10 Things For People I Want To Know Better

wip ask game!

i got tagged three times so i might as well hehe

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. tag as many people as you have wips. people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

• the sunflower in the graveyard (pt. 2)

• a very needed vacation

• free now (pt. 2)

• moon song

• you feel like home

@beenreidingaboutyou @cheriesbucky @reidrum <33

when are we getting part 3 of “anything for ellie”?

I PROMISEEEEE SOOOOOOONNNNN i just got a second job so i’m trying to work my writing into my days off but i’m exhausted most of the time now🫠 i promise, it will be out- i’m aiming for beginning of/mid march <33

Hello!! I just wanted to say I loveeeeeeeeeed anything for Ellie! It was soooooo cute!!! I was wondering if you were interested in writing a part 2 with the birthday party maybe with a confession 👀 anyways take care ♥️♥️

ahhh thank you so much!!! i am planning on writing a part two 🤫 maybe a part three, if we see what goes on from there that is 🙈

I love dean

Things people forget about Dean Winchester:

Friendly reminder that Dean is a much more complex character than we give him credit for.

1.  He’s highly intelligent.

Sam is generally regarded as “the smart one,” but the only real difference between them in regards to intelligence is the fact that Sam pursued higher education while Dean stuck to hunting with his father.  Had Dean pursued a college career, there’s little doubt in my mind that he would have been just as smart as Sam.  

(Yes, I’m serious.)

Aside from the fact that he evidently enjoys reading some pretty heavy stuff (he’s referenced The Iliad, the Odyssey, Slaughterhouse 5, Cat’s Cradle, Aesop’s Fables, and even Shakespeare) and is secretly the biggest nerd in the entirety of the universe…

…We can’t forget the fact that he basically fully supported both himself and Sam since he was younger than ten.  In their childhood flashbacks, we see him caring for Sam for days (and sometimes weeks) on end.

Even when he was approximately four years old, he showed a surprising amount of emotional intelligence:  during his and Sam’s trip to heaven, we see him comforting his mother and reassuring her that John loves her.

2.  He has a lot of typically feminine interests.

At first glance, Dean can appear to be the epitome stereotypical, hypermasculine white man archetype, so commonly present in almost all forms of modern media.  Even casual fans should be able to decipher that this is not true, and I’m not even talking about the Taylor Swift music and pink satin panties.

Or the fact that he loves shows like Doctor Sexy M.D.

Or the fact that he’s what can best be described as really, REALLY high-maintenance.

He also loves cooking and cleaning.

And is extremely good with babies and children.

Not to mention the fact that he’s basically more of a mom to Sam than he is his brother.

3.  He’s probably been the victim of sexual violence.

On a more serious note, Jensen and other cast members have stated that at some point in his adolescence, Dean probably had to do some form of prostitution in order to support Sam.

Not to mention the somewhat disturbing fact that he recognized the feeling of being roofied in The Purge. (Of course, he deflected this by claiming it was a precaution, which I personally don’t buy for a second).

 Also, to believe that he didn’t undergo some form of sexual abuse during his forty years in hell is not only overly optimistic, but extremely naive (especially considering the way demons have approached him before).

Finally, Dean’s promiscuity and obsession with sex is a surprisingly common defense mechanism among survivors, stemming from a desire to regain control over their own bodies and sexuality.

4.  He struggles with depression and alcoholism.

Dean has very visible bouts of depression at different points throughout the series, and he deals with all of them in similar ways.

The first appears to be after his stay in hell.  He suffers from insomnia, nightmares, and drinks constantly.

We see him “coping” with Castiel’s death similarly in season seven, after which he has nightmares of the event in question, subsequent insomnia, and again, more drinking.

This becomes a more common event throughout seasons nine and ten, during his struggle with the mark of Cain. 

Even Demon!Dean isn’t immune.

But on a more positive note…

5.  He’s bi as hell (whether the writers know it or not).

I’ve heard people say Dean wasn’t “accused” of being bisexual until Cas was introduced.  Well, I truly pity those people – it must be difficult to be visually and mentally impaired.

