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thank you for stopping by my little corner of tumblr.

here you'll find fanfiction, drabbles, headcanons, and imagines for the characters that have completely stolen our hearts.

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requests: open

i write: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, smut, and more.

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borrowed silk.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. damon salvatore x fem!reader

genre. forced proximity, playful teasing, height/size difference, domestic heat, high tension, slow burn to heavy foreplay

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, vampire abilities (speed, strength), heavy physical touch, praise, domestic intimacy.

word count. ~1k

summary.

A torrential downpour traps you at the Salvatore Boarding House while Stefan and Elena are stuck in Denver for the night. You end up wearing Damon’s favorite silk button-down shirt, and he takes immense pleasure in reminding you whose house you’re in.

The storm hit Mystic Falls with the kind of violence that felt almost supernatural.

Lightening cracked across the sky every three minutes, shaking the floorboards of the Salvatore Boarding House, while rain lashed against the tall, arched windows in sheets.

"Yeah, Stefan, I get it," Damon said into his phone, leaning his back against the grand dark-wood archway of the parlor. He held a crystal tumbler of amber bourbon in one hand, his piercing blue eyes locked onto you across the room. "The highway is flooded. You and Elena are stuck at a motel outside Denver until tomorrow morning. Tragic. Truly."

He smirked, taking a slow sip. "Don't worry, brother. I'll make sure our little human friend doesn't starve. Or get eaten. Ciao."

Damon tossed his phone onto the leather sofa with a flick of his wrist.

You sat tucked into the corner of the sofa, shivering slightly in the damp clothes you’d been wearing when the weather turned.

"So," Damon hummed, his voice smooth, dark, and dripping with that insufferable, arrogant charm. "Just you, me, and a hundred-year-old bottle of rye. What a terrible fate."

"I’m freezing, Damon," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest. "Do you have a blanket that hasn't been sitting in a cellar since 1864?"

Damon let out a soft huff, vanishing from the doorway in a blur of vampire speed. A second later, he was back, holding a heavy, midnight-black silk button-down shirt. He strolled over, dangling it in front of your face.

"Stefan’s clothes are all tweed and existential dread," Damon smirked, stepping into your space. "Mine, however... soft. Go change in the bathroom before you catch pneumonia and I have to hear Stefan and Elena whine about it."

Five minutes later, you walked into the dimly lit kitchen.

Damon’s shirt was ridiculous on you. The shoulders drooped down your arms, the sleeves rolled up twice to free your hands, and the hem fell all the way to your mid-thigh, barely hiding your lace underwear underneath. You felt practically naked, your bare legs cold against the drafty kitchen floorboards as you looked through the cabinets for tea.

"Well, well, well," a low voice purred from the darkness by the island.

You jumped, turning around. Damon was leaning against the marble counter, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark leather jacket discarded. He was watching you with an intensity that made your pulse instantly spike.

"You look absurd," Damon hummed, stepping forward slowly, like a predator eyeing a particularly interesting meal. "And entirely too good in my shirt."

"You offered it to me," you said defensively, gripping the edge of the counter behind you. "And it smells like your overpriced cologne."

"Bourbon and cedarwood, sweetheart. Get it right," Damon corrected smoothly, closing the distance between you until he was standing mere inches away. The heat coming off him was intoxicating, cutting right through the damp chill of the house. "You know... I usually require a person to buy me a drink before they start wearing my clothes."

"I didn't ask for your shirt, Damon."

"No, but you're wearing it," he whispered, stepping even closer until his chest lightly brushed against yours. He raised one hand, his cool, long fingers catching the oversized collar of the shirt and pulling it slightly to the side, exposing the curve of your neck and collarbone. His dark eyes flicked down to your lips, his famous smirk fading into something much darker, much heavier. "And you look entirely too good in it."

Your breath caught in your throat. "Damon-"

"Shh," he murmured, his thumb sliding up to press against your lower lip, tracing the soft swell. "Stefan isn't here to play hero tonight. And you... you've been looking at me with those big, brave eyes all evening, pretending you're not terrified of how much you want me to touch you."

"I am not terrified," you breathed, though your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs.

Damon let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated right through your chest. In a fraction of a second, his hands were on your waist, lifting you up effortless and setting you down on the high marble counter. His body slotted right between your parted knees, trapping you completely.

"Brave little thing," Damon growled softly, his hands sliding under the hem of his silk shirt, his cool palms cupping the bare skin of your upper thighs.

You gasped as his fingers dug into your skin, not hurting, but holding you with absolute, undeniable strength. His hands smoothed up your thighs, pushing the fabric of his shirt out of the way until his thumbs brushed against the thin lace of your underwear.

"Damon..." you whimpered, your fingers instinctively reaching out to grip the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

"That's it," Damon purred against your ear, his mouth brushing against your sensitive skin as he leaned down. His lips pressed a hot, biting kiss right to the crook of your neck, making a quiet moan escape your throat. "Show me how much you want it."

He didn't wait. His hands moved with a practiced, possessive confidence. One hand moved to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, while his other hand slid flat over your center, palming you right through the lace.

A sharp jolt of electricity shot straight down your spine. You arched off the counter, your head falling back as Damon began a firm, slow grinding motion with his palm, pressing you against his hand.

"Look at you," Damon rasped into your throat, his breath hot and ragged. "Half-naked in my kitchen, making noises like that for me."

"You're... you're awful," you choked out, your hips rolling up into his palm helplessly as the friction began to build fast, white-hot and liquid between your legs.

"I know," Damon smirked against your skin, his thumb sliding under the edge of your lace panties to touch your bare, slick core directly. "And you love every second of it."

You let out a loud, breathless cry as his fingers began to work you, swirling over your sweet spot with agonizing precision. Damon’s eyes locked onto yours, dark, blown wide, completely consumed by the sight of you unravelling on his counter.

"Damon, please-" you sobbed softly, your hands clutching his shoulders, your nails digging through his shirt.

"I've got you," Damon whispered, his voice dropping all its usual sarcasm, replaced by a deep, fierce authority. "Come for me, sweetheart. Give it to me."

The command was all it took. The tight coil in your stomach snapped, waves of intense, intense pleasure crashing over you so hard your vision blurred. You held onto him for dear life as your core pulsed tightly against his fingers, your voice echoing off the high ceilings of the dark kitchen.

Damon held you through every single wave, his mouth coming down to catch your cries in a deep, filthy kiss that tasted like bourbon and heat. He didn't pull away until your trembling slowed down, resting his forehead against yours as you panted for air.

His hand slowly slipped out from under your shirt, his thumb gently smoothing over your hip bone as he looked down at your flushed, breathless face.

"Not bad," Damon smirked softly, a genuinely fond, wicked glint returning to his blue eyes.

You let out a weak, breathy laugh, resting your hands over his chest. "You are an absolute nightmare."

"Yeah," Damon hummed, leaning down to press one more lingering, sweet kiss to your lips before sliding his hands back down to your waist. "Come on. Bedtime. And... you're sleeping in my room."

thank you for reading ♡

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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.

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.

heavyweight.

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."

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stolen.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. dean winchester x reader (dad's best friend AU)

genre. dad’s best friend, heavy tension, public touch, possessive, jealousy, light smut

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, age gap, alcohol, public touching, overstimulation, forced proximity, heavy grinding.

word count. tbd

summary.

When your dad turns in early at the motel, Dean takes you to a local dive bar for a quick drink. But when a random guy at the counter starts hitting on you, Dean's strict boundaries completely snap.

The dive bar was small, smelling of spilled beer and cheap floor cleaner. Country music hummed quietly from the jukebox in the corner, and the dim neon signs threw red and blue shadows across the worn wooden tables.

Your dad had crashed early at the motel, dead tired after three straight days on the road. Dean had offered to take you out to grab a quick bite and a drink, promising your dad he’d look out for you.

"Looking out" was supposed to mean sitting and drinking his amber bottle in silence. But Dean’s eyes hadn't left you all night.

He sat there in his heavy leather jacket, broad shoulders relaxed, but his jaw was tight. You sat next to him on a high vinyl barstool, your legs crossed, nursing a gin and tonic. Every time your knee accidentally brushed against his thigh, Dean’s knuckles turned white around his bottle, but he didn't move away.

"You should head back soon," Dean muttered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble over the music. "Your dad’s gonna wake up, and I don't need him breaking my neck."

"I'm twenty-one, Dean," you said softly, leaning in a little closer. "I think I can stay out past ten."

Dean scoffed, taking a long pull from his bottle. "Doesn't mean I'm allowed to keep you out late."

Before you could reply, a local guy in a flannel shirt slid onto the empty stool on your left. He didn't even notice Dean sitting right next to you.

"Hey there," the guy said, leaning over the counter with a cocky grin. "Didn't expect to see anyone as pretty as you in a place like this. Can I buy you another drink?"

You froze, catching Dean’s reflection in the dark mirror behind the bar.

Dean didn't say a word. But his green eyes narrowed, going pitch black in the dim light. His heavy boots planted firmly on the floor, and you could feel the sudden, dangerous heat radiating off him.

