pairing. spencer reid x bau!reader

genre. fluff, comedy, shy spencer, crush/ soft romance, domestic bullpen moments

warnings. none! pure fluff, blushing spencer, little teasing from the team, cute awkwardness.

word count. tbd

summary.

Finding a misfiled case report in the BAU bullpen is supposed to be routine work. Getting an accidental kiss on the cheek from you? That completely short-circuits Dr. Spencer Reid's brain.

"I swear it was right here," you muttered, leaning over the low partition of Spencer’s desk and shuffling through a stack of beige folders. "I had the case file from the 2011 Milwaukee case right on top of my stack before lunch."

Spencer looked up from the thick hardcover book he was reading, his hazel eyes blinking softly behind his messy bang fringe. He set his brass bookmark down and uncrossed his long legs from under the desk.

"Which Milwaukee case?" he asked gently, his voice soft in the quiet lulls of the bullpen. "The one with the forged bonds or the train yard incident?"

"The train yard," you sighed, running a hand through your hair with a frustrated laugh. "Hotch needs the behavioral profile cross-reference in ten minutes, and I’m ninety percent sure I left it in the main archive stack."

"Oh," Spencer said, a small, endearing light going off in his eyes. "It’s not in archives. Hotch moved that box to the secondary filing cabinet behind JJ’s office yesterday afternoon because the lower drawer jammed."

He stood up, his tall, slender frame unfolding from his chair. He smoothed down his knitted sweater vest, adjusted his satchel strap, and motioned for you to follow him with a timid nod of his head.

You followed him down the carpeted aisle to the quiet alcove by JJ’s office. Spencer knelt down in front of the tall gray cabinet, his long fingers moving over the labeled tabs with practiced ease. Within four seconds, he pulled out a thick, crisp manila folder.

He stood back up, holding it out to you with a tiny, victorious smile. "Here you go. Page fourteen has the exact profile breakdown you’re looking for."

"Spencer, you are a literal lifesaver!" you beamed, relief washing over you.

Without overthinking it, completely caught up in the relief of not having to face Hotch empty-handed, you stepped in close, reached up on your tiptoes, and pressed a soft, warm kiss directly against Spencer’s cheek.

Mwah.

It was just a quick, innocent thank-you. A split-second gesture of affection.

You pulled back with a bright smile, clutching the folder to your chest. "Thank you so much!"

Spencer froze.

He didn't move a single muscle. He stood there like a statue carved out of marble, his arms half-extended, his eyes wide and completely unblinking.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, his right hand drifted upward. His long fingers gently touched his cheek, resting right on the exact spot where your lips had been a second before.

A deep, rosy flush crept up from beneath his high shirt collar, spreading across his throat, burning through his cheeks, and turning the tips of his ears bright pink.

"Spence?" you asked softly, tilting your head, your own heart suddenly doing a little flutter at his reaction. "You okay?"

"I- uh- yes," Spencer squeaked out.

His voice was a full octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat loudly, his hand flying down to yank at his collar as if he’d suddenly been thrown into a sauna.

"You're... you're welcome," he managed to stammer out, his gaze darting nervously around the room, anywhere except directly into your eyes. "It was... the file... was just in the drawer."

From across the glass walkway, Derek Morgan stopped mid-sip of his coffee. He looked through the window, saw Spencer standing there looking bright red and utterly short-circuited, and let out a low laugh. Morgan leaned against the railing, catching your eye and raising his eyebrows in silent, hilarious appreciation.

Even Garcia, who was walking past with a stack of pink sticky notes, paused to gasp softly, clutching her hands to her chest with a giant, delighted grin.

Spencer noticed them both out of the corner of his eye and seemed to turn an even deeper shade of red. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his boots squeaking softly against the carpet.

"I should..." Spencer gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward his desk with his thumb, his fingers trembling just a tiny bit. "I should probably go back to... reading. About... uhm… yeah."

You couldn't help the warm, tender smile that bloomed across your face. He was so completely, helplessly adorable.

Stepping a little closer, you leaned up again, not to kiss him this time, but just to whisper near his ear: "I'll buy you a coffee on our afternoon break to say a proper thank you, okay?"

Spencer blinked rapidly, his hazel eyes soft and wide as he looked down at you. The blush hadn't faded a single bit, but a small, sweet, genuinely happy smile broke through his shyness.

"Okay," he whispered back, his voice soft and smooth again. "I'd... I'd really like that."

"It's a date, Dr. Reid," you winked, turning on your heel to head toward Hotch’s office, feeling a flutter in your chest that lasted all the way down the hall.