For one thing, his siren was male.

It’s implied he had sex with a gay dominatrix. 

He flirts

with guys 

CONSTANTLY.

Not to mention his “summer of love” with Crowley.

But it’s true that Castiel takes the cake.  

For one thing, they’re basically married, and have been since season four.

And they have a ridiculous amount of sexual tension.

So.

Much.

Tension.

And zero personal space.

Like, what the fuck even is this shit.

JUST FUCKING KISS ALREADY BEFORE ONE OF YOU EXPLODES.

There is literally no doubt in my mind that Dean is bi, whether the writers intended him to be or otherwise.  They gave us great characters, and we can interpret them however we please.

Let Me Ease Your Worries

Spencer Reid × Midsize!Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer finds it hard to understand when you need reassurance. When you tackle the topic, he wants to show you just how much he loves your body (smut with plot).

Genre: angst, fluff, smut

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: negative self talk, body dysmorphia (may be sensitive for people with ED experiences), swearing, kissing, nudity, oral sex (f!receiving), intimate touching (Spencer and reader touch each other's genitalia briefly), unprotected penetrative sex, creampie.

A/N: This is the first smut fic I've posted in literal years, so be patient as I edited this super quickly 🙏 there's no real sub/dom dynamic although there are moments where Spencer is on the subbier side. Although this is listed as midsize!reader, plusize!readers are also welcome, I just thought certain descriptions wouldn't fit the exact experience of a plus-size person.

Spencer was the smartest person you had ever met. IQ of 187 with 3 PHDs and 2 BAs under his arm deemed him an academic weapon. He was an expert when it came to statistics and basically everything else that piqued the genius’ interest. Literature and texts were no match for him as he whizzed through them at lightning speed, each glyph sticking to his brain in a lifelong bond.

With all his knowledge, it wouldn’t be unrealistic to assume there was nothing Doctor Spencer Reid could not achieve - except being able to comprehend the fact you needed constant reassurance, that is.

You had been dating the boy wonder for two years and it was safe to say you had never felt happier or luckier. He was sweet and caring, yet timid; but that didn’t stop him from worshipping the ground you walked on. Spencer thought he was subtle about it, but he clung to you like a lost puppy - he was hopelessly in love.

Thus, it was near impossible for the young man to think that there was ever a doubt in your mind that you weren’t the most beautiful girl to him.

Self-confidence was never your forte. Your childhood and teenage years were spent focusing on school rather than boyfriends and first kisses. Not that you wouldn’t have liked to. The opportunity just never revealed itself before Spencer - and you blamed that on your body. A soft, friendly face had no effect when paired with your round stomach and filled-in hips and thighs.

Spencer hadn’t actually realised you were insecure about yourself, because why would you be? All he saw was a natural beauty and happiness gleaming off of you.

So when the time came where your insecurities got the best of you, your boyfriend wasn’t the exact blueprint of awareness. Ever the oblivious boy, he couldn’t figure out why there were days when you went quiet or didn’t reciprocate his affection as much. Being a profiler at the BAU should have made him better at this, you thought.

That was until you had a particularly harsh day after work. With long shifts at the bookshop and days spent apart from Spencer because of his job, you were mentally exhausted. At 5.30pm, you shoved the key into your front door and sighed, happy at last to be home. A tired Spencer clad in red checkered pyjama pants and a Caltech t-shirt was sprawled on the sofa. He had messaged you a few hours before that the case had closed and he was returning home for the rest of the weekend.

He flashed you his signature toothy grin and got up from his comfortable place amongst the cushions and blanket, padding across the wooden floor in his cute purple and red socks.

“Hi,” he spoke softly as he leaned down to give you peck on your cheek. “I missed you.”

You smiled and nodded, reaching for his hand and rubbing your thumb across his knuckles. “Missed you too.”

Despite knowing each other for five years, you were both still shy in the other’s presence. You had had the occasional make out session and even managed to share a few nights tangled amidst the sheets after mustering up the courage. Nonetheless, you acted as if you had only been dating for a month.