"I'm fine, thanks," you told the guy, offering a polite smile. "Just here with a friend."

"Come on, just one," the guy pressed, stepping closer and resting his arm on the wood right behind your seat. "Your friend won't mind, right?"

That was it.

Before the guy could even blink, Dean was up.

He didn't make a scene. He just slid off his stool, stepping right into the space between you and the guy. Dean was taller, broader, and the dark look on his face made the guy immediately freeze.

"She said no," Dean said, his voice deadly quiet. He didn't raise it, but the threat was loud and clear.

"Hey, man, no trouble," the guy stammered, stepping back with his hands up. "Just talking."

"Then go talk somewhere else," Dean growled.

The guy backed away fast, disappearing toward the back of the bar.

Dean stood there for a second, his chest rising and falling as he stared after him. Then he turned around to look at you. His heavy hands came down on the arms of your barstool, trapping you completely between his body and the bar counter.

"Dean..." you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"You think this is funny?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could smell the whiskey on his breath and the crisp leather of his coat. "You think I like watching guys look at you like that?"

"I didn't ask him to come over," you murmured, looking up at his dark green eyes. "You're the only one I'm looking at."

Dean’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your lips, his jaw ticking hard. His strict self-control, the rules he had kept for months, completely broke.

His right hand slid off the armrest and moved under the bar top. He gripped your thigh, his calloused fingers digging in deep through your jeans. He pulled you forward until your hips were flush against the front of his trousers.

You gasped at the sudden contact. Dean was hard, heavy and warm against you, right there in the middle of the dark bar.

"God, you're driving me crazy," Dean growled in your ear, his thumb pressing hard into the inside of your thigh. He slid his hand up, feeling the heat between your legs right through your clothes. "Your dad would kill me if he knew what I was thinking right now."

"Tell me," you whispered, gripping the lapels of his leather jacket.

Dean pressed his thigh right between yours, rocking his hips forward just a fraction. A low sigh escaped his throat as he felt you yield to him.

"I'm thinking about dragging you out to the Impala," he muttered, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear as his hand rubbed dark, heavy circles into your core over your pants. "I want to put you in the back seat, pull your clothes off, and make you scream my name until you forget anyone else has ever tried to speak to you."

You let out a soft whine, your fingers tightening on his jacket as the friction built fast. The music was loud enough to cover your small sounds, but the danger of being caught made every touch ten times sharper.

Dean smirked against your neck, feeling the way you trembled against him. He gave one last, firm press of his hand right against your center, grinding himself against you hard enough to leave you breathless.

"Dean..." you gasped.

"Up," Dean rasped, pulling his hand back under his jacket and taking your elbow. His grip was firm, possessive, leaving no room for argument. "We're leaving. Now."

He left a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, keeping his hand wrapped tight around yours as he pulled you out into the cool night air, straight toward the waiting leather of the Impala.

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off limits.

part one of four - broken protocol.

pairing. aaron hotchner x reader (dad's best friend AU)

genre. romance, forced proximity, forbidden attraction, age gap, storm atmosphere, slow burn

warnings. light swearing, heavy emotional tension, subtle age gap themes, alcohol mention.

word count. tbd

summary.

A weekend at the Hotchner cabin takes a sharp turn when your dad is called away on an emergency assignment, leaving you stranded in the mountains with his best friend, Aaron, just as a violent storm sweeps through the valley.

The hum of the SUV’s engine was the only steady sound against the gravel road winding up into the Shenandoah Mountains. Outside, heavy clouds bruised the late afternoon sky, dipping low over the treeline with the promise of a torrential downpour.

In the back seat, you leaned your head against the cool glass, watching the dark pine branches sway in the rising wind. Up front, your father turned down the radio volume as another burst of static interrupted the weather alert.

"Looks like we picked the worst possible weekend for a mountain getaway," your dad said with a chuckle, glancing across the center console at Aaron. "Radar says this storm is going to stall right over the ridge until Sunday."

Aaron kept both hands firm on the steering wheel, his posture as rigid and composed as if he were sitting in the bullpen back at Quantico. He wore a dark charcoal crewneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up slightly, exposing the heavy leather band of his watch. Even out of his signature tailored suits, Aaron Hotchner commanded the room, or in this case, the car.

"The cabin is well-stocked, and the generator was serviced last month," Aaron replied calmly, his deep voice carrying that grounded authority that always seemed to quiet whatever noise was around him. "We'll be fine, David."

"Famous last words," your dad joked, reaching back to tap your knee affectionately. "You doing okay back there, kiddo?"

"I'm fine, Dad," you smiled softly, shifting in your seat. "Just hoping we make it before the sky opens up."

In the rearview mirror, dark eyes flicked up to meet yours for a fleeting fraction of a second. Aaron’s gaze was sharp, intense, and instantly neutral as he looked back at the narrow road ahead.

That brief eye contact sent a familiar, quiet pulse under your skin.

For as long as you could remember, Aaron Hotchner had been a fixture in your life, your father’s closest confidant, the stoic Unit Chief who dropped by for Sunday dinners, brought good wine, and spoke in calm, measured tones. But over the last two years, as you had finished university and stepped into your own adulthood, the nature of his quiet presence had subtly shifted.

You had caught him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, a lingering glance as you handed him a coffee, a sudden clenching of his jaw when you laughed at something he said, a quiet, almost protective tension whenever you were in the same room. It was subtle, masked behind impeccably professional manners and fatherly friendship, but you felt it. You felt every inch of the restraint he pulled tightly around himself like armor.

When Aaron pulled the SUV into the gravel driveway of the cabin, the first heavy drops of rain slammed against the windshield.

The cabin was stunning, a large, timber-frame retreat nestled against the side of the mountain, surrounded by dense forest and dramatic stone outcrops. The three of you hurried up the porch steps carrying bags just as the sky cracked open, unleashing a deafening sheet of rain that fell against the tin roof.

"Inside, quickly," Aaron instructed, holding the heavy wooden front door open for you and your dad.

As you brushed past him into the warm, cedar-scented entryway, your shoulder grazed his chest. Aaron froze instantly, his jaw tightening as he took a subtle step back to create space, his hand resting on the door handle until you were safely inside.

"Nice place, Aaron," your dad said, dropping his duffel bag near the grand stone fireplace that dominated the living room. "I'm going to grab a cup of coffee before-"

Ring.

The sharp, shrill tone of a satellite phone broke through the sound of the rain. Your dad frowned, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the device. He checked the caller ID, and his expression instantly flattened into his serious, senior-agent demeanor.

"Rossi," he answered, turning away toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows.

Aaron immediately set his own bags down, his eyes locked on your father’s back. He didn't need to hear the other side of the conversation to know what was happening; the BAU rhythm was written into both of their bones.

"When?" your dad asked into the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Where's the field team... Right. Understood. I'm three hours out, but with this rain, it's going to take longer to get to the airbase."

He hung up, letting out a heavy sigh as he turned back to face Aaron and you.

"Locals in West Virginia found another body linked to the serial case from last month," your dad explained, frustration lacing his voice. "Director wants me on the mobile command unit immediately. They're flying a chopper into the regional airfield forty minutes down the mountain, but I have to leave now."

"David, the roads are already flooding," Aaron cautioned, taking a step forward. "I should drive you down."

"No," your dad held up a hand, already grabbing his coat. "If you drive me down, you won't get back up this ridge before the state police close the mountain pass. Then she's left up here alone in a blackout with a storm coming in." He nodded toward you. "I'll call the local sheriff's escort to pick me up at the end of the driveway. They're already patrolling the lower road."

Aaron’s mouth set into a hard line. His eyes flicked to you for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something dark and deeply reluctant crossing his features before he forced his mask back into place.

"Are you sure?" Aaron asked, his voice tighter than usual.

"I'm sure," your dad said, coming over to give you a quick, firm hug. "Sorry, kiddo. Duty calls. Stay warm, don't drive Aaron crazy, and I'll call you as soon as I land."

"Be safe, Dad," you said softly, hugging him back.

Within five minutes, the flashing red and blue lights of a local deputy's cruiser appeared through the heavy rain at the base of the driveway. Your dad grabbed his bag, gave Aaron a brief nod, and disappeared into the downpour.

The heavy front door clicked shut.

Suddenly, the cabin felt impossibly large, and the silence inside was deafening.

Aaron stood in the center of the entryway, his back to you, watching the cruiser's taillights fade into the gray gloom of the storm. The tension in his broad shoulders was palpable, strung tight like a wire ready to snap.

He turned slowly to face you, his hands resting on his hips, his expression guarded and unreadable.

"I'll go start a fire in the hearth before the temperature drops," Aaron said flatly, his tone formal, almost distant. "Why don't you unpack your things in the guest room upstairs?"

"Aaron," you said softly, taking a step toward him. "It's fine. You don't have to treat me like I'm a witness in a safehouse."

Aaron didn't smile. He adjusted the cuff of his sweater, his dark eyes fixing on yours with a steady, intense focus. "Your father trusted me to look after you. That means keeping things orderly."

"Orderly," you repeated quietly, a small, subtle smile touching your lips. "Right."