Behind you, Spencer stood in the alcove for three full seconds after you left, his hand creeping back up to touch his cheek one last time, a soft, dazed smirk finally spreading across his face.

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overtime.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. spencer reid x bau!reader

genre. smut, office romance, BDSM, light bondage, edging, risk of getting caught

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, light bondage (tie used as restraint), overstimulation, edging/denial, oral sex (receiving), semi-public/office setting.

word count. ~1k

summary.

With the rest of the BAU gone for the evening, an innocent late-night study session in Spencer’s office shifts when he decides to take control, testing just how quiet you can stay while pinned against his desk.

The floor was dark, save for the ambient glow of the fluorescent lights casting soft grid patterns across the empty glass partitions. It was nearly one in the morning. Hotch and Rossi had left hours ago, and the rest of the team had scattered to their apartments after a brutal three-day turnaround in Chicago.

You were sitting on the edge of Spencer’s desk, half-heartedly flipping through a stack of old case files, when you felt his presence shift behind you.

"You're not reading anymore," Spencer said softly.

He stepped around the side of his desk, but instead of packing his satchel, he reached behind himself and clicked the heavy wooden door shut. The subtle thud echoed in the quiet room. Before you could turn around, he reached up, pulled down the blinds over the interior window, and locked the handle.

Your chest tightened, a familiar spark of heat curling low in your belly. "Spencer?"

"You've been fidgeting all evening," he murmured, stepping right into your space. His hand rested on your knee, his thumb stroking through the fabric of your trousers. "Adjusting your collar, crossing your legs... you haven't processed a word on those pages for the last forty minutes."

"I'm tired," you lied softly, your breath hitching as his fingers slid higher up your thigh.

"No," Spencer corrected, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. "You're distracted. And you're craving my attention."

Without breaking eye contact, Spencer reached up to his neck, unknotting his dark silk tie with slow, practiced movements. He pulled it free from beneath his collar, smoothing the fabric between his long fingers.

"Turn around," he instructed, his voice dropping an octave into that low, quiet tone he reserved only for when he took control behind closed doors. "Hands behind your back."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Spencer, someone could come back- "

"They won't," he cut in gently, though the authority in his tone was unyielding. "And if they do, you'll just have to stay very, very quiet. Won't you?"

You swallowed hard, turning on the edge of the mahogany desk and placing your hands behind your lower back. Spencer stepped up close behind you, his warm chest pressing lightly against your shoulder blades as he pulled your wrists together. He wrapped the soft silk tie firmly around your wrists, looping it twice and knotting it securely, tight enough to hold you fast, but gentle enough not to bite.

"Good girl," he whispered against your ear, the hot puff of his breath making you shiver. "Keep your hands right there."

He leaned forward, unbuttoning your trousers and pulling them down your legs along with your underwear, letting them pool around your ankles. You gasped as the cool air of the office hit your bare skin, but before you could process it, Spencer’s hands were on your thighs, spreading your legs wide over the edge of his desk.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, his hands gripping the wood on either side of your hips to lock you in place.

"Spencer..." you whined, your head falling back against the stack of folders behind you.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

You forced your hazy gaze down to meet his. He looked up at you from his knees, his messy dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, glasses perched neatly on his nose. The contrast between his sharp intellect and his quiet dominance made your core ache with slick, heavy warmth.

"You're already so wet for me," he observed, his index finger tracing the damp seam of your slit before dipping inside just enough to test your slickness. "All from just sitting across from me all night?"

"Yes," you whimpered, trying to shift your hips closer, but the tie bound tightly around your wrists kept you anchored.

"Stay still," Spencer instructed, his hand flattening against your lower belly to hold you down. "If you make too much noise, we stop."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your inner thigh before his tongue made direct, wet contact with your swollen clit.

A loud gasp escaped your lips, and Spencer immediately paused, his thumbs digging firmly into your hips. "Ah-ah. What did I say about noise?"

"Sorry," you whispered frantically, biting your bottom lip as tears of sweet frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. "I'm sorry, Spencer- "

"Bite your lip, sweet girl," he murmured approvingly, his tongue resuming its work.

He didn't rush. Spencer treated your body like a puzzle he had already solved a hundred times over. He used long, slow, flat licks that drew desperate hitches from your throat, swirling his tongue right over your most sensitive point before dragging his mouth down to suck your wetness deep into his mouth.

Your wrists tugged uselessly against the silk tie behind you as the pleasure built at an alarming speed. Every time you felt yourself hovering on the edge of a peak, Spencer would back off, sucking gently at your inner thigh until your breath leveled out, only to dive right back in.