After kicking off your shoes and throwing your bag on the floor, you plopped on the sofa in your usual corner, resting your head on the back.

Spencer remained by the front door, standing awkwardly and playing with the fingertips of his right hand. He looked utterly adorable with his pyjama bottoms loose at his hips and his t-shirt sliding off a shoulder - but his eyes hid something flickering behind them.

The sound of him clearing his throat resonated around the room and you looked upwards. Spencer opened his mouth to say something and then quickly shut it.

“What’s wrong? You’re gaping like a fish.”

You giggled and he smiled in return, letting out a light-hearted sigh.

“Is something up? You … you didn’t kiss me like you usually do when I’ve been away on a case.”

And he was right. It was like a routine to jump into his arms and cover him with kisses every time you were apart. But today you couldn’t shake the heavy feeling looming over you: that you were less than he deserved, both in actions and looks.

You didn’t want to display your worries so openly, so you beckoned him to come over with a stretch of your arm and a weak smile, holding his face between your palms once he neared. You craned your neck and placed a soft kiss on his cracked lips.

“I’m sorry, Spence - nothing’s up, just tired.”

Spencer quirked his head to the side as he looked down at you, the profiling cogs in his brain turning to read the expression on your sullen face.

“On average, women tell three lies to their partners and co-workers daily - and I can tell you’re lying.”

You rolled your eyes, avoiding his gaze to escape the intimidating and unblinking look he sported when trying to guess what was going on in your head.

“You’re annoying when you’re smart, do you know that?”

He knew you were teasing him and he chuckled, shaking his head before sitting down next to you. He hovered his hand over your thigh before setting it back down in his lap; outright displays of affection were still a guessing game for Spencer, never knowing if you wanted his touch or not, or if it was the right course of action.

“It comes in handy when I know you’re worried about something. You gave a vague answer, you avoided eye contact, and you scratched your neck before answering. All of those factors, especially self-grooming and self-soothing behaviours, are signs that one is lying.”

Although often a blessing, Spencer’s intellect was a curse when you tried to hide your anxieties.

“Just a bad self-image day, darling.”

Only confusion spread across your boyfriend’s face.

“What do you mean? You’ve never mentioned this before.”

“Because I didn’t need to before. I just …” You paused. “Not feeling very good about myself. About how I look.”

It should’ve been easy for him to understand what you were getting at, but he looked completely lost.

“I don’t follow.”

You shifted to better look at him and crossed your legs underneath you, Spencer mirroring your position. Somehow, you had to explain what insecurity felt and looked like to this supposed all-knower of things.

“Sometimes Spence, I don’t feel very confident in how I look. In how I am perceived.”

Spencer looked at his hands for a few moments before looking up and saying, “61% of adults express negative thoughts regarding their physique, but I wouldn’t think you’d showcase that. Did something trigger this?”

You shrugged, wrapping your arms around your torso in an attempt to shield your body from his strong stare.

“I feel like maybe … I don’t deserve you, like I should look better for you, be prettier.”

Spencer’s mouth fell slightly agape, the first time he had been rendered speechless all evening. His eyes seemed empty, searching for the next thing to say to an answer he never expected leaving your mouth.

“What do you mean prettier? You’re my girlfriend, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he said this with a slight tremble in his voice which indicated disbelief.

“You just say that because you have to.”

If he was puzzled before, now he was completely dumbfounded.

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this. No one forced me to say that.” He went silent for a second. “Covering one’s body with their arms is an attempt at shielding oneself, thus indicating fear and insecurity.”

Spencer wasn’t sure if he gave you a reason to feel insecure about yourself. Sure, he wasn’t the best person at expressing his love through words and physical affections, but to him it was undeniable that he adored you.

“Why do you feel insecure about yourself? Did I say something or imply that I don’t want you?”

The opportunity to speak up about the deep-rooted hatred you had for your physique had never surfaced until now. It was a situation you weren’t too keen on taking, even though you wished he’d asked about it earlier.

“No, no at all, you didn’t say anything! You’re nothing but kind to me.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows, urging you to continue.