He held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, his dark eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before he tore his vision away and turned toward the fireplace.

Upstairs, the guest room was cozy, featuring a queen-sized bed made with thick wool blankets and a tall window overlooking the dark pines swaying. You unpacked your clothes, changing out of your damp travel jeans into a comfortable sweater and leggings.

When you walked back down the wooden staircase twenty minutes later, the living room was bathed in the warm, flickering orange light of a fire.

Aaron was standing by the small wooden bar in the corner, holding a crystal jug. He poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a heavy glass, his movements precise and deliberate.

"Would you like something warm?" Aaron asked without turning around, hearing your soft footsteps on the floorboards. "There's tea, or I can open a bottle of wine."

"Wine, please," you said, coming to stand near the hearth. The heat from the fire washed over your skin, a welcome relief from the chill settling into the cabin walls.

Aaron retrieved a bottle of dark red cabernet from the rack, pulling the cork with smooth, practiced ease. He poured a glass and walked over to hand it to you.

As you reached out to take the stem, your fingers brushed against his.

It was a tiny contact, but Aaron went completely motionless. You felt the subtle tremor in his hand, saw the sudden, sharp intake of breath that expanded his broad chest. His eyes dropped to where your hands met, then slowly rose to meet yours.

Up close, the shadows from the fire carved deep, handsome lines across his face. You could see the subtle grey at his temples, the faint fatigue around his eyes, and the intense, tightly coiled restraint that seemed to vibrate off him in waves.

"Thank you," you murmured, not pulling your hand away immediately.

Aaron swallowed hard, his thumb flexing against the glass before he pulled his hand back, stepping back to create a deliberate two-feet buffer between you.

"I'm going to check the perimeter locks," Aaron muttered, his voice dropping into a lower register. "Make yourself comfortable."

He walked away toward the back door, leaving you standing by the fire with your wine.

Outside, the storm reached its peak. Thunder echoed through the valley like artillery fire, shaking the heavy glass windows. A jagged flash of lightning illuminated the dark living room in stark, electric blue, and a second later, a loud, metallic pop echoed from outside, followed instantly by the low groan of the cabin's power snapping off.

The overhead lights went dark, leaving only the hypnotic, dancing orange glow of the fireplace to illuminate the room.

From the hallway, you heard Aaron’s steady, heavy footsteps returning. He walked into the living room, holding a heavy flash-light in one hand, his silhouette looming large and dark against the shadows.

"Transformer on the main road must have blown," Aaron said calmly, setting the flashlight face-down on the side table so its beam reflected softly against the wood ceiling. "The generator should have kicked on automatically, but the storm might have knocked out the transfer switch."

"Are we stuck in the dark?" you asked, leaning against the edge of the stone hearth, looking up at him.

Aaron walked over, stopping just at the edge of the rug. In the dim, flickering light, he looked intimidating, a man who spent his life controlling chaotic situations, now trapped in a dark cabin with the one variable he couldn't profile or control.

"We have the fire," Aaron replied softly, taking a slow sip from his bourbon glass. "And plenty of wood."

He looked down at you, sitting on the rug near his feet, your knees pulled up to your chest under the soft light of the flames. The quiet between you stretched out, heavy with years of unsaid words, stolen glances, and a sudden, undeniable gravity that neither of you could pretend wasn't there anymore.

"You're watching me again, Aaron," you murmured gently into the quiet room.

Aaron didn't look away this time. He took another deliberate swallow of his drink, his throat moving as he swallowed, his jaw setting into a hard, rigid line as he fought the very urge that was slowly consuming him.

"I'm keeping an eye on you," Aaron corrected in a low, gravelly rumble. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" you asked softy.

Aaron stood motionless, the amber firelight reflecting in his dark, intense eyes, his knuckles white as he held his glass, the first crack in his impenetrable armor beginning to show.

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debrief.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. steve rogers x bucky barnes x superhero!reader

genre. smut, polyamory, why choose, post-mission adrenaline, double penetration, worship

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, double penetration, light overstimulation, praise, cold metal hand play, rough/fast sex mixed with worship.

word count. tbd

summary.

Flying back to the compound after a chaotic, high-stakes victory, the leftover combat adrenaline buzzing in the air proves too much for Steve and Bucky to ignore, starting with a sharp argument in the back of the Quinjet that quickly snaps into something far more dangerous.

The low hum of the Quinjet’s engines vibrated straight through the metal floorboards.

In the cockpit, autopilot was set for the three-hour flight back to the compound, but in the small holding bay at the rear, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.

"You took a blind leap off a four-story ledge without waiting for back-up!" Steve’s voice echoed off the carbon-fiber walls, sharp and authoritative. He unbuckled his tactical vest, tossing it onto a crate with a heavy thud, his dark blue eyes blazing with a dangerous mix of relief and fury. "We had a strategy, sweetheart."

"The target was escaping, Steve!" you fired back, wiping a streak of soot off your cheek with the back of your glove. Your pulse was still hammering against your ribs, high on the sheer thrill of the fight. "If I didn't drop in when I did, we'd be spending the next three weeks tracking him through Berlin!"

"She's right, Cap," Bucky chimed in from the bench, his voice a quiet, gravelly rumble. He was leaning back against the wall, unlacing his combat boots. His messy dark hair clung to his forehead, but his icy blue gaze wasn't on the mission reports, it was tracking every heavy breath you took, watching the way your leather suit hugged your waist. "It was sloppy, but it worked."

"I don't care if it worked, James," Steve snapped, stepping right into your personal space until his massive frame towered over you. He reached out, his big hand coming up to grip your chin, tilting your face up. "I care about you taking stupid risks because you think you're invincible."

"I'm fine," you breathed, stepping closer into his space instead of backing down, your chest brushing against his. "Better than fine. I'm buzzing."

Steve looked down at your parted lips, his jaw tightening as the rigid Captain America persona began to crack. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, feeling the quick, shallow hitches of your breath.

"You drive us fucking insane," Bucky murmured from behind you.

Before you could turn around, Bucky stood up, his metal arm coming around your waist from behind to pull you flush against his chest. His flesh hand reached up to the front zipper of your suit, dragging it down in one slow, deliberate motion to reveal the swell of your breasts.

"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled into the crook of your neck, his cold vibranium fingers sliding beneath the leather to press against your heated skin. "Heart racing, skin flushed... she isn't arguing because she's mad. She's high on the fight."

Steve’s eyes darkened, all traces of his lecture vanishing instantly. "Is that true, love?"

"Maybe," you whimpered, your head falling back against Bucky’s shoulder as his thumb grazed your nipple through your bra. "Maybe I just need both of you to shut me up."

Steve let out a low, dark growl. He grabbed your waist, pulling you out of Bucky's grip just long enough to hoist you up onto the narrow bunk, crowding between your open legs before you could even catch your breath.

"Gladly," Steve muttered, his mouth slamming into yours in a deep, punishing kiss.

His tongue conquered yours with a raw, possessive hunger, tasting like sweat and ozone. You let out a breathless moan into his mouth, your hands tangling into his hair as Bucky dropped to his knees right between your thighs, unlacing your boots and pulling your suit and underwear down over your ankles in one swift motion.

The sudden rush of cool air against your bare, aching center made you gasp, but Bucky didn't give you a second to process it. He buried his face between your legs, his hot tongue sweeping flat up your slick length in a long, brutal stroke.

"Steve!" you shrieked against Steve’s lips, your hips bucking wildly off the mattress.

"Shh, I've got you," Steve cooed softly, breaking the kiss to press lingering, hot kisses along your jaw and neck while Bucky ate you out with relentless precision. "Let James work, sweetheart. You fought so hard for us out there, let us take care of you now."

Bucky plunged two of his long flesh fingers deep inside your dripping heat, his thumb grinding firmly over your swollen clit. The cool metal frame of his wrist brushed against your thigh, creating an agonizing, divine temperature contrast that had your inner walls contracting around his fingers almost instantly.

"Fuck, she's so wet," Bucky grunted against your core, his tongue swirling right over your sweetest spot. "Ready for both of us."

Steve quickly unbuckled his trousers, freeing his thick, intimidating length, while Bucky stood up to do the same. The sight of both super soldiers standing over you in the dim light of the jet, hard and flushed with needy desire, made your core ache with a heavy, throbbing pulse.

"On your hands and knees, love," Bucky instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument as he guided you over onto the bed.

You obeyed instantly, resting your forearms against the mattress. Steve lied under you, his large hands gripping your hips firmly to angle. He brought his broad head to your entrance, rubbing his slick tip up and down your wet seam until you whined for him.

"Please, Steve- "

Steve pushed forward, sinking his massive cock all the way inside you in one heavy, deliberate thrust. You let out a muffled sob at the sheer fullness, your fingers clutching the sheets as your body stretched to accommodate him.

"God, you feel unbelievable," Steve groaned, his hips locking against your front as he began a deep, rolling rhythm that shook the small bunk.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky knelt on the bed directly behind you. He took his own hard, thick length and pressed the tip gently against your tight back entrance, using your natural slickness to coat himself.

