#psychological experiments or physical experiments

[jacksabbotts]

SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, sexual themes involving power imbalance ( e.g., inexperience vs. experience ), intense psychological/emotional vulnerability, erotic language and descriptions, dubious consent fantasy elements ( phase one spencer’s secret masturbation / voyeuristic context ), praise kink, degradation kink, overstimulation, edging, etc. depending on phase, masturbation ( solo + mutual ), deep internal monologues bordering on obsession, insecurity-based arousal and shame, light manipulation ( reader teasing ), sexually explicit metaphors and imagery, reference to past trauma/insecurity ( emotional, not physical ), swearing, explicit dialogue

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this took absolutely forever, im sorrrry to the anon who first requested it. and to my first request anon ( i dub thee 🌟 bc you are a STARRRR! ) this is Freaky ( with a Capital F just like you asked 😏 and tumblr freakin ate your ask while i was replying to it lmao ). also every letter has four phases to coincide with each phase of spencer as shown on the series masterlist ( that is why it took literally forever for me to finish this ). it is not required to read the other parts of the series, but it will give some context. this is only A-L, part two is M-Z ( had break it up bc tumblr would let me post that many words lmao )

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 16.2k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for aftercare ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it takes spencer exactly one second after coming to regret it. not the act—never the act—but the idea that maybe he was too rough, or too quiet, or too eager, or not eager enough. that maybe you didn't enjoy yourself as much as he needed you to.

so the second your body stills beneath him, spencer is already scanning you for signs of distress. his breathing is heavy, uneven, and so is yours—but his is more panicked. yours is post-orgasmic. he can’t quite tell the difference yet.

his hand, shaky and trembling, cups the side of your face with the kind of delicate awe reserved for museum glass and rare books. 'did i—are you okay?' he asks. 'please tell me i didn’t… was it too much?'

you smile. you try to speak, but your lips are swollen and your body is jelly. he looks utterly torn, its almost adorable.

he doesn’t move off of you right away—he’s too worried that pulling away too fast will hurt you somehow. he’s never done this before. not like this. not with you. so when he does pull out, it’s slow, like he’s afraid you’ll break. his eyes flicker to where your bodies part, and he flushes from the neck up.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but something about seeing your slick on him short-circuits his brain and then he’s up—naked and fumbling, asking you where the towels are even though this was his apartment and they are his towels. he brings back a warm one from the bathroom, mumbling an apology every time he dabs too close to a sensitive spot.

'sorry—sorry. i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have—no, wait, that’s not right, i wanted to, i just—god, i hope that was good for you.'

once he’s convinced you’re okay, he clambers back into bed with a gentleness that breaks your heart a little. he wraps himself around you, one arm across your waist, lips pressed to your temple like a benediction.

there’s a moment of silence. then he whispers against your hair: 'was it ok?' the question was actually quite ridiculous for the moment because your sweaty bodies were pressed together in every single way possible and you were almost a hundred percent sure you were still shaking in post-orgasmic thrill.

his soft cock had drifted while he wiggled to get comfort. now sitting comfortably between your slick hot thighs and you wondered if he could feel the way you were still leaking for him, despite your oversensitivity.

spencer reid in phase one is the kind of man who would tuck your hair behind your ear, ask if you need water, offer to rub your back, ask again if you're sure you're okay, and then lie awake for hours watching you sleep—not in a creepy way, but in a 'how did I get this lucky' way.

and just before he finally dozes off, he murmurs it. barely audible. barely brave enough. 'i want to be good at this for you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve barely caught your breath before he’s already on you.

not sexually—affectionately. his fingers are already ghosting down your arm, across your waist, smoothing along the softest parts of you like he’s trying to calm a storm he started.

he’s flushed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. you’re both a little wrecked—your legs shaky, your lips kiss-bruised—and yet spencer looks at you like he’s still starved.

'okay?' he whispers, even though your whimpering praise had all but answered that minutes ago.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, then down your neck—his hand slipping possessively over the curve of your shoulder. you nod, and he melts. 'you looked so pretty like that,' he murmurs. 'fucking beautiful.'

his words come easier now. praise and sweetness. he mumbles them into your hair. into your throat. into the flushed skin just beneath your collarbone as he starts to kiss you again—not like before, not hungry or rushed. but soft.

'i don’t want you to move,' he tells you. 'i want you to stay just like this.'

but he moves anyway. forces himself up and out of the warm tangle of limbs, tugging on his boxers as he heads to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. he cleans you up with the kind of devotion that borders on religious—murmuring soft apologies when you flinch, even if it’s just from sensitivity.

after, he gets back into bed and pulls you onto his chest.

'you were so good for me,' he breathes. 'i hope i was good for you too.' and then he holds you like a secret. like he’s scared someone might take you from him if he loosens his grip. his hand draws slow, absentminded shapes over the curve of your spine, and he’s so close to sleep—but his mouth keeps going.

'i think about you all the time.' he breaks off, suddenly shy. 'not just like this. i mean… always.' you smile against his chest. he kisses your forehead, and that’s when you know : he doesn’t just want to be inside you. he wants to be in your life.

he wants the nights and the mornings and everything in between.

spencer reid in phase two aftercare is clingy, chatty, and deliciously lovesick. he praises you so much you nearly blush. he cleans you up like it’s a sacred act. and he falls asleep curled around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded to earth.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

you're panting, wrung the fuck out and barely coherent.

and spencer is still looking at you like he wants more, but he doesn’t touch. at least not right away. because you’re trembling, and that makes something primal in him snap—the same way it did when he came into you ( in to a condom, because this is still fresh ) while growling how tight and perfect you felt around his cock.

his hand goes straight to your thigh, fingers splayed, grounding you. his touch is a brand now—you belong to me etched into your skin without a word.

'you’re shaking,' he says, voice low. almost scolding. he doesn’t mean to, but his voice is rougher now. post-sex spencer doesn’t speak with his usual soft concern—he’s wrecked. so gone for you he’s trying to hold himself together.

'you okay, baby?'

he waits. makes you meet his eyes and when you nod—barely able to muster the strength—he exhales like he’d been holding his breath since the second he came.

then he moves. fast, comically so.

he practically scoops you up, tucking you into his lap, one arm locking around your waist while his other hand starts rubbing down your back. he’s whispering now—urgent and reverent.

'you were perfect. you’re so perfect.' 'i don’t think i’ll ever get over that.' 'you’re not allowed to leave. you hear me? not after that.'

he keeps petting you—down your spine, over your ribs, behind your neck. he needs you close. needs to touch you. he’s not done claiming you, even if the sex part is over.

and when he finally lays you down to clean you up?

he’s all focus.

gentle hands. kiss to your knee. apology when he sees the marks he left. another kiss to each one.

'you okay?' 'you need water?' 'do you feel sore? i can—' he stops, swallows. then adds softly : 'i don’t want to hurt you. i never want to hurt you.'

it’s quiet for a minute while he takes care of you. you’re too soft to speak. too warm. too full of love and dopamine.

he climbs back into bed behind you—wraps his entire body around you like he can physically shield you from the world. you smile. then melt as his hand splays over your belly and pulls you back, snug against his chest.

he doesn’t sleep for hours.

he just holds you. watches you. breathes you in like a drug. and when you wake sometime near sunrise, you’ll find his fingers still tangled in yours.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you’re gone.

totally used up—back arched, legs still twitching, your throat raw from begging him not to stop.

you’ve come more times than you can count. you’ve even cried a little and he hasn’t even come yet.

he’s too focused on you.

so when your body finally collapses into the mattress, trembling and marked from his hands, teeth, belt—spencer drops the act like a switch flipped.

his whole body softens.

'hey. you with me, sweetheart?'

he’s off the bed in seconds—wet washcloth in hand, water bottle already opened, blanket pulled over your shoulders before you can shiver. one of his hands rubs small circles into your back while the other brushes sweaty hair off your forehead.

'there you are,' he whispers. 'there’s my pretty girl.'

gone is the man who just made you cry while choking on his cock. gone is the man who called you his little slut while he fingered you until your voice broke and the sheets soaked.

now? now he’s your spencer. your everything. and he’s treating you like something fragile and holy.

'drink for me,' he says, voice low. 'just a few sips.'

you’re so far gone all you can do is let him guide the bottle to your lips. you drink. he watches.

then he kisses you.

soft, so fucking soft. barely there. not to start anything. just to ground you.

'you’re okay. you did so good for me. the best i’ve ever had.'

you start to whimper—emotional, overwhelmed—and spencer immediately hushes you. 'i know, baby. i know. you’re okay. i’ve got you.'

he lies beside you, pulling you into his chest, hand sliding over your chest to feel your heartbeat. not sexual—he just needs proof you’re real.

because after what you let him do to you? after the filth he spilled into your ear, the bruises he left behind, the way you smiled through it?

he’s never loved anyone more and he can’t let go. not now. not ever.

he presses a kiss to your temple. one to your neck. one to every fingertip.

you mumble something—half-conscious—and he whispers back :

'i’ll run you a bath when you’re ready.' 'you don’t have to move. i’ll carry you.' 'i’ll clean the sheets. just sleep, my sweet girl. just sleep.'

and you drift off—head on his chest, safe and warm—before you can even make it to the tub.

b is for body part ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

your thighs. specifically : the soft, warm, needy flesh of them grinding against him in your sleep.

he can’t un-feel it.

that night in the hotel bed changed everything. you were asleep, sure. dreaming. unaware. but your legs had wrapped around his like you were meant to be there. your knee had pressed right into his aching cock and your hips had rocked, and you had moaned, and he had listened to all of it—biting his lip and gripping the sheets while he jacked off beside you like a man possessed.

now he can’t stop looking at your thighs.

he stares when you wear pencil skirts. he flushes when you fold your legs beside him on the jet. he remembers the weight of your leg slung over his, how slick you’d been. how warm. how tight.

when you finally touch him again—really touch him—he’ll gasp when you climb onto his lap. his hands will go straight to your thighs. his mouth will follow.