“I feel like my body shape isn’t ideal and one day you’re going to realise that and leave me.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out all at once: a breath, a tumble of words, two years’ worth of worries and unsaid thoughts out in a matter of four seconds.

A tense silence blanketed the room, the small distance between you feeling larger than ever. It was difficult to decipher the expression on the boy’s face: his eyebrows furrowed deeply as he often did when he couldn’t grasp something and his mouth shaped itself into a sad pout. Spencer stuttered before speaking.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean I’d leave you? I- I- “

“Spencer, I’m fat.”

That was it, that’s what you had been implying all this time, what you ached to confess. His eyebrows went back into place, straight as a line.

“Actually, when it comes to measuring one’s weight in accordance to their height, you’re at a healthy weight. Although the BMI scale was used as a way to calculate this in the past, it has been deemed inaccurate because-”

“Spencer, stop! I don’t care about facts, I feel ugly and I’m scared you’re going to realise that!”

You huffed, the strand of hair which had fallen across your face flying out of the way. You rubbed your hands across the expanse of your thighs, squeezing your knees. Spencer’s erratic hand movements and scientific explanation were halted.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout,” you said more calmly.

It was clear he didn’t know what to say. You had never interrupted him mid-rant, you always reassured him you were more than happy to listen. He made a scratching sound at the back of his throat, shifting his eyes down before meeting yours again, his cheeks now flushed in embarrassment.

“I think you’re beautiful. I always have.”

The comment hit a sore point in yourself. Beautiful. A word only your boyfriend had ever told you; and well, your parents, but that was a different scenario. It felt foreign, like you were taking something that didn’t belong to you.

“Spence, please, you don’t have to say that-”

“I mean it. I truly mean it.” You could tell he was being honest because of his gentle voice and wide eyes. “I don’t lie about these things. I look at you and I see someone I love, and that someone happens to be beautiful in my eyes. Nothing about you could push me away, I’d be crazy to do so. You’re stuck with me forever.” He smiled softly, trying to ease the tension in the air.

His words were sweet, but not sweet enough to dissolve your doubts.

“But you work with women who are so much prettier than I am.” You paused and said the next part quieter. “Thinner than I am.”

“Yeah, I know that. And?” That wasn’t the response that would exactly help.

“And! And, Spence! Thinner is prettier.”

“Actually, aesthetics are subjective-” You glared at him before he could continue his next statistical lesson.

He nodded, playing with his fingertips again - a habit he had developed in order to collect his thoughts.

“The first time I saw you, I thought you were prettier than anyone else I had ever met. I liked how your clothes hugged you, the way your shirts and sweaters settled around your torso. I liked that pants and skirts looked a certain way on you, because your hips and thighs made them stretch out. I still hold those views.”

He lifted his head to utter the last part.

“If what you’re implying is that because you don’t have a flat stomach - the current beauty norm - I’m going to find you unattractive, then I’m going to have to ask you to re-evaluate your method of deduction, because I prefer your body over anyone else’s.”

That’s all you wanted to hear. “Thank you, sometimes I forget.”

Spencer took a few seconds to ponder before asking, “I’ve never told you that, have I? Like, out loud.”

You shook your head meekly, smiling at him to show that you weren’t angry. “No, not really.”

Now he understood. He had never expected that you needed to be told what he thought about you to know that he was crazy about your body, about you in general. Or that it needed to be repeated, or else you’d forget.

“Can you tell me when you’re feeling this way? I didn’t know you had these thoughts, you never told me. I assumed you just … knew that I found you attractive, always.”

Communication. This was new, but a step into the right direction.

“I’m sorry for never being open about it - I will from now on.”

The brunet placed his hand over yours, which had been resting on your knee for a while now.

“I really love you, I’m sorry I don’t say it a lot. I find the weight you’re at to be really appealing, although you don’t need my approval - weight has no correlation to the strength or amount of love one is capable of receiving.”

It was impossible not to kiss him: this perfect man sat in front of you in his home attire, messy strands and waves of hair surrounding his face, uttering the kindest words which were specifically directed towards you.