Your eyes widened in shock. "Bucky-"

"I've got you, doll," Bucky whispered softly, his metal hand reaching over to cup your cheek, his thumb gently wiping a tear from your eye. "Trust us. Just breathe for me."

"Slow, Buck," Steve grunted under you, pausing his movements and holding your waist dead steady as Bucky slowly, painstakingly worked his broad head past your tight ring.

The feeling of being filled by both of them sent an overwhelming, white-hot shockwave straight through your nervous system. You gasped, tears pricking your eyes as Bucky pushed himself in completely, leaving you entirely stretched around two super soldiers.

"Good girl," Steve praised darkly into your ear, his chest heavy against your back. "So fucking good for us."

"Move, Cap," Bucky hissed through gritted teeth, his metal hand digging into the mattress beside your head for leverage.

Steve started the rhythm, sharp, shallow thrusts from behind that hit your sweet spot with terrifying accuracy, while Bucky established a slower, deeper counter-motion from your rear. The sheer physical presence of them both, combined with the rhythmic vibration of the jet beneath you, pushed you straight to the brink of delirium.

"Ah! Oh god- Steve! Bucky!" you screamed into the cabin, your head falling against Steve’s shoulder.

Bucky reached down with his flesh hand, finding your exposed clit and rubbing it with fast, firm pressure. "Come for us, baby. Clamp down on us."

The crude praise and relentless friction shattered your control. Your body convulsed violently as a shattering orgasm ripped through you. You sobbed their names, your inner walls contracting so hard around Steve’s length that he let out a guttural, animalistic roar.

"Fuck, I'm coming!" Steve growled, slamming forward one last time as he released deep inside you.

Bucky followed seconds later, his hips snapping hard against yours as he buried himself to the hilt, groaning into your neck as his own release flooded your back passage.

When they finally pulled out, you collapsed forward onto the mattress, completely breathless and trembling.

Steve immediately pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his massive arms around you, while Bucky climbed over to pull the heavy blanket over the three of you. Bucky brought his metal hand up, gently stroking your hair as Steve kept you tucked securely against his heartbeat.

"Good job today, soldier," Bucky whispered with a soft, rare smile, kissing your temple.

Nestled between two super soldiers in the back of a speeding jet, you closed your eyes, completely spent and entirely adored.

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the news.

one-shot

pairing. luke danes x reader

genre. fluff, emotional, soft romance, domestic, pregnancy reveal, comfort

warnings. none

word count. tbd

summary.

After weeks of keeping a small white stick hidden in your pocket, a quiet afternoon upstairs above the diner is the moment you finally tell Luke that his life is about to change forever.

The diner downstairs was quiet for the first time all day.

The lunch rush had officially cleared out around two o'clock, leaving behind only the soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint smell of roasted coffee beans, and Kirk lazily reading a newspaper in the corner booth.

Upstairs, in the apartment above the diner, the world felt entirely isolated from the rest of Stars Hollow. Soft afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, warming the wooden floorboards and catching the faint steam rising from a mug of chamomile tea resting on the coffee table.

Luke was standing by the small kitchen counter, his back turned to you as he carefully wiped down a wooden cutting board. He was wearing his usual flannel, blue and green today, with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his back turned to the room as he muttered something under his breath about Taylor attempt to install a decorative gazebo bench directly in front of the diner’s entrance.

"I told him, I said, 'Taylor, if you put that bench there, people can't get through the door,'" Luke ranted gently, his voice carrying that familiar, comforting grumpiness that you’d grown to love more than anything. "And do you know what he said? He told me it adds 'historical charm.' Historical charm! It’s a hazard, is what it is."

You sat on the edge of the couch, your hands tucked tightly into the pockets of your cardigan. Inside your right pocket, your fingers traced the smooth plastic edges of the small white stick you’d been carrying around like a secret all morning.

"Luke," you said softly.

He didn't hear you over the sound of the running faucet. "I swear, one of these days I'm going to take a saw to that man's projects."

"Luke."

This time, your tone made him pause. The water shut off instantly. Luke turned around, drying his hands on a dishtowel, his dark eyes instantly searching your face with that sharp, instinctive attentiveness he only ever used on you. The stern crease between his brows softened the second he saw your expression.

"Hey," he said, stepping out from behind the counter. "What's wrong? You've been quiet since lunch. Is your stomach still bothering you?"

"My stomach is fine," you murmured, offering a small, nervous smile that didn't quite hide how fast your heart was beating. "Come sit down for a second?"

Luke didn't hesitate. He dropped the towel onto the counter and walked over, his heavy steps surprisingly quiet on the rug. He sat down beside you on the couch, the cushions dipping beneath his weight, and immediately reached out to wrap a warm, calloused hand over yours.

"You're shaking a little," he noted, his voice dropping into a gentle, quiet register. He leaned in, his gaze scanning your face with genuine concern. "Talk to me. Did something happen down at the market? Did Taylor say something to you?"

"No, Taylor didn't do anything," you laughed softly, a breathless sound.

You took a deep, steadying breath, pulling your hand out from his grip just long enough to reach into your pocket. Luke watched your hand closely, his head tilting slightly in confusion.

Slowly, you pulled the small test out and laid it flat across your palm, holding it out toward him.

Luke looked down at your hand. For three full seconds, he just stared at the two faint blue lines. His brain, usually so quick to react and process, seemed to stall completely. The silence in the apartment stretched out, so quiet you could hear the distant jingle of the diner's front door opening downstairs.

"Is that..." Luke started, his voice cracking slightly. He looked up at you, his eyes wide and unblinking. "...Are you?"

You nodded, tears of pure happiness pricking the corners of your eyes. "I'm pregnant, Luke."

The world seemed to stop.

Luke sat completely frozen, his jaw slightly open, as if the words were still echoing around the room. Then, all at once, the shock melted off his face, replaced by a look of sheer, overwhelming wonder.

"You're..." he whispered again, his hand lifting toward your face before hovering, almost afraid to touch you, as if you might break. "A baby? We're... we're having a baby?"

"We're having a baby," you confirmed with a watery smile.

A breathy, breathless laugh escaped his chest, a sound so rare and full of pure, unfiltered joy that it made your chest ache. Without another word, Luke reached forward and pulled you into his arms, gathering you close against his chest.

He held you tightly, but with an incredible, reverent care, his large hand cupping the back of your head and burying his face into the crook of your neck. You could feel the deep, shaky exhale he let out against your skin, his shoulders dropping all the tension he’d been carrying.

"God," Luke breathed into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "A baby."

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were glossy, shining with tears he refused to let fall. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs gently wiping away a tear that had escaped down your cheek.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his focus shifting entirely to you. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Tea? Do you want to sit back? I can get more pillows- "

"Luke, I'm okay," you laughed, resting your hands over his wrists. "I'm really, really happy."

"Me too," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I... I'm going to be terrible at this, aren't I? I'm going to rant about everything. I'm going to be one of those insane overprotective parents who doesn't let them eat sugar or watch TV."

"You're going to be amazing," you whispered, leaning forward until your forehead rested against his. "You're already amazing."

Luke leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It wasn't rushed or demanding; it was filled with a quiet, grounding promise. When he pulled away, he looked down at your stomach, his large, warm hand moving slowly, almost hesitantly, until his palm rested flat against your sweater.

He kept his hand there for a long time, just feeling the quiet warmth beneath his fingers, a soft, rare smile resting on his face.

"I'll build the crib," Luke murmured softly, looking back up at you with those deep, devoted eyes. "I'll clear out the back room. Whatever you need... whatever both of you need, I've got it."

You smiled, covering his hand with yours on your belly as the afternoon sun warmed the small room above the diner.

"I know you do, Luke."

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different views.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. elliot stabler x svu!reader

genre. smut, enemies-to-lovers energy, high-tension argument, office romance, workplace risk, possessive heat

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, harsh language/screaming, rough kissing, desk/interrogation room setting, biting/marking, overstimulation, unprotected sex.

word count. tbd

summary.

A heated argument over an uncooperative suspect in an empty squad room at midnight devolves into months of unspoken, frustrated tension finally snapping between you and Elliot.

"He's the guy, Elliot! The timeline matches, the bloody prints on the driver's side match, you're being completely blind!"

Your voice echoed off the concrete walls of the empty precinct, sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. It was past two in the morning. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, leaving just the two of you surrounded by overflowing case files, half-empty coffee cups, and a whiteboard covered in crime scene photos.

Elliot slammed his palm down onto the metal desk, the loud crack making the pen holder jump.

"I'm being realistic!" he roared back, stepping right into your personal space until he was towering over you, his blue eyes blazing with a dangerous, dark fire. "You're chasing a ghost because you want a quick arrest! The M.O. doesn't align with the first two victims. It's a copycat, and if we rush this warrant based on your damn gut feeling, the real bastard walks!"

"My gut feeling is what solved the Mercer case last month while you were busy brooding in your office!" you threw back, stepping forward until your chest brushed against his. "Don't talk down to me, Stabler. I'm not your rookie, and I'm sure as hell not going to let you stall this investigation because you're too stubborn to admit I'm right!"