because now he knows how they feel. he just wants to know how they taste.

his neck.

specifically : the spot just below his ear.

it started by accident.

you had leaned in to whisper something during a case briefing, and your lips had brushed that tender patch of skin. he’d flinched. his ears had gone red. and you’d smiled, because now you had intel.

you start doing it more often. leaning in too close. tilting your head so your breath tickles just below his jaw. he gets so flustered—and then you’re grinning to yourself for the next hour.

but then, he tells you what happened that night. the wet dream. the fact that he stayed perfectly still while your moans and movements drove him to finish in that shared bed.

you’re not mad. not at all.

in fact, the next time you two are alone, you tilt his chin, lean in, and press a kiss—right there.

his hands fly to your waist. his breath shudders and you whisper, 'told you that spot would kill you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

your mouth.

at this stage, spencer is deep in the 'i should not be thinking this' phase. he is riddled with guilt and confusion—obsessed with you in a way that makes his stomach hurt. and it starts with your mouth.

he watches it constantly. when you talk. when you laugh. when you bite your lip while reading something. when you lick whipped cream off your spoon at the coffee shop and he nearly drops his book.

and then there’s your smile—that teasing little i know what i’m doing to you smirk that haunts him at night.

he’s not proud of it, but he thinks about it. ahat your mouth would look like wrapped around his cock. would you drool as he pushed it is as far down your throat as he could, would you gag. what you’d sound like if he kissed you, really kissed you, until your lips were red and swollen and desperate.

he knows he shouldn’t, but that’s what makes it worse. 'she probably doesn’t even mean to do it,' he tells himself. 'or maybe she does. god. maybe she knows. maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.'

and suddenly he’s hard again.

for you, its his hands. no contest.

you stare at them all the time.

long, elegant fingers that twitch when he’s nervous, that spin pens and fiddle with sugar packets. that brush over file folders like they’re something sacred. that tug at his tie when he’s flustered.

and then you imagine them doing everything else. gripping your hips. curling inside you. pinning your wrists down. gripping the headboard while he finally loses control.

you’re not subtle about it either. you give him pens just to watch him fiddle. you touch his fingers unnecessarily when passing case files. you make excuses to show him things on your phone so he’ll hover behind you, hand braced on the desk beside your thigh.

you love his hands and you can’t wait to find out what else they can do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

your hips.

specifically : the dip where your waist curves into the bone—where he can grip, pull, anchor.

by now, he knows. knows you’re teasing him. knows you want him just as bad. and when he finally gets to touch you, spencer’s hands will find your hips first. like he’s been waiting for permission to hold you still.

he’s bolder now. his hands splay over your curves like he owns them. not out of dominance, but worship—because they’ve haunted his dreams. he uses your hips like a map and a metronome: holding you down when you grind against him, guiding your pace when you ride him for the first time.

his fingers leave light bruises. his mouth presses kisses along every inch he can reach. and when you whimper and tell him you can’t take anymore, he digs his fingers just a little deeper into the flesh there and says:

'yes, you can. stay still for me, sweetheart. i need—god, i need to feel you take it.'

and when you do?

he falls apart all over again.

its still his hands. ( what can you say? )

specifically : his fingers. the ones that turn pages and cradle coffee cups—and now, fuck you so tender it makes your whole body tremble. because when spencer finally stops hesitating—when he chooses to put those brilliant, clever fingers on you—everything changes.

he learns fast. he asks questions. he watches your body and listens to what it needs. when you tell him how to touch you, he doesn’t just obey—he memorizes. he practices. he wants to be perfect for you.

and he is. you could write essays about his fingers. the way he curls them just right. the way his thumb finds your clit like he was born to touch it. the way he looks up at you from between your thighs, glasses fogged, tongue out, and murmurs, 'that’s it, baby. show me how you like it.'

you love his hands so much, you start holding them all the time. in meetings. on walks. under tables. over your chest while he fucks you slow.

one day you say, 'god, spence—your hands are perfect.'

he’ll blush, because of course he will, but later that night? he’ll say—

'you like them better here?' as he slides two fingers into your pussy.

'or here?' as his palm presses flat against your tummy while he fucks you from behind.

'or maybe…' as he brushes your hair back, cups your cheek, and kisses you so deep you forget your name.

and the answer is always:

yes.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

your throat.

and not just for the obvious reasons. ( though those reasons definitely count. )

in this phase, sspencer’s obsession sharpens. the playfulness of phase one, the awe of phase two, the worship of phase three—it all fuses into something hot and dangerous and feral in the best fucking way.

he loves your throat because he can watch it work when you swallow his cum.

he loves your throat because he can feel your moans vibrate against his palm when he gently wraps his hand around it.

he loves your throat because he can lean in during an argument and whisper—

'careful. you keep pushing, and i’m gonna fuck you until your voice breaks.'

and the next morning?

he’ll kiss your sore throat better. with tea and honey and guilt-laced affection.

but he’ll still smirk when you flinch a little at the memory of him growling 'open for me' with your head tilted back against the wall.

he touches your throat when he’s soft, too. when he’s falling asleep with your pulse against his fingertips. when you say something tender and he cups your jaw like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

because at the end of the day, it’s not just about sex. it’s about how you make him feel alive. how he wants to feel your heartbeat to remind himself : she’s real. this is real. i don’t have to be alone anymore.

his cock. there’s no delicate way to say it.

you love everything about him—his brain, his hands, his back, his mouth—but by phase four?

his cock is your new religion.

and it's not just about the size ( though it’s so good, thick and long and pretty, flushed pink with that slight curve that drives you insane ). it’s not even just how he uses it ( though that’s gotten filthy, hasn’t it? ). it’s the way he loses control when you give it attention.

you touch him and he unravels. you lick him and he whimpers. you ride him and he worships.

you love how vocal he is. how needy he gets. how he tries to hold back but always ends up begging.

'please—god, please, don’t stop.' as you hollow your cheeks and suck.

'feels so good, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good.' as you grab his thigh and force him to go further into you your mouth.

'i can’t—i’m gonna come. gonna come for you, baby—please—' as his tip grazes down your throat.

you can feel how much he wants you in every thrust. every twitch. every desperate grip on your hips, your thighs, your jaw.

you love how his cock fits in your mouth. how it stretches your cunt. how it leaks like he’s been ready for you—like he’s just been waiting for permission to ruin you.

you’ll tell him, breathless and smug and completely fucked-out :

'this is mine, spence. all of it.'

and he’ll say, without hesitation— 'yours. always.'

phase four is not about restraint.

it’s about relief.

the full-body exhale after holding back for too long.

c is for cum ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t meant to cum in any of these early moments of phase one. he’s not even thinking about orgasm as a goal. he’s just trying to survive.

you’ve kissed him once—maybe twice. you’ve touched him barely. you’ve said a few devastating things that hit him square in the libido and then acted like you didn’t even notice. he doesn’t know what’s allowed, what’s wanted, what’s imagined, and what’s real.

all he knows is cock has never behaved this way before.

it’s always messy. always mortifying. always unexpected. he finishes :

in his pants in the jet bathroom after you text and ask he needs help with his hard on that you most definitely caused.

in his bedroom the night that you ask 'did you think about me when you touched yourself on the jet?' in the middle of the bullpen when he was supposed to be doing paperwork.

in his hand while guilt-jacking it to the sound of you moaning his name and fucking yourself on his thigh. and then again in the shower to the memory of your soaked thighs grinding on him in your sleep.

in your car, when your hand slips over his clothed cock and strokes him so sweetly he doesn’t even get the chance to warn you—he just chokes out your name, spills over his boxers, and pants apologies like a sinner in a confessional.

every single time, he’s horrified by how quickly he comes. every single time, he spirals afterward.

'i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to— i can clean it up— i just— you— i— i didn’t—'

he doesn’t understand how you can stay so calm. he thinks he’s ruined everything. ( he hasn’t )

you’re just sitting pretty, pretending not to be the orchestrator of his entire sexual collapse.

his thoughts rang from, 'you’re disgusting' to 'you couldn’t even hold out thirty seconds' to 'she’s going to laugh in your face.'

you’ve seen it all—his stammering, his blushing, the way he avoids eye contact after he finishes like a schoolboy caught passing a dirty note.

you just smile.

'don’t worry, spence,' you tell him. 'we’ll work on your stamina next time.'

his soul leaves his body.

his cock twitches again.

he has no idea what to do with you.

he doesn’t just like cumming—he likes cumming because of you.

the way you say his name when you know he’s close.

the way your fingers wrap around him, just curious, just careful.

the way you don’t make fun of him when he spills too fast, too hard, too full of want.

he starts to crave the release—but also the praise. the tiny gasps you make when he moans. the way your lips part when you realize he’s close. the look on your face when you ruin him.

by the end of phase one, he’s still shy, still guilt-ridden, still unsure.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve had the talk.

you know that he knows about the wet dream. the handjob. the shower.

you were not mad. you were turned on. which honestly broke spencer’s brain for a second.

now you’re in this hazy, delicious middle-ground : not dating. not just friends. definitely not innocent.

and he’s discovering something about himself : you make him needy.

this is mutual masturbation territory. the first time you both do it in front of each other, it starts slow. you’re teasing him verbally like always—just soft whispers :

'show me how you do it when i’m not there.' 'do you touch yourself when you think about the car?' 'tell me what you think about when you come.'

he resists—at first. but he’s so worked up, he’s aching. you don’t touch him this time. not directly. you just sit there, legs parted, fingertips teasing your waistband.

and spencer—god.

he fists his cock, groaning your name before he can even stop himself. it’s messy. loud. gut-wrenching. he finishes fast again, but this time he doesn’t spiral.

this time you tell him :

'good boy.'

and spencer ascends.

she wants to see me come. she likes it. she touches herself thinking about me. she touches herself for me. i can let her watch.

his orgasm isn’t just physical anymore—it’s performative in the best way. he still feels a little shy, but he’s starving for your reaction.

he loves the gasp you make when he leaks down his own fist. he loves the tiny moan you let out when he pants your name.

he loves that you keep your eyes on him the whole time.