"Spencer, please," you begged under your breath, your knuckles white behind your back. "Please, I can't- I'm right there- "

He slid two fingers deep inside you, pumping them in a steady, firm rhythm while his thumb pressed flat against your clit.

"Come for me," Spencer growled against your core, his quiet restraint finally cracking into raw, desperate heat. "Do it softly."

That was all it took. The combination of his fingers stretching you, his tongue teasing your center, and the constant fear of anyone walking down the hall snapped your control entirely. You arched your back off the desk, a muffled scream caught behind your teeth as your orgasm tore through you in violent, shaking waves.

Your inner walls clamped down tight around his fingers, and Spencer groaned against your skin, catching every drop of your slick release with his tongue until you were trembling and completely spent.

He slowly stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down at your flushed, breathless form resting against his desk. His hazel eyes were dark with pride.

Spencer leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving behind you to untie his silk tie from your wrists.

He gently rubbed your restored, warm skin, bringing your hands around to rest against his chest.

"See?" Spencer whispered into your ear, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as you leaned into his heat. "I told you you could be good for me."

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soft aftercare.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. aaron hotch x fem!reader

genre. soft aftercare, hurt/comfort, fluff, gentle worship

warnings. explicit sexual content mentioned/aftermath, 18+, gentle washing/cleanup, overstimulation, emotional vulnerability.

word count. 1k

summary.

After an intense, breathless night in his hotel room breaks down the remaining walls between you, Aaron shows you the quiet, deeply devoted side of himself he keeps hidden from the rest of the world.

The quiet hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the dimly lit hotel room.

Sheets were tangled around your legs, your skin flushed and sensitive to the touch after hours of overwhelming, unhurried intensity. Aaron lay beside you, his breathing steadying against your temple as his long fingers gently ran through your hair, untangling the damp strands with meticulous care.

The sharp, authoritative Unit Chief who commanded every room he walked into had completely vanished, replaced by the man whose dark eyes looked down at you with a devotion so soft it made your chest ache.

"How are you feeling?" Aaron murmured, his thumb lightly brushing across your cheekbone. His voice was low, raspy from the night, and impossibly sexy.

"Good," you whispered, a lazy smile touching your lips as you leaned into his palm. "Tired. So tired."

"I know, sweetheart," he cooed softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. "You did so well for me tonight."

He carefully shifted, pulling back the heavy duvet. As cool air hit your bare, sensitive skin, you shivered slightly, but Aaron was already moving. He stood up, towering and barefoot in just his dark gray lounge pants, and walked into the adjoining bathroom.

A moment later, the sound of running water echoed softly. When he returned, he was carrying a warm, damp hotel washcloth, folded neatly in his hands. He knelt on the edge of the mattress beside you, his presence instantly wrapping you in a sense of absolute safety.

"Let me take care of you," Aaron said quietly, meeting your eyes to make sure you were comfortable before touching you.

You nodded, relaxing back into the pillows.

Aaron started gently, wiping away the faint sheen of sweat from your chest and shoulders with soft, feather-light strokes. He was so careful, as if he were holding something fragile, taking his time to make sure every motion was comforting. When he brought the warm cloth down over your stomach, you let out a soft sigh, your body sinking deeper into the bed.

"Too warm?" he asked immediately, pausing his movement.

"No," you murmured, reaching out to rest your hand against his knee. "It feels amazing, Aaron."

A faint, rare smile softened the hard lines of his face. "Good."

He moved lower, his touch remaining impossibly tender as he carefully cleaned your inner thighs and your wet, tender center, wiping away the slick evidence of your shared night. Every movement was precise, practical, yet filled with a deep, quiet worship that made tears prick the corners of your eyes. For a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders every single day, the gentle patience he offered you was breathtaking.

When he finished, he tossed the cloth toward the hamper and disappeared back into the bathroom, returning with a tall glass of cool water and a fresh, dry towel.

He helped you sit up, wrapping his arm securely around your waist to support your weight while he held the glass to your lips. "Drink a little bit."

You took a few slow sips, the cold water soothing your dry throat, before leaning your head back against his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Always," Aaron whispered, setting the glass on the nightstand.

He pulled the covers back up, tucking them around your shoulders before sliding into bed beside you. He pulled you flush against his warm chest, resting your head right over his heart, its steady, rhythmic beat a grounding anchor against the quiet of the night. His hand settled on the small of your back, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns over your skin.

"Get some sleep," Aaron murmured into your hair, his lips lingering against your crown. "I've got you."

Nestled against his heat, completely clean, cared for, and cherished, you drifted off to sleep, knowing you had never been safer.

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