"You think I'm talking down to you?" Elliot’s voice dropped into a low, deadly growl. He unpinned his badge from his belt, tossing it onto the desk with a heavy clatter, before ripping his tie loose with one swift, aggressive pull. "I'm trying to keep you from blowing this entire case wide open because you're too hot-headed to look at the cold, hard evidence!"

"I am not hot-headed!" you screamed, your fists clenching at your sides, your entire body trembling with adrenaline and months of buried, suffocating tension. "You just hate that I don't bend to your authority like everyone else around here!"

"You drive me out of my fucking mind!" Elliot snapped, his hands flying up to grip the sides of your face, his fingers digging firmly into your jawline to hold you still.

"And what are you gonna do about it?" you yelled right back into his face.

Elliot didn't hesitate.

His mouth slammed into yours with violent, unyielding force.

The kiss was hot, bruising, and born out of sheer, unadulterated frustration. You let out a sharp gasp against his lips, but instead of pulling away, your hands flew to his chest, grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket and pulling him down to you. Elliot groaned into your mouth, a guttural, desperate sound, his tongue forcing its way past your lips to conquer yours with heavy, possessive strokes.

He backed you up until the back of your thighs hit the edge of the central squad desk. In one fluid motion, Elliot grabbed your waist, lifting you up easily and setting you down on top of the scattered case files. He crowded between your open legs, his massive frame burying you against his chest as his hands dragged up your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.

"Still think you know better than me?" Elliot panted against your lips, his hot breath fanning across your flushed skin as his hands moved down to unbutton your blazer, shoving it off your shoulders.

"Shut up," you breathed, reaching down to yank at his shirt buttons, popping two of them off in your haste to feel his bare skin. "Just shut up and touch me, Elliot."

His eyes went pitch dark. "Gladly."

Elliot reached behind you, sweeping a stack of manila folders onto the floor with a loud thud to clear more space. He grabbed the front of your blouse, unbuttoning it with swift, impatient fingers before hooking his thumbs into the lace of your bra, pulling it down to expose your breasts to the cool air of the room.

His jaw tightened as he looked down at you. "Fuck... look at you."

Before you could respond, Elliot leaned down, taking one peaked nipple straight into his mouth. He sucked firmly, his tongue swirling aggressively around the sensitive peak while his large hand squeezed your other breast, molding the soft flesh in his grip.

You arched your back off the desk with a loud, breathless gasp, your hands digging into his broad shoulders. "Elliot, god, someone could come in- "

"Door's locked," he muttered against your skin, his teeth lightly nipping your nipple, making you cry out. "And I don't give a damn if the whole department walks through that door right now. You're mine tonight."

He reached down, unbuckling his belt and letting it drop to the floor. With one sharp tug, he unzipped your trousers and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, letting them fall around your knees. He didn't waste time taking them off completely; he simply spread your thighs wide over the edge of the desk, stepping into the space between them.

His long fingers slid down your inner thigh, brushing against your wet, heated center. When he felt how slick you were already, a dark, arrogant smirk touched his lips.

"Fighting with me gets you this wet?" Elliot growled softly, dipping two fingers straight into your core without warning.

You let out a sharp shriek, your fingers clutching tightly at his rolled-up shirt sleeves as he began to pump his fingers inside you with a heavy, relentless pace. "Elliot! You- you were making me so damn angry"

"Good," he growled, his thumb pressing flat against your clit, rubbing tight, firm circles over the swollen bud. "Keep that anger. Use it to take every inch of me."

He pulled his fingers free, leaving you dripping and aching on the desk. Elliot freed his thick, erect length from his trousers, guiding the broad head directly against your entrance. He didn't offer a slow buildup or a gentle transition; he gripped your hips tightly, his knuckles white against your skin, and shoved himself all the way inside you in one long, agonizingly deep stroke.

Your eyes flew open, a muffled scream caught in your throat as your hands slammed against his chest. "Elliot!"

"You wanted this just as badly as I did," Elliot grunted through gritted teeth, his hips locked tight against yours as he buried himself to the hilt. "Didn't you?"

"Yes!" you sobbed, your inner walls clamping down around his thick length in a tight, desperate squeeze. "Fuck, yes- "

Elliot let out a low, ragged groan, his eyes rolling back slightly at the sheer tightness of your body. He pulled back until only his tip remained inside you before slamming forward again, establishing a fast, powerful rhythm that shook the entire wooden desk.

Every thrust was heavy, possessive, and deep enough to touch your soul. Elliot looked down at you with a gaze so dark and intense it felt like he was burning straight through you. He reached down, his thumb finding your clit again, grinding down hard with every snap of his hips.

"Look at me," Elliot commanded, his voice dark and raspy. "I want you looking at me when you break."

"I can't- Elliot, it's too much- " you whined, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him even deeper into you.

The sound of his heavy, rhythmic thrusts mixed with the faint rustle of paper beneath your back filled the dark precinct. The sheer thrill of where you were, combined with the raw, overpowering strength of the man holding you down, pushed your nervous system straight to the edge.

"Come for me," Elliot growled, his bite catching the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder, leaving a dark, purple mark that would take days to fade. "Come on my dick, sweetheart. Do it now."

The rough command snapped your last thread of control. Your body convulsed violently as a shattering orgasm ripped through you. You screamed his name into the empty room, your core contracting in tight, relentless spasms around his length.

Elliot grunted loudly at the sudden contraction of your walls. His thrusts turned wild, unrefined, and desperate as he chased his own release. He slammed into you three more times, sinking as deep as physically possible, before he froze, his body going rigid as he came inside you with a low, gut-wrenching roar.

He held you tightly against his chest, his face buried in your neck as his heart hammered wildly against your ribs.

For several minutes, the only sound in the squad room was the heavy, ragged breathing of two people slowly coming back down to reality. Elliot stayed buried deep inside you, his hands gently running up and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps on your skin.

Slowly, Elliot lifted his head. His blue eyes were softer now, the dark, furious edge completely gone, replaced by a quiet, protective warmth.

He reached up, gently brushing a strand of sweaty hair away from your face, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"You're still wrong about the suspect," Elliot whispered softly, a faint, rare smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, hitting his chest weakly with your fist. "You are unbelievable, Stabler."

"I know," he murmured, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your lips. "Now let me help you clean up before someone actually walks in here."

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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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all yours.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. spencer reid x bau!reader

genre. smut, jealousy, possessive spencer, dark romance, after-case post-bar

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, light overstimulation, praise, possessive behavior, biting/marking, oral sex (receiving).

word count. ~900

summary.

After watching a local detective spend all evening leaning just a little too close to you at the post-case bar, Spencer’s quiet jealousy finally boils over the second the door to his apartment closes behind you.

The local detective had been leaning into your personal space for over forty minutes.

It was the usual post-case wrap-up at a quiet dive bar near the precinct. Hotch was at a booth discussing paperwork, Morgan was by the jukebox, and you were stuck at the counter trying to be polite while the local cop repeatedly touched your elbow, laughing a little too loudly at every casual sentence you uttered.

You hadn't noticed Spencer watching from the corner stool. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, his knuckles pale, hazel eyes fixed onto the exact spot where the detective’s hand kept brushing against your arm.

He hadn't said a word all night. But the moment you both stepped off the elevator and into his apartment, the silence snapped.

The heavy front door had barely clicked shut before Spencer’s hand closed firmly around your wrist. In one smooth, unexpected motion, he pulled you back against his chest, his other hand coming around to grip your hip, pinning you flush against the wood of the front door.

"Spencer?" you gasped, your breath catching at the sudden intensity in his frame.

"He touched you four times," Spencer murmured against the side of your neck, his voice dropping into that dark, quiet register that set your blood on fire. "He leaned in closer than eighteen inches, which is universally recognized as the boundary for intimate space, and you let him."

A thrilled shiver ran down your spine. "He was just being friendly- "

"He was looking at you like he owned you," Spencer cut in, his thumb digging possessively into the curve of your waist through your shirt. "And it was driving me out of my mind."

Before you could respond, his mouth covered yours in a deep, bruising kiss. There was no hesitation, no shy warmth. He crowded you against the door, his tongue sliding against yours with a raw, demanding hunger that made your knees go weak. You reached up, your fingers tangling into his messy dark hair, pulling him closer as a quiet whimper escaped your throat.

"I need you to remind me," Spencer panted against your lips, pulling back just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and blown wide behind his glasses. "I need you to tell me who you belong to."

"You," you breathed without hesitation, your hips instinctively shifting against his growing hardness beneath his trousers. "Only you, Spencer."

A low groan escaped him. He reached down, unbuttoning your trousers with swift, impatient fingers and pushing them down your legs along with your underwear. He didn't bother taking off his own suit jacket, just dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, his long hands gripping your thighs to spread you wide.

"Look at you," Spencer growled softly, his thumb sweeping over your damp, warm slit, gathering your slickness. "So wet for me after letting another man flirt with you all night."

"Spencer, please- "

He didn't make you wait. Spencer buried his face against your core, his tongue sliding straight up your center with a firm, relentless stroke that made your head slam back against the door. You let out a high, sharp gasp, your fingers clutching tightly at his shoulders for balance.