'don’t stop watching,' he begs one night, breathless.

and you don’t.

spencer doesn’t want to cum alone anymore.

he wants to be beside you, across from you, under you—whatever it takes to feel that connection when he finally lets go. he’s beginning to understand that pleasure isn’t something to be ashamed of, especially not when it’s with you.

and he’s starting to think…

maybe you don’t want to stop. maybe this isn’t just a phase. maybe this is becoming something more.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

at this point, the gloves are off—literally and metaphorically. you and spencer are doing it. regularly. desperately. obsessively.

he’s still your best friend, still sweet, still babbles post-orgasm, but now?

he begs. he curses. he cries when you edge him long enough. and when he comes—it’s an event.

spencer doesn’t just cum in phase three. he falls apart. he crumbles. he writhes. he gasps your name like it’s sacred.

you’ve figured out the exact way to ruin him :

two fingers under his jaw to make him look at you, a filthy praise-whisper in his ear ( like 'don’t you dare finish until i say so' )

a rhythm that he’s not allowed to break

he asks permission now, every time. he says it like he’s going to die if you say no.

'please, i can’t—please let me—i want to be good, i need—'

sometimes you say yes. sometimes you wait until he’s shaking so hard he’s tearing up. when you finally say 'now,' he explodes. and then he thanks you for it, breathlessly, repeatedly, until you kiss the words off his mouth.

this isn’t just about lust anymore. this is emotional. sensory. total surrender.

spencer doesn’t care if he whimpers, or moans, or sobs into your chest. he doesn’t care if he cums too fast or too hard or too loud.

he just wants you. every second. every nerve. every ruined breath.

spencer finally understands that pleasure can be exquisite and still be safe. that it’s okay to need something intense—because you make it okay.

he learns how far he can go. how much he can take. and that the second he looks into your eyes and says 'i can’t take it'—you’ll say 'yes, you can. just one more for me, baby.'

and he will.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

sex with spencer is no longer about discovery—it’s devotion. not just heat, not just hunger—it’s soul-deep, bone-shaking, terrifyingly good.

when spencer finishes now?

it’s slow. it’s tender. it’s devastating.

he comes with his face buried in your neck, your name whispered like a prayer, body trembling from restraint he’s long since lost. he holds you tighter than ever—like he thinks you’ll disappear if he lets go.

there’s no shame now. no guilt. no second-guessing. he wants you to see him fall apart.

you’ve seen him cry with your name on his lips.

you’ve watched him come so hard he can’t stay upright after. you’ve whispered things in his ear that he’ll remember on his deathbed. you’ve taken him apart and put him back together a hundred times—and he trusts you to do it again.

spencer cums with complete surrender in phase four. he holds eye contact. he holds your hand. he might say thank you, might say fuck, i need you, might just say more.

you don’t need a rhythm anymore. you just need him. and he just needs you.

he no longer begs to finish—he just asks where.

''inside you?' 'on your stomach?' 'your chest?' 'your mouth?'

and when you tell him?

he listens.

he obeys.

and he thanks you like you’ve given him a gift every single time.

d is for dirty talk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t mean to talk dirty.

he honestly can’t help it when he is around you.

it’s less about confidence and more about desperation—the kind that leaks out when he’s too worked up to self-censor. he’s not giving you a rehearsed fantasy; he’s muttering the exact, raw thoughts spinning through his spiraling brain.

his mouth moves faster than his filter, and that’s what makes it so devastating.

it’s accidental, breathless, panicked arousal.

'f-fuck, d-don’t stop—don’t stop, please—' 'god, do you even know what you’re doing to me?' 'i’m not gonna make it. i’m not—i can’t—'

he says the quiet parts out loud. things he meant to keep to himself, things like :

'i think about your mouth when i’m trying to work.' 'i’ve imagined you doing this since the first time i saw you.' 'you’re so fucking pretty it hurts.'

sometimes he gasps things he doesn’t realize are audible. whispers against your throat when he’s too far gone to care.

'you’re evil.' 'i’m so hard it hurts.'

and the worst part? he blushes as soon as he realizes he’s said any of it out loud. he’ll try to backpedal. stammer an apology. hide his face in your shoulder and groan :

'i didn’t mean to say that—oh my god—forget i said that—'

but you never do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s evolving.

there’s still shyness. still blushes. still that nervous energy thrumming just under the surface—but something’s shifted. he knows now that you want him. that you like him. that he doesn’t have to keep everything locked behind his teeth.

so he starts experimenting.

and once he gets a taste of how wrecked his words make you? he can’t stop. he doesn’t always say it smoothly. but when it lands? it lands hard.

'you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?' 'you like being a distraction? fine. now you’ve got my full attention.'

sometimes, it’s soft and reverent. other times, it’s ragged—growled through gritted teeth while he’s rutting into you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

'you’re so fucking soft.' 'you don’t even know what you do to me.' 'i think about you like this all the time.'

and sometimes—just sometimes—he whispers what he wants to do next.

'i want you to moan my name.' “let me be on top.”

he doesn’t realize how filthy he sounds. He’s still shocked when you moan louder in response. Still stunned when your eyes roll back because of a sentence that just slipped out of his mouth.

but god, does he love your reactions. they feed him. they build him. and the more he gets? the bolder he becomes.

there are moments in phase two where the dirty talk becomes domineering. not because he wants power—but because he craves your submission. not control. not force.

just need.

you’ll see it in the way he pants :

'tell me you want me.' 'say it. say it again.'

and when you do? he’ll lose every last shred of composure he worked so hard to keep.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer reid is dangerous.

not because he’s cruel—never that. but because he knows exactly what he’s doing now.

he’s past the blushing. past the guilt. past wondering if he’s imagining it when you tremble at his words.

he knows what gets you there and he uses it.

ohhh, he use it.

dirty talk in phase three isn’t just filth for the sake of it. it’s a fucking strategy. he says things that no man should say in that voice. that low, velvety, wicked voice.

'is that what you needed, baby? my fingers in you, nice and deep?' 'i can feel you clenching. you’re already close, aren’t you? you get off on this.' 'you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you earned this.'

he’s a scholar of your body now—knows how it ticks. he maps it with his mouth. marks it with his words.

'you’re my favorite thing to study.'

phase three spencer is a goddamn menace when you’re on the edge. he talks you there. keeps you there. then backs off, just to hear you whine.

'beg for it. say please, and maybe i’ll let you come.' 'look at you. fucking soaking. did i do this to you?' 'this pussy’s mine now, you know that, right?'

he’s smug. he’s relentless, but he’s so attentive.

when you fall apart?

he’s right there to whisper it into your hair :

'that’s it, baby. that’s my girl. so perfect for me, soakin my fingers.'

by now, he’s not afraid to name things. to ask for things. he’ll even suggest them with that casual, scholarly tone.

'next time, i want your hands tied.' 'would you let me film you coming for me?' 'let’s try that thing you looked up last night, sweetheart. i saw your search history.'

you will combust and he will smile.

because phase three spencer reid knows he’s got you wrapped around his long, clever fingers—and that his voice alone is enough to bring you to your knees.

he’s filth. he’s power. he’s a walking, talking thesis on how to fuck someone senseless using only words.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is unrecognizable from the bashful, blushing boy he used to be. he's still sweet. still soft. but only after. because when he’s inside you?

he’s filthy. he's unhinged. he is fucking possessive.

and his dirty talk? it drips with ownership.

at this stage, you belong to him—and he makes sure you feel it in every word.

'you’re gonna take it, baby. you’re gonna take every inch, just like that.' 'so cockdrunk you forgot your own name, huh? good thing you only need to remember mine.' 'i love how loud you get when i fuck you deep. you know the neighbors hear you, right?'

he says it right into your mouth. into your ear. onto your skin as he bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud himself.

he doesn’t hold back anymore—not with his thrusts, and not with his mouth.

phase four spencer doesn’t ask. he tells.

'open your legs wider. that’s it.' 'put your hands behind your head—i want you to watch your tits bounce when you come.' 'rub your clit for me. come on now.'

and the moment you hesitate, he chuckles—darkly.

'what’s wrong, sweetheart? suddenly shy? you weren’t shy when you begged for my cock in the elevator.'

he talks you through every orgasm. describes it in real time.

'look at that. you’re shaking so hard. so fucking pretty when you come for me.'

he toes the line between worship and ruin.

'you’re such a fucking mess for me, baby. ruined that pretty pussy on my fingers alone.' 'you beg so well, i almost feel bad teasing you. almost.' 'god, i love it when you cry like this. you wanna come that bad, huh?'

then—without fail—he’ll pull you close, brush the hair from your face, and murmur :

'mine. all mine.'

because phase four spencer is possessive in the bedroom. gentle outside of it. but here? in the dark? on your knees?

he’s merciless.

and the worst part?

he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

e is for experience ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is, in a word, inexperienced. but don’t confuse that with clueless.

he’s a genius, after all and the fact that he hasn’t done much? only makes everything ten times hotter.

he knows the mechanics. he knows every scientific study on erogenous zones. can recite entire Kinsey reports from memory.

but when it comes to you?

to your bare skin under his trembling hands? he's overwhelmed to say the least.

'you feel… so much softer than i expected. not that i—i wasn’t imagining, i just—'

he blushes. he stammers. he can’t stop looking. you catch him staring at your bra like it’s a quantum puzzle. he’ll murmur things like :

'i didn’t think i’d ever get this close to someone like you.' 'are you… sure you want me to…?' 'what do you like? i want to… get it right.'

he’s terrified he’ll mess it up. that you’ll compare him to someone else. that he won’t know what to do with his hands. ( he doesn’t. )

so you guide him and when he listens? he really listens. the first time he kisses down your stomach, it’s not smooth. it’s hesitant and careful. like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he goes too fast.

but when your fingers thread into his hair and you sigh—he exhales like he’s been blessed.

'i didn’t know it would feel this… electric.'

afterward, he fumbles to pull your shirt down.