You grabbed his face between your hands once more and pressed a kinder, more loving kiss to his lips. Spencer further smooshed his face against yours, playing with the frayed ends of his pyjama bottoms to ground himself - that fluttery sensation in his chest when you kissed never went away after all this time together.

Once pulling back, you rested your forehead against his, blindly searching for his hands to take them into yours. You stayed like so for a while until your boyfriend whispered, “Can I try to show you how pretty I find you?”

You straightened your back in surprise. “Show me how?”

A faint blush tinted his cheeks as he traced the bumps of your knuckles with his forefinger. “I’m never the one to initiate this, but … I’d really like to be intimate with you. I-In bed.” His stuttering was nothing short of cute. Spencer wouldn’t be Spencer without being formal when it came to your sexual life.

“You want to have sex with me, is what you’re trying to say?” You couldn’t help but blush as well, at the fact the prettiest boy you had ever laid eyes on wanted to be intimate with you; touch your body and make you feel good.

“Y-Yes, that’s what I mean. Precisely.”

“That’s the first time you ever proposed that yourself, y’know?” you teased, knocking your fist into his shoulder lightly. He chuckled and shrugged. “I try my best.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, shifting yourself onto your knees. “You can show me. Right here.”

And that was the go-ahead he needed.

He surged towards your lips, covering them in a clumsy but loving kiss, while he held your face in his large hands. A whimper escaped your mouth at the sudden movement, letting Spencer lay his weight on top of you after pushing your legs forward by pressing his fingers on the bend of your knees. Your thighs encapsulated him, a feeling which he never admitted to enjoying so much - until now.

“I really like …” He kissed you. “The way …” Another kiss. “Your thighs feel around me.” Kiss, kiss, kiss.

Your thighs tensed around his waist, tightening the grip around his body in response. Your hands moved from behind his neck to his back, rubbing them up and down in a soothing manner.

You could already feel Spencer softly rutting into you, his body flush against yours as he ground his half-hard cock into your inner thigh. You had never seen him so eager, always hesitant and embarrassed to make the first move, or take the lead.

But this was different. Although nervous, he wanted to show you how much you meant to him, how beautiful he thought you were, how your body drove him insane.

Spencer started kissing down your neck, finding the way to the sensitive spot between your neck and jaw. “I r-really like kissing you, because your skin is so warm,” he whispered near your ear. You whined, gripping his t-shirt in your fists as your hips cant forward.

You wanted to say so much, needed to. However, you were caught in the feeling of the brunet’s lips moving downwards, carefully pushing the buttons of your shirt through the slots as his open-mouthed kisses trailed across the top of your bra.

He finished unbuttoning your blouse and knelt down between your legs, cautiously placing his large palms over your clad breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze. You could tell he was mindlessly ogling them, focusing on the way the flesh moulded into his touch, and this made your face heat up.

“I don’t t-think I need to explain how much I like your um …” He cleared his throat. “Y-Your chest.” He flicked his eyes upwards to meet yours, smiling bashfully - you bit your lip and nodded. Spencer took it as a sign to take off your bra, reaching his hands behind your back to unclasp it. The garment billowed and he quickly pulled it away before discarding it onto the floor.

His pupils dilated when he glanced at your breasts, all bare in front of him, only for him to see. You felt exposed and went to cover yourself with your arms before he grasped your wrists. “You’re beautiful, you don’t need to cover yourself.” His expression radiated warmth and comfort. I have to trust him, you told yourself. With hesitation, you set your arms aside and Spencer’s hands were instantly on your chest again, his fingertips digging into the supple flesh and leaving red dotted marks behind.

You squirmed underneath his touch as you felt so seen, so exposed. It was still hard to focus on the moment and let the boy you love so dearly show his attraction to you. It was always such a challenge to do so, but now more than ever because the little confidence you had had a minute ago slipped away from your grasp when he started to undress you.

You clenched your fists by your sides, looking anywhere but at Spencer as the anxiety bubbled at your sternum. Suddenly, your face was moved and you were looking at your boyfriend again, his palms warm against your already-blazing cheeks.

“Do you need to stop?” You shook your head, unable to speak.