He ate you out with an uncharacteristic, possessive ferocity. His tongue worked over your clit in tight, demanding circles, sucking the sensitive bud firmly into his mouth while two of his long fingers slid deep inside you.

"Ah! Spencer, wait- " you whined, your hips bucking helplessly against his mouth. "It's too much- "

"No," he commanded softly against your wet skin, his fingers pumping inside you in a steady, deliberate rhythm. "Stay right here. Take every second of it."

The contrast between his sharp, brilliant mind and this raw, physical dominance overwhelmed you completely.

Every deep stroke of his tongue felt like a mark of ownership, claiming every inch of your body until you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't remember anything other than the feel of Spencer between your legs.

"Tell me again," Spencer murmured, pausing for just a second to look up at you with slick lips and dark eyes. "Whose are you?"

"Yours," you sobbed softly, your knuckles white as you gripped his collar. "God, Spencer, I'm all yours- "

That was all he needed to hear. Spencer plunged his fingers back inside you while his thumb clamped down hard on your clit.

The pleasure hit you like a wave, crashing over your nervous system so fast it tore a loud, breathless scream from your throat. Your inner walls clamped down tight around his fingers, your entire body trembling violently as your orgasm ripped through you. Spencer held you firm against the door, catching every drop of your release, kissing your inner thighs as you slowly came down from the peak.

He slowly stood up, pulling you up into his arms and lifting you easily against his chest.

His glasses were slightly crooked, his breath coming in hot, shallow hitches against your ear as he carried you toward the bedroom.

"Good," Spencer whispered, his lips pressing a possessive, lingering bite against the crook of your neck, right where everyone at the precinct would be able to see it tomorrow. "Don't ever make me share you again."

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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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midnight lingering.

one-shot | 18+

pairing. james potter x sirius black x remus lupin x fem!reader

genre. smut, heavy angst-to-heat, established friends-to-lovers, polyamory, worship, light overstimulation

warnings. 18+, explicit sexual content, oral sex (receiving and giving), double penetration, spanking, light praise degradation, unprotected sex, rough sex mixed with tender worship, overstimulation.

word count. ~2k

summary.

After a night of celebrating the end of exams in the Gryffindor common room, the quiet tension that’s been building between you, James, Sirius, and Remus for months finally snaps behind the closed curtains of their four-poster bed.

The dormitory room smelled of fire ash, worn leather, and the heavy lingering warmth of spellwork.

It was long past midnight. Downstairs, the Gryffindor common room had finally fallen quiet after hours of post-NEWT chaos, but up in the boys’ dorm, the heat was far from dissipated.

You sat cross-legged on the edge of the large velvet-draped four-poster bed, your knees brushing against James’, who was leaning back against the wooden headboard with his tie pulled loose and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Sirius hovered behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm and heavy against the crook of your neck. Across from you, Remus sat on the floor, resting his back against the bedframe with an open book in his lap that he hadn't turned a page of in over twenty minutes.

"You're staring, Moony," Sirius murmured, his fingers trailing absentmindedly along the sensitive skin of your waist, hooked just beneath the hem of your oversized sweater.

Remus looked up slowly, dark amber eyes tracking the movement of Sirius’ hand against your bare hip. "Can you blame me?"

"I certainly don't," James chimed in, his voice low and raspy. He reached out, his thumb catching your lower lip and tugging it down slightly, exposing the flush on your cheek. "She’s been driving us mad all evening."

"Me?" You let out a breathless laugh, turning your head slightly to catch James’ wrist, though you didn't pull him away. "I haven't done anything."

"That's the problem," Sirius whispered, his lips pressing a hot, lingering kiss against the slope of your neck. "You just sit there, looking at us with those wide eyes, pretending you don't know exactly what you do to the three of us."

Your breath hitched as Sirius’ hands slid beneath your shirt, his cool palms pressing directly against the heated skin of your ribs. James’ gaze darkened as he watched Sirius touch you. He shifted, pulling you by the hips until you were sitting directly in his lap, straddling his thighs.

"James..." you gasped softly as your core brushed against the growing hardness beneath his trousers.

"You're not going back to your dorm tonight," James said, his hand gripping the back of your neck gently, guiding your mouth to his.

The kiss was desperate, possessive, and thick with the months of unexpressed longing that had built up between the four of you. James tasted like firewhisky and dark chocolate. His tongue slid against yours, demanding a response that you eagerly gave, your fingers tangling into his messy dark hair.

Behind you, Sirius purred in approval, his hands moving up to squeeze your breasts over your bra. "Look at her, Moony. Sitting in Jamie's lap like she belongs there."

Remus stood up, closing his book with a soft thud and setting it on the bedside table. He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, crawling over until he was kneeling right beside you. His large, warm hand rested on the back of your thigh, squeezing tightly enough to leave a faint mark.

"She does belong here," Remus agreed, his quiet voice dangerously commanding. He leaned in, taking over your lips the moment James let you go to catch his breath.

Where James was urgent, Remus was slow, deep, and thoroughly possessive. He devoured your mouth, his tongue tracing your upper lip before pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down just hard enough to make you whine into his mouth.

"Fuck," Sirius muttered, his patience wearing thin. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your skirt and pulled it down over your hips in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your lace underwear. "Shirt off too, love. Let us look at you."

James helped you pull your sweater over your head, tossing it onto the floor. When his eyes landed on your chest, his jaw tightened. Without a word, he unhooked your bra, letting it fall away.

"Gorgeous," James whispered, leaning forward to take one of your peaked nipples into his mouth.

You let out a loud gasp, arching your back into his touch as he sucked firmly, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud while Sirius stroked the other side. Remus lowered his head, pressing hot kisses along your throat down to your collarbone, his hand sliding down to cup you through your damp panties.

"You're so wet already," Remus murmured, his thumb rubbing small, agonizing circles over your center through the lace. "Have you been thinking about this all night?"

"Yes," you whined, your hands grasping blindly at James’ shoulders as he bit softly down on your breast. "Remus, please- "

"Please what?" Sirius teased, his hand sliding down to join Remus', his fingers slipping past the edge of your underwear to sink two fingers straight into your wet heat.

You gasped loudly, your hips bucking up against his hand. "Sirius!"

"Shh," James warned playfully, pressing a firm kiss to your jaw. "Do you want the whole house to hear what we're doing to you?"

"I don't care," you panted, your head falling back onto James' shoulder. "Sirius, fuck, don't stop..."

Sirius chuckled, a low, wicked sound against your ear. He pumped his fingers inside you, feeling the tight, hot slickness wrapping around him. "Look at her, boys. She's begging already."

"Strip," Remus commanded, his amber eyes locked onto yours as he stood back up to shed his own trousers and shirt.

James didn't need to be told twice. He lifted you easily, setting you down in the middle of the mattress before kicking off his trousers and underwear, his thick, erect cock springing free. Sirius stripped just as quickly, his dark hair falling wildly over his shoulders as he knelt between your open legs, pulling your panties off and tossing them aside.

"My turn," Sirius murmured, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling your hips to the edge of the bed.

Before you could process his words, his tongue slid straight up your slit, catching your clit with expert precision. You shrieked, your hands digging into the bedsheets as Sirius began to eat you out with relentless intensity. He dragged his tongue long and flat over your wetness, sucking your clit into his mouth while two of his fingers worked rapidly inside you.

"Ah! Sirius- "

James climbed onto the bed behind you, pulling you back against his chest so your head rested on his stomach. He guided his hard cock to your mouth, his thumb rubbing over your lower lip. "Take me in, sweetheart. Help your mouth stay busy so you don't wake the portraits."

You opened your mouth gladly, wrapping your lips around James’ thick head and taking him as deep as you could. He let out a low groan, his hands gripping your hair to establish a slow, rhythmic thrust against your throat while Sirius ate you out below.

Remus knelt beside you, his long fingers trailing down your torso before pressing two fingers into your mouth alongside James' cock, forcing you to stretch wide. "Good girl," Remus praised softly, his thumb caressing your cheek as you swallowed around James. "Taking so much at once."

The dual sensation of James stretching your mouth and Sirius' relentless tongue between your legs sent a violent wave of pleasure crashing through your body. Your hips shook uncontrollably as your core clamped down tightly around Sirius’ fingers.

"She's coming," Sirius growled against your core, sucking harder right on your clit.

You cried out around James’ length as your orgasm ripped through you, your whole body trembling violently. James held you tightly against him, letting you ride out the wave before pulling his cock from your mouth with a wet slick sound.

"Not done yet," James whispered darkly into your ear, moving down, his cock pressing against your entrance from behind. "We've barely started."

"Position her," Remus ordered, climbing over to line himself up in front of you.

James lifted your hips, angling you so you were on your hands and knees in the center of the bed. Sirius sat back on his heels behind James, his hands resting on your waist, keeping you steady.

Remus knelt in front of you, taking his hard, thick length and pressing the head against your aching, sensitive entrance. "Look at me," he commanded softly.

You lifted your head, your eyes hazy with teary pleasure as you met Remus’ gaze.