'are you okay? did i—was it… okay for you?'

you tell him yes. of course.

but that’s not enough for him. he wants proof.

he wants to memorize every twitch, every moan, every breath you took while wrapped around him.

because he doesn’t just want to be good at sex.

he wants to be good for you.

and phase one spencer reid?

he may be inexperienced but he learns very fast.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he has done a lot of thinking and a lot of touching.

most of it? behind closed doors. in the shower. in bed. in hotel bathrooms with a hand clamped over his mouth while replaying your voice in his head.

'did you think of me when you touched yourself on the jet last week?'

yeah. that question lives rent-free in his brain. he absolutely did. he still does.

he's still not experienced in the traditional sense but he’s mentally catalogued every sound you’ve made near him. he’s committed your reactions to memory—filed under 'use this to make her shake'.

he’s a little braver now. a little bolder.

he touches himself with you in mind. not just a vague fantasy version—you.

your voice. your laugh. the way you looked at him over your coffee that morning.

he strokes himself with your name on his tongue. sometimes he finishes faster than he wants to—because your smile is enough to undo him.

he hasn’t actually had sex with you. not yet.

but you’ve palmed him through his pants. you’ve whispered filthy things in his ear. you’ve brushed your lips against his jaw and asked, 'what are you thinking about, spence?' in the most devastating voice imaginable.

and he has so much pent-up experience now—secondhand, yes, but sharpened to a dangerous point by longing.

if he ever gets the chance?

he won’t just be good. he’ll be unhinged.

phase two spencer can tell you, with academic precision, exactly how to make a woman orgasm.

but he doesn’t need to anymore because by now?

he’s dreaming of your moans on a loop. he’s memorized the tension in your thighs when you tease him. he knows how it feels when you grind on his thigh in your sleep.

and maybe, when he’s alone—tugging at himself in the dark—he wonders what it would be like if you really touched him. if you watched. and maybe, maybe… he comes with your name on his lips.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid is no longer imagining you.

he has you.

your body. your moans. your praise. your nails in his back. he knows what you taste like, sound like, look like when you fall apart—and he is addicted.

he might not have been your most experienced partner in the beginning, but by now? he’s borderline feral and his experience is intimately, exclusively, dangerously tailored to you.

the quietest man in the room is now the one who pins you to the mattress and fucks you so slowly you forget your own name.

he’s so hungry for you it’s embarrassing. he’s been studying—you, your body, your sounds—and he uses everything he’s learned. Every angle. every breath.

he’s not just a fast learner—he’s a devoted one and now that he knows how to get you to shake?

he won’t stop until you do.

he wants all of it.

not just your body. not just the high.

he wants the learning curve. he wants to memorize how your breath hitches when he curls his fingers just right. he wants to build you from the inside out. he wants to write essays in his head about what your pleasure sounds like.

and then he wants to make you sob it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four he not just experienced.

he is confident.

not cocky or careless. but deeply, devastatingly self-assured in the way only someone who’s loved you—known you—worshipped you—can be.

he knows what you need before you say it. he knows how to pull it from your throat before you think to beg. he doesn’t ask, 'did you like that?' anymore.

he tells you :

'yeah you liked that. i felt it.'

and then he does it again.

he takes his time—every time—because he knows how much it ruins you when he drags it out. he teases you not because he’s insecure, but because he knows exactly how to hold you on the edge.

knows how to touch you until your thighs shake and your eyes flutter and you’re whimpering his name like a prayer. knows when to still his fingers and whisper, 'you’re not ready yet. be patient.'

he doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.

you already taught him that he’s everything you want. now he wants to show you just how much he’s learned.

and oh, does he show you.

he’ll push your body to limits you didn’t know it had. hold you through overstimulation. whisper corrections when your hands shake too much to undo his belt properly.

'eyes on me, sweetheart. that’s it. you’re doing so good.'

his voice is deeper now when he’s buried inside you. thicker. rougher. laced with years of yearning and practice and love. and when you clench around him and cry out, trembling?

he kisses your damp cheek, strokes your hair, and murmurs :

'perfect. just like that. you gonna cum on my cock again, baby?'

because you made him this way.

all that teasing in phase one? all the longing in phase two? the holy-shit-i-can’t-believe-this-is-real wonder of phase three?

it’s all still there. but now, it’s funneled into the man above you. the one gripping your hips. the one fucking you like you’re the last person on earth.

and when he comes, he always comes deep. pressed flush against you, whispering broken things against your skin. sometimes your name. sometimes a full dissertation on how tight you are and how good your squeezing him.

f is for favorite position ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is in the deep end of uncharted waters now—flustered, overwhelmed, barely holding on by the thread of his last clean pair of slacks.

he’s never had to think about this before. favorite position? It’s a miracle he’s not short-circuiting from just imagining you naked.

still, if you pressed him—if you leaned in real close, batted your lashes, asked all sweet and sly—

'spence, tell me your favorite position…'

he’d stammer for a bit, push up his glasses, mutter something about how it’s really just about proximity to emotional intimacy and mutual safety—before quietly admitting:

'uh… probably missionary.'

and it’s not because he lacks imagination.

it’s because it’s the one where he gets to see you.

its because he wants to know what your face looks like when you come. because he wants to bury his head in your neck when it’s too much. because the thought of holding himself above you—watching you squirm, cry out, wrap your legs around him?

it's enough to make him absolutely combust.

'i think about it,' he’d whisper later. 'your legs hooked behind me. your hands in my hair. you saying my name like that…'

he never finishes the sentence. but the pink blooming in his cheeks tells you enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is newly deflowered, in every possible way—emotionally, physically, spiritually ( you wrecked him, and he liked it ).

he’s no longer a trembling virgin, but he’s still awkward, reverent, and achingly in love with you. and now that he knows what it feels like—how your body fits under his, around him, on him—he’s hooked.

so what’s his favorite position?

You riding him. ( with his hands on your hips like you’re going to disappear. )

because it lets him watch everything.

your tits bouncing.

your mouth slack with pleasure.

your eyes—half-lidded, drunk on him.

and god help him if you grab his hands and press them to your chest. if you tell him to just relax and let you take care of him?

he melts. he melts.

he never realized how hot it would be to be so completely, deliciously used—until you leaned in and whispered :

'don’t think, baby. just feel.'

and now? he craves it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer is a man transformed.

he’s confident and commanding. utterly insatiable. gone is the stammering virgin with trembling fingers. now he’s got your wrists pinned, your name on his tongue, and a roughness in his voice that should be illegal.

so what’s his favorite position?

from behind. but not just any kind of behind. chest to your back, one hand in your hair, the other on your throat or between your legs.

because he likes the control now. he likes watching your face in the mirror—your eyes fluttering, lips parted, that dazed expression he put there.

because it lets him guide your pace. whisper filth into your ear. wrap a hand around your throat and feel your pulse flutter every time he thrusts deeper.

he loves hearing you beg—loves how desperate you get when he slows down just to tease.

'spencer, please—' 'i know, sweetheart. i know. but i’m not done with you yet.'

and if you try to push back into him?

mistake. he’ll grip your hips so tight they’ll bruise, groan into your neck, and make you pay for being greedy.

in the best way, of course.

his second favorite?

over his desk. clothes bunched. legs shaking. he still files his reports at that desk—still thinks about it every time he sits down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer is devastating.

he’s not just confident—he’s obsessed. comfortable in your body. in his own. in you. everything he does now is deliberate, filthy, and tailored to exactly what he knows makes you lose it.

so what’s his favorite position?

reverse cowgirl. with your back arched, his hands gripping your hips, and his eyes locked on the way you take him.

because spencer is completely gone for you.

it’s visual torture in the best way.

he gets to watch the drag of your body as you sink down onto him. see the bounce, the reverberation, the pure sin of it. trace every curve with greedy, possessive eyes and run his hands over your ass, your waist, your thighs like he owns you ( because honestly at this point, he does, and you love it ).

'jesus christ, you look unreal,' he pants, watching your slick thighs tremble. 'i want you to see what you do to me—look.' he no longer waits for permission and he grabs your phone. records it. just for him. just for you.

when you grind? his hands slip to your stomach. one travels up, between your breasts, over your throat. he doesn’t choke—he holds.

firm. reverent. worshipful.

'you’re so perfect,' he whispers, voice wrecked. 'so fucking perfect. you were made for this.'

he lets you ride him whenever you want because spencer lives to be used by you, but when he initiates?

it’s slow, deep. utterly unforgiving.

and after?

he kisses every inch of you. tells you how beautiful you looked, how good you were for him. strokes your skin like it’s priceless.

g is for goofy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

goofy spencer is endearing in every single way, but in phase one—before either of you has admitted what’s going on—it’s especially adorable.

because he doesn’t mean to be funny. he’s just… spencer.

starts rambling mid-flirt because he’s nervous. you’ll say, 'you always this red when you get teased?' and he’ll launch into a fact about vasodilation and increased blood flow until he realizes… you’re grinning at him.

laughs like a dork when you poke his side. like full-on snort. then gets embarrassed about it.

says something wildly inappropriate by accident and immediately panics:

'god, you’re just trying to ruin me.' then it sets in. 'i–um—i don’t mean ruin as in—you know—sexually—like—um—emotionally, i guess? or intellectually? . . . i’ll stop talking now.'

you catch him watching you one day and say, 'see something you like, dr. reid?' and spencer, deadpan, says :

'i was admiring the structural integrity of your penmanship.'

then immediately blushes so hard he has to turn away. ( he was definitely watching the curve of your ass. he just panicked.)

sometimes you flirt too well, and he fumbles.