Spencer bit his bottom lip in thought. “I know I don’t express it well, b-but I really am attracted to you. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re beautiful. We’ve done this before, h-haven’t we?”

You nod.

“Then trust me when I say I want to see all of you. I just want to …” He swallowed deeply. “Want to be close to you.”

In reality, you were both nervous and you knew that Spencer was probably just as self-conscious about his own body as you are about yours. With a deep sigh through your nose, you nod once more to tell him to continue.

His lips were back on yours and his hands moved down to grip your hips, squeezing the fatty tissue; you felt so undeniably soft, between his fingers and against his stomach.

You pawed at his t-shirt, signalling him to take it off. He clumsily pulled back and attempted to remove it in typical Spencer Reid fashion: his head got stuck and his right arm bent in the most uncomfortable manner. You snorted underneath your breath and helped him out by pulling the bottom of the shirt over his head.

“Are you that eager?” you teased, slowly easing into the atmosphere and finding comfort.

“I’ve literally been trying to tell you that,” he exclaimed with a huff and pulled your body down from your thighs, scooting himself down until his face is hovering over your stomach.

“Spencer, what are you-”

“Please, I just want to taste you”, he said with doe eyes, his fingers already on the button of your jeans.

You shifted your hips a little, now extremely aware of yourself and how your tummy looked from Spencer’s angle where he was situated between your thighs.

“I’m not sure, my stomach looks odd-”

“I’ve dreamt about having your stomach pressed against my forehead as I eat you out for the entire week I’ve been away, please just trust me.”

Your face heated up.

“Fucking vulgar, I thought you were a sweet boy.”

His face flushed in embarrassment at realising what just left his mouth. “Can we stop focusing on what I said and just let me get on with it?” You giggled and agreed with his statement.

In a few seconds, your jeans were slipped off your legs and Spencer’s nose was buried in your panties, nuzzling the faint wet spot in the middle of the fabric. Your breath hitched at the sensation as you tried to mentally convince yourself to enjoy the moment.

His index and middle fingers hooked around the edge of your underwear and moved it to the side, finally revealing your glistening pussy. He sighed and his eyes fluttered shut once his tongue met your slit for the first time in ages, dragging the muscle along your sex.

Your thighs shuddered around his head and you tried your best not to let out a sound. This was soon deemed useless once Spencer flattened his tongue against your clit, gently spreading your lips with his index fingers.

“Oh shit.”

Your brain already felt like mush - your hyper-sensitivity was something you were ashamed of, but it deeply pleased your boyfriend.

He hummed in approval of your comment, pushing his nose against your clit to slip his tongue into your entrance, basically tongue-fucking you at a slow pace. It contrasted the usual way he hastily lapped at your pussy and made a mess of the entire thing, getting drunk on your taste. This time, however, he was really trying to show you how much he worshiped your body, despite his shy demeanour.

It eventually got impossible to stifle your sounds, even if a hand was clamped over your mouth. Soft breaths and gentle moans floated around the room, while you subconsciously moved yourself against his face.

In order to get a better hold of you, Spencer hiked your legs over his shoulders after removing your panties and placed his hands on the smooth expanse of your tummy, tenderly kneading it. What you could only describe as butterflies, although cliché, erupted inside of you. You wanted to move his hands away, tell yourself that part of you was disgusting and unworthy of admiration, but the pleasure Spencer was giving you and the love radiating off of him stopped your worries.

He continued to suck on the raw skin and flick his tongue against your sensitive bundle of nerves, every so often pushing his entire face into you and exhaling out of pure hunger. You loved how he always made sure you were enjoying yourself when he went down on you, how he showed no discomfort in having his mouth, nose, and chin buried between your legs and getting drenched in your arousal. And you knew how much messes rubbed him the wrong way, but he surely seemed to be relishing in making a mess of you.

You hadn’t noticed yet, but Spencer had been rutting his hips into the cushion of the couch for a while. He was aching to be inside you, to have your warm walls tighten around him; but your pleasure came first and foremost, especially since you were so concerned about him not being attracted to you - that was definitely not happening.