He pushed forward slowly, sinking his cock all the way inside you in one long, agonizingly deep stretch. You let out a muffled sob at the sheer fullness of him, your fingers clutching at the bedsheets.

"Fucking hell," Remus groaned, his hips locking against yours as he buried himself completely. "You feel unbelievable."

Before you could settle, James stepped up right behind Remus, placing his hands on your lower back. He brought his own cock down, rubbing the slick tip against your tight, unyielding back entrance.

Your eyes widened in shock. "James- "

"Trust us, love," James cooed, kissing the top of your head as he applied steady, firm pressure. "You can take us both. We'll be so gentle with you."

"Sirius, hold her," Remus said, his hands reaching back to grip your hips securely.

Sirius leaned over you from the side, his chest pressing against your side as he stroked your hair, kissing your temple softly. "You're okay, darling. Breathe for me. Just breathe."

James slowly, relentlessly pushed his tip past your tight ring. Pain mixed with an unbearable, white-hot heat as he gradually worked himself inside you, inch by painstaking inch, while Remus stayed completely still inside your front.

"That's it," James hissed through gritted teeth, his body shaking with the effort of restraint. "So tight... fuck, you're taking all of me."

When James finally seated himself completely, you were filled so thoroughly that you couldn't even catch your breath. The feeling of both of them locked inside you sent ripples of intense, overwhelming heat straight to your core.

"Remus," James panted, his hands digging into your hips. "Move."

Remus began a slow, rolling thrust, sliding back and forth inside your front, while James established a contrasting, sharp rhythm from behind. The conflicting sensations overwhelmed your nervous system entirely. Every thrust stretched you to your absolute limit, bringing you back to the edge of delirium almost instantly.

"Ah! Oh god- James! Remus!" you cried out, tears of pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes.

"Praise her, Sirius," Remus grunted, his pace quickening as he slammed deeper into you. "Tell her how good she's taking it."

Sirius slid his hand beneath your belly, his thumb finding your slick clit and rubbing it with fast, firm pressure. "You're being such a perfect little slut for us," Sirius whispered wickedly into your ear. "Taking two Marauders at once... look how dirty you are for us."

The crude praise combined with the relentless, dual friction pushed you over the edge. You squealed, your inner walls contracting so hard around both of their cocks that Remus let out an uncharacteristic, guttural roar.

"Fuck, she's clamping down!" James growled, his thrusts turning wild and unrefined as he chased his own release.

Remus slammed forward one final time, burying himself as deep as possible as he came inside you, his hot seed flooding your core. Seconds later, James followed, his hips snapping hard against your rear as he released inside your tight back passage with a deep, shaky exhale.

As they both slowly pulled out, you collapsed forward onto the mattress, completely breathless and trembling.

Sirius immediately rolled you over onto your back, pulling your limp body into his chest. He gathered you close, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, and your lips with soft, reverent affection.

"You did so well, my sweet girl," Sirius murmured, stroking your sweat-dampened hair away from your face.

James slid in behind you, wrapping a long arm around your waist and pulling you tight against his warm chest, his lips pressing into the back of your neck. Remus laid down in front of you, his large hand cupping your cheek as he pulled the heavy duvet over all four of you, sealing you into your own private world.

"No more keeping secrets," Remus whispered softly, his amber eyes shining with affection in the dark. "You're ours now."

You smiled, nestling deeper into the tangle of their arms and legs, finally warm, completely fulfilled, and exactly where you belonged.

thank you for reading ♡

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after the storm.

updated & expanded version

part three of three- overtime in 214. | 18+

pairing. spencer reid x bau!reader

genre. smut, high heat, dominant spencer, light restraint, praise, overstimulation, soft aftercare

warnings. explicit sexual content, 18+ only, light bondage (use of a silk tie), overstimulation, praise, biting/marking, gentle cleanup & aftercare.

word count. tbd

summary.

The shy, hesitant front completely crumbles in the quiet darkness of Room 214. Tired of holding back, Spencer takes total control over the bed before showing you the deeply devoted, tender side that follows.

The quiet hum of the rain against the glass was completely drowned out by the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Spencer lingered over you, his tall, lean frame casting a heavy shadow in the dim moonlight. The shy, stammering genius from the lobby was entirely gone, replaced by a man whose hazel eyes burned with an intense, possessive dark flame. His large hands slid down your sides, his thumbs pressing firmly into your hips to hold you pinned to the mattress.

"Spencer..." you breathed, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs as he leaned down, his mouth brushing right over the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Spencer whispered against your skin, his voice deep, raspy, and dangerously authoritative. His lips nipped lightly at your collarbone, making you gasp. "Tell me right now, sweetheart, because if you don't, I'm not letting you out of this bed."

"Don't stop," you sobbed softly, your hands tangling into his messy dark curls to pull him closer. "Please, Spencer. Don't stop."

A low, dark chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, a sound so foreign coming from him that it sent a shiver straight to your core. "Good girl."

Without breaking eye contact, Spencer reached over to the nightstand. His long fingers snagged the dark silk tie he had neatly draped over his satchel hours earlier. He brought it over, letting the smooth fabric drag across your flushed cheeks and down your neck.

Your breath hitched. "Spencer?"

"Hands above your head," he instructed smoothly. It wasn't a question; it was a quiet, unyielding command.

You obeyed instantly, bringing your wrists together over the pillow. Spencer worked with terrifying, meticulous efficiency, the same nimble, precise hands that analyzed forensic evidence and cracked ciphers now wrapping the smooth silk around your wrists, anchoring them snugly to the headboard's wooden slats. It wasn't painfully tight, but it was secure enough to leave you completely helpless beneath him.

"Statistically," Spencer murmured, leaning down until his lips were a fraction of an inch from yours, "sensory deprivation and physical restriction increase tactile sensitivity by over forty percent. I want to make sure you feel every single thing I do to you."

He didn't give you time to process his words before his mouth slammed into yours, conquering your lips with a fierce, possessive heat.

His hand moved down to the hem of your shirt, yanking it up and over your head with one swift motion, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. Spencer broke the kiss, his gaze dropping down your body with an open, hungry worship that made your skin burn.

"So beautiful," he whispered, his hands cupping your bare breasts, his thumbs sweeping firmly over your hardened nipples. "God, you have no idea how many times I've profile-analyzed my own thoughts just to stop myself from staring at you in the bullpen."

He leaned down, taking one peak into his hot mouth and sucking firmly. You arched your back off the bed with a loud, breathless shriek, your tied hands pulling uselessly against the silk knot at the headboard. Spencer swirled his tongue aggressively around the peak, his teeth lightly nipping the sensitive flesh until you were squirming helplessly beneath his weight.

"Spencer- please!" you whined, your thighs rubbing together in a desperate bid for friction.

"Not yet," he growled softly against your skin, his hands moving down to the waistband of your sweatpants.

He hooked his fingers into the fabric, dragging your pants and underwear down your legs in one fluid motion, tossing them onto the floor. He spread your knees wide, stepping onto the mattress between your open legs. His hazel eyes darkened as he looked down at your dripping, aching center.

"Look at you," Spencer praised softly, his voice thick with awe as he slid two long fingers through your slick heat. "So wet for me. Did you think about this, too?"

"Yes- fuck, yes," you gasped, your hips bucking upward as his fingers began to pump inside you with a steady, relentless rhythm.

Spencer leaned forward, his free hand gripping your chin to hold your face still while he thrust his fingers deeper, his thumb grinding down flat over your swollen clit. Every stroke was calculated, precise, hitting your internal sweet spot with terrifying accuracy.

"You're doing so well," he murmured into your mouth, kissing you deeply as his thumb worked over your bud in tight, fast circles. "Take my fingers, sweetheart. Show me how much you want this."

The combination of his crude praise, his expert touch, and the restriction of your wrists pushed you straight to the edge. Your inner walls clamped down tight around his fingers, a high-pitched moan escaping your throat as your body trembled violently in the grip of a sudden, sharp orgasm.

Spencer felt every contraction, a dark smirk touching his lips as he pulled his fingers free, slick and shining in the moonlight.

"That was just the warm-up," he whispered rasply.

He reached down, shoving his flannel pants down his hips along with his briefs, freeing his thick, intimidating length. He didn't offer a slow transition; he brought his broad head directly to your wet entrance, alignment precise, and shoved himself all the way inside you in one long, agonizing deep stroke.

Your eyes flew open, a muffled scream caught in your throat as your back arched completely off the mattress. "Spencer!"

"I've got you," he grunted through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as he buried himself to the hilt, holding himself completely still inside you while your body adjusted to his size. "Breathe, baby. Look at me."

You looked up into his dark eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs as his inner walls squeezed tightly around his length.

"You feel incredible," Spencer groaned, his forehead dropping against yours as he began to draw back, only to slam forward again with a heavy, deliberate snap of his hips. "So tight... so soft..."

He established a fast, powerful rhythm that made the cheap wooden bed frame creak against the wall. Every thrust was deep, possessive, and hit the exact spot inside you that made your vision go white. Spencer wasn't holding back anything, his long legs straddling yours, his hands gripping the mattress beside your head for leverage as he drove into you over and over again.