'i bet i could make you come in under two minutes.' 'you mean… arrive? like… come over? because i live… farther? from here?” ( brain blue screens )

He’s the king of awkward giggles, scientific facts in very wrong moments, and accidentally saying 'moisture content' when talking about kissing.

and you?

you love every second of it.

h is for hair ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn't mean to notice your hair the way he does.

he tells himself it’s harmless—just an idle observation. a scientific curiosity. aesthetic appreciation. nothing more.

but then you lean over your desk and it falls ( he’s catalogued all your hair textures in his mind like a walking pantone wheel of temptation ). he gets distracted—loses his train of thought mid-sentence because the overhead lights just hit you so—and his hands twitch like they want to touch. just one strand.

he imagines what it feels like constantly.

wonders whether it’s soft like cotton or heavy like silk. if it smells like your shampoo or like something that’s just you.

wonders what you’d do if he asked to tug on it.

wonders what kind of sound you’d make.

and when you sit next to him on the jet, nodding off after a long case, your head lolled gently toward him and your hair brushing his arm?

he wants to bury his face in it. suffocate in it. he wants to know what it would be like if your head was on his chest, not just his bicep.

he also thinks a lot about what’s underneath.

your pubic hair, specifically. ( he’s mortified by how often he thinks about it. )

are you shaved? trimmed? bare? natural? do you wax? do you care? would you let him see it? touch it? mouth it?

he bets it’s the same shade as what’s on your head. he bets it’s beautiful. he bets it would drive him out of his goddamn mind.

as for him?

he’s self-conscious about his own body hair. always has been.

his curls? he those tame, gelled behind his ears in phase one. wild they frame his face, soften his jawline, fall into his eyes when he’s reading. while he is working, his ear length hair is slicked back.

you’ve told him—casually—that you like his hair this length. called it cute. tugged it once teasingly. he thought about that for hours.

( you don’t know that he almost offered to let you braid it one night on the jet. he chickened out. he still regrets it. )

below the neck?

spencer keeps things neat but natural.

he trims down there, mostly for hygiene, but he doesn’t go fully bare—he read an article once about skin irritation and ingrown hairs and decided he’d rather not risk it. besides, he thinks you'd like it. think you’d scratch your nails lightly through it while you kissed your way down—

( he stops that thought every time. it never works. )

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

it starts with your shampoo.

that first night at his apartment—your first almost-date—you'd washed your hair in his shower. left his bathroom foggy and fragrant, the scent trailing behind you like perfume.

spencer didn’t mean to sniff the air like a lunatic.

but he did and then he buried his face in the throw blanket you'd wrapped around your shoulders and inhaled like a man starved.

he recognizes that scent now. knows it better than anything. can pinpoint it when you walk by in the bullpen, when you leave his desk after teasing him senseless. when you lean over the evidence board and your hair brushes the paper beside his hand—he feels it like a live wire.

he doesn’t stop there.

he touches.

when you lie on his couch watching reruns, he’ll sneak his hand up to cradle the back of your head. pretend it’s about comfort. stability. but really? he just wants to card his fingers through it. slowly. absentmindedly.

he plays with the ends while you ramble about something that isn't him. he knots it around his finger like he's tethering you to him.

he brushes it back from your cheek just to see your face—just to look—and his fingers linger too long every time.

you never complain. you never pull away. ( that might be what ruins him most. )

he hasn’t touched your hair down there yet. but god, he wants to. he’s thought about it. desperately. vividly. late at night, he curls a pillow behind his head and jacks off slow to the thought of your thighs pressed open for him. imagines what your pussy looks like—bare or trimmed or messy and soft.

he’s ready for anything. doesn’t care what’s there or what isn’t. he’d mouth over it either way, tug at it gently with his teeth if you let him. he thinks he’d love the texture of it on his tongue.

you’ve seen the hair on his chest now. not all of it—just a flash that first night he peeled off his sweater and sat beside you on the bed, pretending not to notice the way your eyes dropped.

he caught your glance and now he keeps the top few buttons of his shirts open on purpose. he doesn't know what you'd do if you saw the rest of it—the trail down his stomach, the soft hair dusting his thighs. but God, he wants to find out. he wants you to touch. to kiss. to tug when he fucks you so slow he makes you cry.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he fists your hair when he kisses you.

not hard. not at first.

it starts gentle—curious fingers weaving through the strands at the nape of your neck, thumb tracing the shape of your skull like he’s cataloguing it. he tucks the hair behind your ear just so he can lean in and whisper something filthy, and when you shiver, he smiles.

but when your mouth opens beneath his?

when your tongue meets his, needy and greedy, and you tug at his shirt like you want to climb inside him—

he grabs a handful and he pulls. he learns quickly what you like.

how tilting your head just right makes you whimper. how soft tugs at your roots make you melt, but sharp ones make you gasp and clench around his fingers when they’re inside you.

he’s obsessed.

obsessed with the way your hair tangles in his sheets. with the way it clings to your forehead with sweat when he’s got his mouth buried between your legs. with how it smells, how it tastes when it gets caught between his teeth because he won’t stop kissing your neck long enough to push it away.

you get your revenge.

your fingers in his hair—curling in those long chestnut waves he never quite manages to tame. you thread your hand through them when he goes down on you, encouraging him, holding him in place like he isn’t already starving for you.

he never knew his hair could be such a weak spot until you tugged—really tugged—right as he made you come. he groaned like it hurt, like you’d dragged it out of his soul, and now he can’t stop chasing that sound.

his body hair becomes another fixation.

he’s always been shy about it—but never shaved his chest or his stomach, never trimmed anything but what seemed polite. now, he sees the way your eyes trail over him when he pulls off his shirt. sees the way your fingers stroke lower and lower when you’re curled together in bed, lips trailing after them.

and when your nails rake through the hair on his thighs as you sink to your knees in front of him? the way you grab his wrists and guide his own hands into your hair, making a makeshift ponytail. the way you groan against his heavy cock when he tugs on it hard.

he swears he blacks out for a second.

and when it’s over, when the sweat dries and the sheets are soaked and he’s still wrapped around you like he’ll die if you leave—he strokes your hair for hours. twirls it, studies it, kisses your temple through it.

he’ll bury his face in it when he thinks you’re asleep and whisper the things he’s not brave enough to say aloud.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is addicted.

not in the bashful, hesitant, slow-burn way he used to be. not even in the reverent awe. this is different. this is need. this is the way your hair lives on his pillow, the way your scent clings to his sweaters, the way his fingers curl into the back of your head on instinct—like his body knows you’re his before his brain can catch up.

he loves all of it.

clean or messy. styled or tangled. damp from the shower or damp from sweat. he loves the way it gets in your mouth when you're laughing. the way it fans across your back when you’re face-down in the sheets. the way you let him brush it out after long days, humming under your breath while he works from root to end, gentle and methodical like it’s an equation with only one right answer.

and when it comes to what’s beneath the silk and strands—he’s got every inch memorized.

he kisses the soft skin behind your ear before curling his fingers into your hair and tugging you down onto him. he trails his lips down the path your part carves into your scalp. he mouths at your temple, your crown, your jaw, worshipping the parts of you others overlook. and when your hair sticks to your skin after he’s ruined you, when he pushes it back to get a better look at your face, he always murmurs—

'you’re so pretty like this.' 'please don’t hide from me. i wanna see everything.'

he lets you play with his, too.

sometimes he sits at your feet while you braid it, twist it, fluff it just because it makes you happy. he lets you use conditioner in the shower, even if it smells 'too sweet.' he groans when you tug on it, especially if you do it while straddling him with purpose.

and when you run your fingers through it absently while reading on the couch—his head in your lap, eyes fluttering closed—he’s convinced that nothing, not even sex, feels more intimate than this.

curtains and drapes?

he doesn’t care. never did. not about yours, not about his.

trimmed, bare, bushy, dyed—he loves you in every form you take. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice. he notices everything.

the first time you dye it? he stares for ten minutes before saying a word, then spends the rest of the day touching it like it’s holy. the first time you cut it short? he keeps murmuring 'you’re still my girl' like you needed reminding. and when you get it done just for fun—maybe styled, blown out, twisted up—he cannot keep his hands to himself.

when he’s between your thighs, he uses your hair like a leash.

fingers wrapped. fist clenched. holding you steady while he whispers 'you’re doing so well for me.'

and when you’re on top, riding him slow and steady, he uses it to anchor himself—tugging you down so your foreheads touch, his mouth panting out half-formed praise against your lips, a whispered 'you’re mine, baby, mine—mine—' falling hot and broken between breaths.

he’s not afraid anymore.

he’ll tell you when you look good. he’ll groan when you fluff your hair in the mirror. he’ll drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs just because he loves how it smells.

i is for intimacy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is terrified of intimacy.

not because he doesn't want it. god, he aches for it—deep down, bone-deep, where he’s spent his whole life compartmentalizing. but he’s awkward. scared. still trying to convince himself that what you’re doing isn’t flirting. that you couldn’t possibly mean the touches, the teasing, the looks. that he must be projecting.

so the intimacy? it sneaks up on him.

it’s your hand brushing his when you pass him a file. the way your pinky lingers for half a second too long and he thinks about it for days.

it’s you falling asleep on his shoulder during the jet ride and him forgetting how to breathe. how your hair smells like shampoo and citrus and something soft and warm that makes him dizzy. how your weight against his arm feels better than anything he’s ever earned.

it’s your knees bumping under the conference table. your laughter when he nervously stumbles over a word and the way you nudge him like it’s an inside joke. like you’ve already memorized all his little tells.

you call him spence in a tone no one else uses. he thinks about that, too. he thinks about you, constantly.

but Spencer doesn’t understand intimacy in the casual, effortless way you seem to. for him, it's built from the ground up. studied. tested. analyzed. intimacy isn’t easy. it’s not even safe.

but you make it feel almost okay.

you sit too close. you touch his wrist when you laugh. you tuck his hair behind his ear once, and he damn near malfunctions.

you let him ramble. you listen.

you memorize how he takes his coffee and you never tease him when he double-knots his shoelaces or uses two straws for iced drinks. you ask how his mom is. you ask if he’s okay in a way that’s not just polite—it’s real.

and it terrifies him.

because this—this is real intimacy. and if he lets himself believe it’s more than friendship, if he lets himself hope . . .

well, he’s not sure he’ll survive it if he’s wrong.

so he pulls back sometimes.