He whimpered into your cunt as he grew harder, his poor weeping cock restraining against the fabric of his boxers, his pants, and the surface beneath him.

“Fuck, I’m c-close”, you gasped, sooner than usual.

The comment sent Spencer into overdrive: he alternated between sucking harshly on your clit and spreading his tongue all over your lips and inside of you, just dying to have you cum on his face. One of his hands was still on your stomach, but the other was holding onto your waist tightly. All he wanted was to feel your soft flesh between his fingers, against any part of his body. Even the pudge of your stomach that you tried so desperately to hide drove him mad.

With one last lick to your clit, your orgasm hit you abruptly. Your hands fumbled until they found Spencer’s hair and tugged and pulled, pushing him deeper against your pussy as you soaked his face in arousal. You felt him groan as it vibrated against you, mirroring the way you were gasping for air and moaning out in pleasure. His arms were wrapped tightly around your thighs, using them to ground himself as he suffocated between them.

After a few more laden breaths, you relaxed your legs and loosened your grip on his hair. You peered down to see a blissed out Spencer resting his cheek against your inner thigh, his thumb drawing circles into your hip.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said with a laugh.

He hummed as he pushed himself upwards, subtly moving his crotch to settle against your pelvic bone for more friction.

“I should be saying thank you really.”

You pulled him in for a kiss, a thank you for what a wonderful job he had done. The taste of yourself lingered in your mouth.

Although you attempted to lengthen the kiss, he pulled back and heaved, “now please can I be inside you, I really need it so badly, it hurts.”

There was the usual needy and whiney boy you knew.

“Yes yes, I’m not going to leave you hanging, pretty boy.”

You swiftly pushed his pyjama bottoms down with his boxers and Spencer kicked them off to help. His length was hard against his pelvis, the tip all red and swollen after having nothing but humping the couch to help him get off. Gently, you wrapped a hand around the base and squeezed. That got a whine out of him, his jaw slack and still covered in your slick. You slowly dragged your hand up his shaft, tightening your grip as you neared the head and circled your thumb over his slit that was already spurting pre-cum.

“Please f-fuck, please just let me inside you, I’m already close to coming.”

“Already?” You raised your eyebrows teasingly.

“S-Shut up,” his voice wavered as he struggled to hold himself up, his hands planted on either side of your shoulders.

You let out a chuckle before letting go and resting your palm on his waist to encourage him. Nervously, he lined himself up to your entrance and tried his best not to push in all in one go. In his excitement and neediness, he missed and his cock slid up between your folds, his tip rubbing against your clit. You both exhaled.

“F-Fuck sorry, I just-” Spencer could hardly speak. His knuckles were turning white from the way he was holding the arm of the couch; he was dying to have you engulf him so he could place his hands all over your sweaty skin.

“It’s okay,” you breathed out. “Let me help.”

You reached down and grabbed his cock once again and pushed the head against your pussy. Spencer could already feel the heat emanating from you and it only spurred him on more.

With a little wiggle of his hips, he started to inch himself inside you. The warmth of your cunt gradually surrounded his dick. So warm, so wet is all he could think about.

You took him further by placing your hands on his ass and pushing. Once he was fully sheathed inside you, your boy genius could no longer think straight. All he wanted was to cum and tell you how much he loves the way you make him feel.

Hurting you or causing any pain was the last thing Spencer wanted, so he carefully pulled back until he was almost entirely out and then pushed in again with a quiet squelch.

“G-God, you feel so g-good,” he whined.

Honestly and truly, you hardly heard what he was saying because you were completely focused on how he was stretching you out so deliciously, mouth agape and eyes closed.

It didn’t take long before Spencer started to shallowly thrust into you, your gummy walls fluttering and spasming around his throbbing cock.

In an effort to be closer, Spencer laid on top you, chest to chest, and hid his face in your neck. His hands found a home in your hair, gently massaging your scalp.

Nothing could have felt any better than this: your lovely boyfriend making love to you, his nimble fingers caressing your body into a state of peace and bliss. And for him? Well, his girlfriend’s plush body pressed against his skinny figure was better than anything he could imagine.