"Spencer! Ah- god, Spencer!" you cried out, your head thrashing against the pillow, your wrists tugging against the silk tie.

"Say my name again," he commanded, leaning down to bite the skin of your neck, leaving a small mark that would take days to fade. "Let me hear how much you belong to me tonight."

"Spencer- I'm yours- fuck, I'm yours!"

"That's it," he praised rasply, his thumb reaching down between your bodies to grind hard against your clit with every thrust. "Come again for me, sweetheart. Clamp down on my dick and let me feel it."

The intense friction, combined with his raw, possessive words, shattered your last thread of control. Your body convulsed into another shattering orgasm, your core contracting violently around him.

The tight squeeze of your release pushed Spencer over his own edge. He let out a low, guttural growl, his thrusts turning wild and unrefined as he slammed into you three more times before freezing deep inside you, his entire body going rigid as his release flooded your core.

He held you tightly, his chest heaving against yours as the room fell quiet, save for the sound of your shared, ragged breathing.

For several long minutes, neither of you moved.

Slowly, carefully, Spencer lifted his head. The dark, possessive fire in his eyes had melted completely away, replaced by a soft, anxious tenderness that made your heart swell.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asked softly, his voice thick with concern as he searched your face. "Did I hurt you? Was that too much?"

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking your head against the pillow. "Spencer, it was perfect. You were amazing."

A wave of visible relief washed over his face, a faint, adorable blush creeping up his neck. "Okay. Good. Okay."

He immediately shifted, carefully pulling out of your body with a soft sigh before kneeling beside your head. His long, nimble fingers quickly set to work untying the silk scarf from your wrists, gently rubbing the faint red marks left on your skin before pressing sweet, lingering kisses to both of your palms.

"Let me take care of you," he murmured softly.

Spencer stood up, barefoot and completely unbothered by his nakedness as he walked into the tiny bathroom. He returned a moment later carrying a warm, damp hotel towel and a glass of cool water.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, his touch impossibly gentle as he wiped away the slick evidence of your shared night from your inner thighs and stomach. Every movement was slow, reverent, and deeply affectionate, a total contrast to the fierce dominance he had shown minutes earlier.

When he finished, he set the towel aside and held the glass of water to your lips, supporting your head while you took a few slow sips.

"Thank you," you whispered softly.

"Always," Spencer smiled, setting the glass on the nightstand.

He pulled the heavy duvet back up over both of you, sliding into bed and pulling you flush against his chest. He wrapped his long arms around your waist, pulling your back into his chest, and buried his face into the crook of your neck.

"We have to get up in forty-five minutes," you noted quietly, feeling his warm breath tickle your skin.

"Statistically speaking," Spencer murmured sleepily into your hair, his thumb stroking a slow, soothing circle over your hip, "we can call in a thirty-minute delay to the airfield without disrupting the flight trajectory."

You laughed softly, resting your hand over his on your waist. "Good idea, Dr. Reid."

"Go to sleep, sweetheart," Spencer whispered, his lips lingering softly against your crown as you drifted off in his arms. "I've got you."

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after the storm.

updated + expanded version

part two of three— the only bed.

pairing. spencer reid x bau!reader

genre. romance, forced proximity, one bed trope, quiet intimacy, flustered spencer, slow burn

warnings. suggestive themes, emotional tension, soft touch.

word count. tbd

summary.

Waking up at 3 AM in the quiet stillness of Room 214, the strict boundaries you and Spencer set crumble when you find yourself wrapped in his arms, and Spencer’s nervous composure finally cracks.

The storm outside had settled into a steady, rhythmic drumbeat against the window glass.

Inside Room 214, the air was warm, heavy with the quiet stillness that only exists in the deepest hours of the night. The small digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft green: 3:14 AM.

You woke up slowly, not from a bad dream or a sudden noise, but from an overwhelming wave of heat radiating against your back.

In the middle of the night, the rigid foot of distance Spencer had sworn to keep had completely evaporated.

You were tucked firmly against his chest, your back pressed flush into his front. Spencer’s long arm was thrown heavy and secure over your waist, his large palm resting flat against your stomach, anchoring you to him. His breath was slow and steady, his chin resting near the crown of your head, smelling faintly of clean hotel soap and cedarwood.

For a long moment, you didn't move. The sheer comfort of being held by him, of feeling the solid, rhythmic beat of his heart against your spine, was so intoxicating that you just closed your eyes, letting yourself soak in every inch of him.

Then, Spencer shifted.

He let out a soft, low sigh in his sleep, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist to pull you even closer, his thumb stroking a slow, unconscious line over the fabric of your shirt. His face buried deeper into your neck, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right below your ear.

A tiny, involuntary gasp escaped your chest.

Instantly, the steady rhythm of Spencer’s breathing stopped.

You felt the exact moment he woke up and realized where he was. His entire body went rigid as a board behind you. The heavy arm over your waist froze, his long fingers lifting off your stomach as if he’d just touched a hot iron.

"Oh," Spencer squeaked softly, his voice thick and deep with sleep. "Oh, g-god. I'm- I'm so sorry- "

He began frantically scrambling backward, trying to retreat to his edge of the mattress, but in his uncoordinated haste, his foot got tangled in the heavy hotel duvet. He let out a soft grunt as he nearly tumbled off the side of the bed.

You couldn't help it; a quiet, breathless laugh bubbled up from your chest.

You turned over onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him in the dim moonlight. Spencer was sitting up against the headboard, his curls wild and sticking up in every direction, his face buried entirely in his hands. Even in the dark, you could see the dark, fiery flush spreading down his neck and chest.

"Spencer," you whispered gently, reaching out to touch his wrist. "Hey. Breathe."

"I was supposed to stay on my side," Spencer muttered miserably through his fingers, his voice muffled. "I told you I didn't move in my sleep. That was a lie. Well, technically it wasn't a lie because I didn't know I was going to do that, but scientifically, subconscious physical inclination toward proximity often manifests during light REM sleep cycles when lower inhibitory control-"

"Spencer," you cut in softly, your fingers wrapping around his wrist and gently pulling his hand away from his face so he had to look at you. "It's okay. I didn't mind."

Spencer went completely still.

His hazel eyes, wide and unguarded without his glasses, locked onto yours. The flustered, frantic energy that usually surrounded him seemed to stall out, replaced by a quiet, heavy tension that settled over the bed.

"You... you didn't mind?" he asked softly, his voice dropping into that low, raspy register that made your skin tingle.

"No," you admitted, your thumb lightly stroking the inside of his wrist, feeling the frantic, hammering pace of his pulse against your skin. "I actually liked it."

Spencer swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He slowly let his gaze drop to your lips, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

"I'm not very good at this," Spencer confessed in a quiet whisper, his long fingers carefully reaching out to cover your hand where it rested on his wrist. His touch was warm, surprisingly firm for a man who spent all his time being so careful with the world. "At... reading signals. Or knowing when it's okay to say things out loud. I keep analyzing every interaction we've had for the last six months, trying to calculate the probability of whether you felt the same way."

Your heart did a hard, painful flip in your chest. "And what did your calculations say?"

"That I was being hopelessly optimistic," he murmured, a soft, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Because someone like you... surrounded by people like Morgan or Hotch... there was no logical reason for you to look twice at me."

"Spencer, you are the most brilliant, incredible man I've ever met," you said fiercely, leaning closer until there were only a few inches of space between your faces. "You really think I care about 'logic' when it comes to you?"

Spencer stared at you, his breath hitching. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand, his long fingers cupping the side of your neck. His thumb rested against your jawline, feeling the erratic flutter of your pulse.

"You're making it very hard for me to be rational right now," he whispered, his eyes dark with an intensity that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.

"Then stop being rational," you breathed against his cheek, closing the last bit of distance between you.

Your lips brushed his in a soft, feather-light kiss, a gentle, questioning touch that lasted only a second before you began to pull back to gauge his reaction.

But Spencer didn't let you pull away.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, and before you could even register the change, his hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling firmly into your hair. He pulled you back to him, deepening the kiss with a sudden, desperate hunger that took your breath away.

His mouth moved over yours with surprising confidence, his tongue sliding past your lips to taste you, hot and possessive. The shy, hesitant genius who couldn't even make eye contact with you a couple of minutes ago had completely vanished, replaced by a man who was holding you like he was never going to let you go.

You let out a soft moan against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the front of his soft undershirt, pulling him down over you. Spencer shifted, his heavy body hovering over yours, his knees sliding between your thighs as he deepened the kiss, pressing you into the mattress.

When he finally broke the kiss for air, his forehead rested against yours, both of your chests heaving in the quiet room. His eyes were pitch-dark, fixed entirely on your flushed lips.

"We have to wake up in two hours," Spencer panted softly, his hand sliding down your neck to rest over your chest, feeling your racing heart.

"I know," you whispered, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw.

A slow, dark smirk, one you had never seen on his face before, touched his lips as he looked down at you.

"Good," Spencer murmured, his voice dropping into a raspy, possessive growl that made your breath catch. "Then we shouldn't waste any more time sleeping."

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