he stammers. gets flustered. tries not to look too long when you lean over his desk and your perfume hits his nose and short-circuits his frontal lobe.

but late at night—alone, in bed—he replays it all.

the way you said his name. the brush of your fingers. the sleepy sigh you made when you curled into his side without even thinking.

and he wonders if you feel it too. if you're afraid like he is. if intimacy has ever wrecked you the way it’s already started to wreck him.

because he’s falling and it feels a lot like flying straight into the sun.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he is beginning to understand that what’s happening between you isn’t just friendship.

you’ve crossed lines now—delicate, invisible lines drawn in jet cabins and late-night hotel rooms. there have been touches. moans. mutually broken silences. but still… no formal acknowledgment. no confessions. just tension that simmers under every word, every glance.

intimacy in phase two is unguarded vulnerability, cloaked in denial.

you come over for dinner.

you sit on his couch, your legs tucked beneath you like you belong there, and you ask about his favorite books. not just what he likes—but why.

and he tells you.

tells you too much. pens up about stories that saved him as a child. tells you about loneliness, about hope, about fear of losing control. he tells you things he hasn’t told anyone—because you asked. because you looked at him like his words mattered.

you listen without blinking.

you ask again.

and then you tell him something real—something about your past, or a fear you haven’t shared before—and suddenly, you’re sitting in the kind of silence that means everything.

this is the intimacy of shared laughter over dinner dishes. his hoodie on your shoulders because you said you were cold. your socked feet brushing under the blanket while you watch something neither of you are really paying attention to

and he notices everything.

he notices when you lean your cheek into your palm while watching him speak. notices when your eyes flick to his mouth. notices that your smile always comes slower, softer when it’s just the two of you.

he’s obsessed with it.

he’s terrified by it.

because he wants you now—not just physically ( though god knows that hasn’t lessened )—but emotionally. profoundly. intellectually.

intimacy for spencer is him stealing glances when you’re not looking, memorizing the way you laugh when you’re tired, the sleepy rasp in your voice when you call him late to say goodnight.

it’s the moment he confesses what happened in the hotel room. the one-bed incident. how he couldn’t help himself.

he expects you to pull away.

but you don’t.

you blink. you smile. you say you wish you’d been awake.

and he swears the earth tilts a little.

intimacy is inch by inch with him, especially now. it's the kind that lingers in the air after you’ve left. it’s a heartbeat louder when your fingers accidentally touch. it’s falling in love with someone who’s already halfway in your arms—but neither of you have dared to look down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

this is where the dam finally breaks.

there’s no more plausible deniability. no more unspoken maybe’s. you’ve touched. you’ve teased. you’ve crossed every line you once pretended not to see.

and spencer is yours. emotionally, physically. wholly but the intimacy in phase three isn’t just about lust or even possession.

it’s about recognition.

this version of intimacy is quieter than people expect. spencer brushing your hair out of your face while you sleep. the first time you call him 'baby' and he blushes so hard you think he might combust.

the way he presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in after sex, like he’s trying to memorize what happiness feels like.

he’s still awkward. still rambles when he’s nervous. still stammers when you call him handsome like you mean it. but he wants to be close now. desperately. freely.

he touches you without hesitation : a hand on your back when you walk through doors, fingers tracing your knee when you sit beside him, lips pressed to your temple for no reason at all.

he smiles more.

he starts saying 'i missed you' even if it’s only been a day.

he learns to ask—not just about your day, but about your feelings. about your past. about your fears. he listens. remembers. repeats it back at the perfect moment to remind you he was always listening.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is now undone. he’s not shy about it anymore. not tentative, not afraid. there’s no mask left—only hunger, devotion, and a love so intense it borders on worship.

it isn’t just woven into your sex life—it’s in everything he does.

he touches you like he’s trying to memorize the soul beneath your skin.

he looks at you like you hung the constellations with your bare hands.

he speaks to you like there’s no one else in the world who could possibly understand.

this is the version of Spencer who slides into your side of the bed just to steal your warmth. grumbles if you leave the house without a goodbye kiss. puts your name in his phone with a heart next to it and checks it when he misses you ( which is always ).

you’ve become his safest place.

that’s what intimacy means now.

it means pulling your hand to his chest when he has nightmares. letting you hear him cry for the first time and not apologizing for it.

whispering 'i trust you' against your shoulder when the weight of the world gets too heavy.

physically, he’s more open than ever. he undresses slowly in front of you now—no hesitation, no shame. he lets you press your lips to the scars and the softness he once tried to hide.

he initiates more than he ever used to—not out of lust, but because he needs your closeness like breath in his lungs.

and when he talks to you? it’s vulnerable and messy and honest.

'i don’t know what i’d do without you.' 'sometimes i wake up and panic, because i think this is a dream.' 'no one’s ever loved me like you do. i hope i make you feel even half that.'

by now, spencer doesn’t just crave your body—he craves your presence. your voice. your opinion. your hand on his back when he’s stressed. your silence when he’s overstimulated.

he’s stopped hiding how much he needs you.

and every time he breathes you in, every time he whispers your name against your skin, you can feel the truth in it. you are his entire world.

j is for jacking off ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t plan on doing it. he doesn’t mean to. but lately, it’s become more of a necessity than a choice.

because spencer is frustrated and borderline desperate. teetering on the edge of a spiral every time you so much as touch his arm or say his name in that voice. and he’s confused—because you’re still his best friend, but now you’re also a walking temptation in tiny skirts and soft perfume and teasing eyes that linger a little too long.

so he jacks off a lot. shamefully and quietly and always to the thought of you.

it usually happens after the team goes their separate ways. after the tension from the jet or the hotel or the bullpen has nowhere else to go.

he’ll close the door to his apartment and immediately feel the weight of it pressing against his zipper—the ache that’s been following him around since you made that comment about how big his hands are. or how you leaned over to show him something on your tablet, and your bralette—navy blue, he noticed—was the only thing shielding your breasts from his face.

and suddenly his resolve cracks like a matchstick.

most of the time, he doesn't even make it to the bed. Sometimes it's the couch. Sometimes the bathroom. Sometimes the shower, turned too hot, his forehead braced against tile while his hand works himself in fast, angry strokes.

because he feels guilty. like a pervert. like a bad friend. but your name is right there on the tip of his tongue as he pants into his palm, and the fantasy is so vivid—so real—that his toes curl and his thighs tremble before he can even stop it.

he imagines you a couple different ways. you on your knees, tongue out, eyes wide. you straddling his lap, gasping into his mouth.

you asleep beside him, soft and warm, and—God—grinding on his thigh without even realizing it. ( that one isn’t a fantasy. that one actually happened. )

and afterward, he lays there. shaky. spent. sticky and ashamed.

he tells himself it has to stop.

but it never does.

because he’s already hard again the next morning—just from the sound of your laugh echoing through the hallway.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows by now you want him. you’ve made it impossible not to. he still second-guesses everything ( because he’s spencer ), but the line between fantasy and reality has started to blur—and it’s driving him insane.

you’ve kissed. touched. you’ve even said things—filthy, whisper-soft things in the dark—that make his knees go weak just remembering. but you haven’t fucked yet.

and that’s the problem.

because now when he jacks off, it’s not from afar. it’s not fueled by guilt and secret shame. it’s fueled by you. the real, tangible, maddening you. and it’s so much worse.

he’ll be alone in his apartment, pacing.

because he wants to wait. because he wants it to be perfect.

because you said you weren’t ready—not yet—and he respects that, he does. but he’s already ruined three pairs of briefs this week thinking about your tongue in his mouth and your hand on his belt, unbuckling him with slow, teasing fingers while you whisper.

‘is this what you think about when your alone?’

( it is. )

so when he jacks off in phase two, it’s slower. needier.

he’ll lie in bed with the lights off, one hand fisted around his cock, the other clutched over his mouth to stop the whimpering. he’s embarrassed by how easily he unravels—how sensitive you’ve made him, how just the memory of your breath in his ear is enough to make his spine arch off the mattress.

he comes with your name punched from his lungs, like he’s apologizing to the air. and then he texts you :

‘im sorry. i thought about you again.’

and you always reply :

‘good. i hope you made a mess.’

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he doesn’t have to imagine you anymore.

he shouldn’t have to jack off at all, not really—not when you’ve touched every inch of him with your mouth and your hands and your words. not when you’ve kissed him into moaning submission against your living room couch and ridden him so thoroughly he forgot how to spell his name. not when his sheets still smell like your shampoo.

and yet it’s worse now. because now he knows exactly what you look like when you whimper. how your hips stutter when you’re right on the edge. how you say his name when you’re about to fall apart.

now, when he jacks off, it’s no longer fantasy—it’s memory.

he’ll try to hold out. He will.

he’ll tell himself not tonight, you just saw her, and you can wait, you have a meeting in the morning—but his hand betrays him the second he pictures the outline of your thighs wrapped around his waist.

it starts with just a touch. just a little pressure through the front of his boxers. but soon he’s panting like a man fucking possessed, muttering curses under his breath, fucking up into his palm like it’s your fist around him instead.

he gets vocal now. he never meant to—but you ruined him. you told him he sounded hot when he begged. and now, every time he closes his eyes and hears your voice purring.

'are you gonna come for me, spence?'

he knows he’s lost.

he finishes fast and hard, a total mess—spilling across his stomach.