You lazily ground into each other, whimpers and hot breaths leaving the both of you. Your hands were splayed across Spencer’s back, desperately keeping him as close as possible.

“I love you, I love you so much,” he whispered.

This man was a dream come to life and he was so sweet while being so.

You swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth before replying. “I love you too, a lot.”

He peppered kisses across your neck and traced your skin with his lips, leaving a layer of dew behind. In return, you left a few kisses on his shoulder when your head wasn’t tilted back in pleasure.

You were so tight around him and you felt so unbelievably full. Now, you weren’t going to say that Spencer had the biggest dick you could think of, but that wasn’t the point - you fit perfectly with each other and your pussy had basically moulded itself to fit snuggly around his length like a glove. You couldn’t imagine yourself having sex with anyone else, not that you wanted to anyways.

You moved your head to the side and kissed his cheek, moving a hand to rest amidst the mess of hair you loved so dearly. He had just shaved that morning so his stubble wasn’t there to scrape against your lips.

“I r-really love- oh fuck.” Speaking during intercourse wasn’t a skill Spencer had mastered as of yet. The feeling of his approaching orgasm had him reeling and he was mustering all the strength he had left to express how much he enjoyed your body and how it made him feel.

“I love … I love how you feel a-against me. You’re so soft and warm.” He gasped as he teetered on the edge.

“Your s-stomach and thighs and h-hips … God.” He hiccupped. It was hard to talk, his hands holding onto your waist.

“They’re all s-so … so soft. It drives me … insane, it- fuck drives me insane.”

Never had you felt so loved as you did at this very moment: enveloped in the arms of the boy you loved, skin-to-skin, whispering the most heartfelt words into your ear.

You wanted to reply, tell him that his words meant so much to you, but the way his tip was stamping into your sweet spot had stolen the breath out of your entire body. All you could do was gasp and let out moan after moan.

Spencer’s bony hips were smacking into the plush of your ass as he fucked into you deeper, his rhythm faltering as it all just became erratic.

“Gonna come,” Spencer whispered, as if he was asking for permission.

“Y-Yeah, go ahead,” you managed to mumble. And that’s all he needed.

With a high-pitched moan, he spilled into you as his hands moved around, just trying to grab any inch of you that he could, loving the feeling of the fat around your thighs and waist. I love you’s were muttered into your skin while his orgasm kept hitting him in waves. His hips stuttered as rope after rope of cum was milked from his tired cock, your cunt pulsating at the fact you were so close as well.

The brunet finally stopped thrusting after a while, going soft inside of you as his breathing slowed down.

“I love you too by the way,” you said quietly, scared to break the silence.

You could feel his smile on the side of your neck.

“You didn’t come yet,” he murmured before his hand found its way between your bodies, a thumb pressing onto your clit. Your body jolted in surprise.

“You really don’t h-have to, darling.”

“But I want to, want to make you feel good.”

You giggled. “You already have, silly.”

“Yeah, but you deserve more.” What an angel.

At least, you weren’t so far off from climaxing and thus a few tight circles helped you come for the second time that evening.

You laid on top of each other, not wanting to move from such a sweet embrace. Spencer had shuffled a little lower once he pulled out of you, not caring that his cum had started to ooze out of you and smear against his upper thigh, and rested his head on your chest. He couldn’t resist putting his hand on one of your boobs either.

“All that I said … it’s true,” he confessed. “I love you a lot and I think you’re pretty. And I love the parts you hate about yourself.”

You hugged him tighter, not sure how to express the appreciation you had for him. “Thank you, you don’t know how much you mean to me, Spence.”

He left a kiss on your collarbone before saying, “We need to get you cleaned up before you get a UTI. Do you know that up to six out of every ten women in the United States experience one?"

re fucking tweet.

i want mgg to make a magic trick where he makes my underwear disappear

happy national boyfriend day to spencer reid

LOU POSTED RAHHHHH

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

-

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words. 

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

the way he sucks their bottom lips in his mouth is doing something to me