'fuck, baby—yes, oh god—ugh'

and bites down hard on the side of his hand to keep from saying your name so loudly the neighbors complain.

sometimes—especially the nights he misses you—he calls you afterward. voice still hoarse. breathing still shallow.

you always know and you always say :

'did you finish, sweetheart?'

to which he breathes :

'not enough. i need the real thing.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer barely has time to jack off.

but when he does, it's because he physically has to.

because you’ve been gone all day lecturing at a conference in another city, and he needs you like he needs oxygen. because he spent all night replaying that moment in the hallway when you tugged his tie and whispered you wanted to ruin him after dinner—and then had the audacity to leave before dessert.

so now he’s in your shared bedroom, still in his slacks, fist clenched around his cock, fucking into his hand with quiet, determined gasps—head tipped back, lips parted, flushed pink all the way down to his chest.

it’s no fantasy. it’s memory soaked in devotion. he’s not imagining your tits bouncing above him or your mouth around his cock—he’s remembering it in four—fucking—k clarity. he knows exactly how you smell, how your voice trembles when you say his name. he knows what you look like when you come with your hand in his hair, your thighs trembling around his ribs.

and even then, even with all that—the realest reel of all reels playing in his mind—it still isn’t enough.

he finishes with a groan, his body curling forward with the force of it, cum streaking across his hand, chest, belly. he pants hard, shaky, and a little embarrassed at how fast he unraveled—how needy he still is after everything.

then he cleans up, tugs on one of your shirts, and crawls into bed on your side, pressing his face into your pillow, just to smell you.

because even after you’ve made love to him a hundred times, after you've taken him apart and worshipped every inch of him—spencer still jacks off like he’s starving for you and he always will.

k is for kinks ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

when this all starts, he honestly doesn't think he has any kinks. ( he absolutely fucking does. )

he's still telling himself you're his best friend. still pretending he doesn’t fantasize about your mouth or your thighs or the way you say his name when you’re tipsy and teasing. still convincing himself that the boners you give him in the bullpen are just unfortunate accidents, not evidence of some very specific desires bubbling to the surface.

but spencer’s biggest phase one kink? verbal submission. not yours. his.

he doesn’t know the term for it yet, but something about the way you talk to him in that silky, smug voice—the way you lean close and purr.

'is that a blush, dr. reid?' or 'did you just flinch when i said cock?' makes him un—fucking—ravel.

you talk him into things. you talk him off. you tease him until he’s squirming and then you coo, 'use your words, spence.'

and God, he wants to.

he wants to say he’s hard. that he’s aching. that he needs help, yours specifically. that if you keep edging him with your dirty little questions, he’s going to finish in his pants like a virgin.

he wants to beg, and that terrifies him.

he doesn’t know how much he likes being coaxed and bossed around until you start doing it in the smallest, most innocuous ways

'sit down, sweetheart.' 'hands on the table, baby, i’m not done talking to you.'

his brain short-circuits every time.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

things have officially crossed the line. you’ve kissed. you’ve touched. you’ve broken through the teasing and stepped into something far more dangerous: exploration.

this is the era of awkward confessions, blurted admissions, and getting caught staring. it's the phase where you're not fucking yet—but you're circling it, circling each other, slowly removing the layers of denial. and with that vulnerability comes the first real talk about what you like. what he likes.

and he really likes : praise kink ( his, not yours ).

spencer craves your praise the way a starved man craves sunlight. the second you whisper 'good boy', he is done. melting. blushing. eyes fluttering shut as if the words physically affect him.

you tell him he’s smart when he figures out how to undo your bra one-handed. you tell him he’s so good with his hands when his fingers slip into your panties. you call him perfect when he whimpers against your mouth.

he needs it—desperately—and you quickly learn how to weaponize it.

he is also a huge fan of consent play and gentle dom/sub dynamics. you ask for everything in phase two.

'can i touch you here?' 'do you want me to take it out?' 'spence… can i make you cum?'

spencer is already submissive, but now he’s discovering that the asking turns him on just as much as the act.

he’s never had a partner treat him like this before—like he’s worth asking, worth waiting for, worth ruining. you call the shots, and he follows beautifully, but only because he knows you’ll never push him too far.

mutual masturbation is a big one in phase two because of the fact that the two of you haven't actually fucked yet.

neither of you have had sex yet—not with each other at least. but you’ve watched each other. and oh God, Spencer’s kink for being watched begins to blossom.

he’s embarrassed. he hides behind his hands, pants still around his thighs, and he can’t believe he’s letting you see him like this. but the second you say, 'don’t hide from me, baby. let me see,' he moans so pretty you almost come on the spot.

watching you touch yourself? he nearly cries. he’s never seen anything more erotic in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, sex is on the table. and on the floor. and up against the wall of your apartment because you were arguing about who started it and now he’s got your thighs around his waist and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths like starved animals.

this phase is hungry. it’s messy. it’s greedy. spencer’s kinks start to go from soft-focus fantasy to full-throttle reality—and he is so ready to give you what you want… even if it scares him a little.

you’ve discovered that you love pulling the strings—and now you want to see what happens when he snaps.

he never in a million years thought that hair pulling would be one of his top three kinks but with you everything has been flipped upside down and turns on it's side.

he really didn’t know he liked it until you tugged during a particularly frantic make-out session. the whimper that left his mouth? ungodly. and now he can’t stop thinking about your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp while he’s buried inside you.

number two is being pinned down. he still wants to be in control. but when you push him down on the mattress and straddle him? he lets go and when you lean over, whispering 'stay still or i’ll stop'—he’s not going anywhere.

you riding, though, that has got to be his all time favorite. this is a huge turning point. spencer starts to love watching you take what you need. he’s obsessed with the way you roll your hips, the way you grind slow at first just to tease him.

the view? immaculate.

the loss of control? delicious.

now things are starting to get nasty because phase three spencer, he's got a spit kink.

oh, he tries not to think about it. but the second you lick your fingers before stroking him? he’s fucking obsessed. gone fucking feral over it.

and when you ask him to lick yours too? he does it without question—eyes locked on yours, brain short-circuiting with the intimacy of it all.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four is the final act of mutual ruin.

by now, you and Spencer know each other’s bodies better than your own. the sex is still sweet—but it's no longer tentative. the teasing, the boundaries, the experimental sparks have all collapsed into one deep, simmering inferno of obsession, comfort, and knowing.

this is when the dirty talk is fluent. where the bruises are intentional. where he doesn’t ask—he tells and you don’t hesitate to give it right back.

spencers phase four kinks consist of breeding kinks, mirror play and a good ole possession kink.

the breeding kink started as a whisper. a drunk mumble. a breathless, 'i want to fill you up' while he was too far gone to filter himself. now he says it sober. now he looks you in the eye when he says 'stay still. i’m not done with you yet.'

the mirror play is fucking feral. he doesn’t just want to watch you—he wants you to watch, too. wants you straddling his lap in front of the hotel mirror, wants to see your eyes when he ruins you from behind. wants to say, 'look how pretty you are when you’re mine.'

his possession, it’s subtle—but intense. his hand at your throat, not for pressure but for presence. his bite marks on your inner thighs. his cum leaking out of you hours later.

spencer is still soft, still slow, still sweet—but he’s deliberate now. every orgasm is a claim.

the mutual masturbation has also been turned up to an all time high. he used to be shy. now he asks to watch. sometimes it’s during long-distance calls. sometimes it’s just across the room, sprawled out, breathless, making eye contact while you tease each other. because now you both like to show off.

l is for location ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

at this stage, you and spencer haven’t technically done anything . . . not really. but the tension? it’s nuclear. every shared space becomes a new form of psychological warfare—your favorite game.

phase one spencer is still clinging to the belief that he’s virtuous. you, on the other hand, are slowly dismantling that fantasy with your flirtation and well-timed positioning. so while the two of you haven’t officially crossed the line yet, certain locations are already branded with tension—and are destined to become the first battlegrounds.

the bau sanctioned jet is where you first teased him. where your bralette ‘just so happened’ to peek out while you leaned over to show him something on your tablet. where you asked if he needed help jerking off in the tiny airplane bathroom.

that seat—second from the left, near the window—is now forever cursed. he hasn’t been able to sit there since.

the bullpen, a technically public place. technically risky. technically very, very inappropriate ( even though it was very empty at the time of your little game. )

that didn’t stop you from sliding your foot up his calf one night, all soft and slow, while asking him the most mundane question about a file. you knew what you were doing. he almost spilled his coffee.

the hotel room was next. the night you rolled onto him in your sleep. the night you moaned his name into his neck. the night he jacked off right next to while you were sleeping and again in the bathroom like a sinner because he couldn’t handle how good you looked wrapped around his thigh.

this location haunts him. he sees the numbers two-fourteen and he fucking flinches.

phase one ends with a very memorable car ride. you offered him a ride home. he said yes and then your hand was on his cock, and he was too tired to stop it—too gone to care.

when he came in his pants just as you pulled into his complex, the location of your car became a personal circle of hell. one he’ll gladly visit again. frequently as he fucking can.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

now the line is crossed—and you’ve both leapt over it like it never existed. you’re no longer just teasing spencer; you’ve tasted him, touched him, unraveled him. and he’s hooked. addicted. willing to take you anywhere you let him.

but that doesn’t mean he’s reckless. oh no. phase two spencer is still spencer—anxious, calculating, obsessively thoughtful. which means he chooses locations with precision. and if he doesn’t get a say in the setting? he’ll still make the most of it.

his favorite spots with you include his apartment living room, specifically his couch. after your first time, spencer didn’t want to rush you. so instead of dragging you to the bedroom, he let it happen on his couch—slow and soft and nervous and needy. that creaky, secondhand couch has now become his altar.

it’s where he kisses your knees while you're curled up in his oversized sweater. where he lays his head in your lap after long days and lets you card your fingers through his hair. where you straddled him for the first time, whispering 'let me take care of you' into his mouth.

next is the shower, preferably his because it gives him some semblance of control.

spencer didn’t expect to like showering together as much as he does—but something about you all slippery and giggly under the spray of warm water undoes him. it’s the intimacy, the nudity, the trust. it’s the way you tilt his chin up to rinse shampoo from his curls. the way he uses his long fingers to massage conditioner into your scalp like you’re the most delicate thing on earth.

sometimes it leads to sex. sometimes it doesn’t. but it always leads to spencer kissing your wet shoulder with reverence.

the library has surprisingly because a favorite. you went in to help him shelve books for a lecture he was preparing. you came out wrecked—tucked into a corner behind the 306s, muffling your moans into his neck while he made you come on his fingers. the library will never be the same.

( and neither will dewey decimal classification 306.7. )

honestly anyway private enough to kiss you fucking senseless his a win for him. the office copy room? yes. you make some excuse about needing help changing the toner and he is the first one to volunteer. then your pulling him into the room and backing him up to the door and when he asked about the toner, your already kissing him. his lips his neck. your hand gripping his sweater vest like its the only think keeping you grounded in the moment.

an empty conference room after hours. that one secluded hallway in quantico with the weird vending machine no one uses. of course, your dragging him in there and before the door his even closed you grabbing at his belt and palming his cock through his slacks.

spencer doesn’t always plan these moments—but once he starts kissing you, once his hand slips beneath your blazer or under your skirt or around your jaw, he doesn’t stop. he can’t.

he needs to be touching you. holding you. anywhere you’ll let him.

even if he’s red-faced for the rest of the day.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the game is gone. the teasing, the dancing, the uncertainty—burned up in the heat of full-blown obsession. you’re not just lovers now. you’re something dangerously close to addicted. to each other’s skin. each other’s voices. each other’s bodies.

as spencer spirals deeper into the messy, heady high of you, he stops giving a damn where it happens—so long as it does.

but the thing is? he’s still spencer.

so while he’ll let you pull him into a bathroom stall, or ride him half-dressed in a locked file room, he still remembers every single place you’ve ever touched him. every surface you’ve ever gasped his name against. and that memory? fuels him. it controls him.

his favorite spots, now that he is hooked, range drastically.

up against a wall. any wall. all walls. you’ve made him associate drywall with orgasms.

it started in his apartment—your back to the hallway wall, his hands in your hair, hips pinning you in place while you whispered, 'i want you to lose control.'

he did. he does. he will—again and again, every time you push him back with that look in your eye.

walls are sturdy. reliable. you can climb him like a tree, dig your nails into his back, grind against him until he forgets every word he’s ever learned.

he’s ruined at least one framed print that way.

your kitchen countertop? yes please.

it happened one night after dinner. you were tipsy. he was jealous. some guy at the restaurant had smiled at you for too long, and you had smiled back.

so spencer kissed you with his hands under your thighs and lifted you straight onto the counter. pushed aside your plates. fucked you slow and intense with his tie still on.

now he eyes that countertop every time you make pancakes. every time you sit there swinging your legs. he wonders if you know what you do to him—right there in your own home.

and his desk, that has become your favorite.

he didn’t plan it. god, he really didn’t.

but it was a late night. you were helping him with paperwork. you looked up at him like he hung the stars and whispered, 'would it help if i sat in your lap?' ( it didn’t help. )

not with the paperwork, anyway.

now his desk is stained with ink, your cum, and memory and the echo of your breathless whimper when he slipped a hand up your shirt and you told him you wanted to thank him properly.

and lastly the passenger seat of your car. there’s just something about you behind the wheel. all confident and in control. something about him sinking into the seat, exhausted from the day, and letting you drive.

it’s become your little ritual now. a hand on his thigh. soft music. the slow creep of anticipation every time you take the long way home.

once, you didn’t even wait. you pulled into the garage, unbuckled him, and made him come with your hand fisted around him while the engine was still warm.

now the passenger seat smells like sex and summer and your shampoo—and spencer has never loved a car so much in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you could fuck spencer anywhere—and he’d let you. fucking gladly and desperately.

but that’s the thing : you don’t need to sneak anymore. there’s no hiding, no pretending. no more blurred lines or messy justifications.

you're his. he’s yours. fully. totally. irrevocably. how ever the fuck you want to define it.

now he wants you in the places that mean something.

not because he’s afraid of getting caught—but because being with you has finally started to feel safe. and still : he’s filthier than ever.

your shared bed is a big one. with the sheets half-peeled off. the place he makes love to you the most.

it’s not always sweet. sometimes it’s rough. sometimes it’s sleepy and slow. but always, always, it ends with him wrapping his arms around you like he’s never letting go.

spencer pulls the blankets up to your chins after. kisses your temple. traces circles over the bite mark he left behind.

it’s his sanctuary now. the safest place on Earth. because it smells like you. like sex. like lavender detergent and vanilla skin.

next is the bathtub. he’s a romantic, your spencer and now he’s got the confidence to show it. he’ll draw the bath himself. light a candle or two. say it’s for you, of course—but he slides in behind you anyway, letting you lean against him as warm water laps over both your thighs.

you ride him slow in that tub. whine against his neck. whimper his name while water sloshes over the rim and he fucks you deeper than you thought possible with just his hips beneath the surface.

when you collapse back against him, he holds you like treasure. washes you tenderly. massages your scalp. murmurs sweet nothings.

the living room couch, you clothes are still half on. you're both still shy about the possibility of guests—even if there are none.

which makes it all the better.

it’s always when you’re watching something—documentary, movie, nothing that matters—when he turns to kiss your bare shoulder. or when you toss your legs in his lap with a knowing smirk.

the tv still playing while he tugs your panties aside. one hand braced on the cushion. the other pulling your mouth to his to muffle the sounds of both your moans.

you’ve broken that poor couch in so many ways now. but neither of you care.

against the bookshelves in his apartment is a particularly filthy one. you were reading. he was watching you. then you were pinned.

your cheek pressed to the spine of crime and punishment. his hand wrapped in your hair. your moans muffled by dostoevsky.

one hand flicking your clit and the other around your neck as he drives you into the bookshelf. slapping skin and wood creaking is just the tip of the sensations.

after that, he swore you were never allowed to wear that sweater in his library again. the one that rides up when you stretch. the one he swears is cut just to tease him. the one you wear on purpose.

now you read in his lap. and the shelves hold more secrets than any of the books.

lastly, the elevator in your building. too many late-night visits. too many heated goodbyes.

one night you didn’t wait. you were kissing before the doors even closed. he had you against the mirror before the first floor dinged.

now he pulls you in by your coat collar every time you step inside. you pretend to protest—every time. but he knows better. you’re already lifting your skirt before the doors shut.

because fuck, you just can't wait any longer. your cunt is throbbing and you had been staring at his fuck hard ass cock for the last thirty minutes.

once, the elevator got stuck between floors.

neither of you minded.

🔖  .   @sammyreidslut  @mggskny  @theburgundyonmytshirt1989  @nesiamenick  @alastorssimp  @oldmanbunnylover  @nfwmb-gvf  @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap  @reidsbabyhoney  @qardasngan  @cynbx  @g3n3zshack

[yudzukii]

tysm @foofendale for your mention and the tag! I appreciate it. <3

Over the years I've got some sources of inspiration. Back then I started writing in the form of songlyrics, mainly rap verses, and so many kinds of lyricists inspired me and set my foundation. Afterwards I incorperated techniques by melodic and singer lyrics of all kinds when my interest in singin myself grew.

Another pillar of inspiration are the books and topics I read, think, reflect and talk about - philosophy, psychology, nature, physics, social topics. My feelings and thoughts, what I sense, my values, they all come together. Oh - and of course also poetry I read of other people, yeah, also YOU guys! <3 I'd like to think, that for those who know my sources of inspiration they are quite obvious to see. Jung, Plato, Fromm, Zen, Buddhism, Existentialism f.e. .

And last but not least life inspires me. Relationships especially - with myself, the world, nature, humans.

It's like years and years of all those experiences culminating in some lines and verses, intuitively and mostly spontanous like rivers flowing naturally from the sources and filling the sea with words.

@ifeeleverythingiwrite @letsbelonelytogetherr @yakultstan @voidic3ntity @weltenwellen @dirtygoodgrief @alicephonic

Since you’re always coming up with cool prompts and all, here’s a little one for you:

Not to sound like a nosy anon but, what’s your biggest inspiration when you write? Spill the tea 🍵✍️ And tag a few folks to answer too”

Great question! Really just little pieces of my life in general. Usually people I've met and the experiences we've had. I've had a very interesting life so it's the easiest thing for me to write about. So many different ways I could word the stories, so to speak. And so many different stories. I have bits of my life I've never touched in my writing, though I would like to change that.

@moonknightmaiden @noxnightingales @peepeepoopoo3d @butwhyareyoureyessosad @nyx-tenberis @faemaril @behindstonewalls

[wolfertinger]

such a nitpick, but its kinda crazy to take a transman character whos probably the most direct, raw and just... extremely upfront and aggressive about just how mentally distressing and damaging gender and body dysphoria is, just absolutely in your face about this being something almost life-ruining for someone; and make it about how you should just learn to love your body and that you don't need gender affirming surgery. Like togata is yelling at the screen about how bad he feels cursed because hes trapped in a body he hates and wishes he could change and the take away is "just learn to like it" like hell theres trans characters out there that do have a "i love my body, i dont want to change it, i'm happy like this but Im still trans!" mindset, this blog has mentioned Ladiva from granblue and thats a very major aspect of her presentation and character as a bearded, musclular trans girl and we're going 'learn to love how you were born <3' to a guy whos literally screaming about how horrible trying to just live as a woman feels. Like I get it, surgery isn't viable for everyone, and sometimes you just gotta make do... but this is clearly someone extremely distressed by being denied that

^^^

tbh. ladiva and togata, are basically 2 sides of the non op coin. the irl experience is varied from person to person. but you have ladiva, in a magical setting, where transition is as easy as a spell, choosing to keep her body as it is, and everyone is respectful of such. she is not mocked, belittled, or treated any differently for her non op choice.

togata is forced, to keep his body as it is. he expresses psychological distress and debilitating depression, often associated with irl dysphoria. due to the magical setting of his world, he will never be able to physically transition, and thus keeps himself closeted, constantly self-loathing, he is unable to be his true self due to his own circumstance.

i would say, despite the vastly different depictions. both of these are good rep, especially for mainstream media, of non-op trans people. but ironically, ladiva's presentation and setting is far more fitting of salem's identity and expression, vs togata, who feels "trapped" by his femininity.

[lovehazard]

On a scale of 1-10, how would you rank each member of Valentines (crew? organization?group?) on how dangerous it is to try to escape them?

Also, what would it be like to try to escape each one of them? I feel like the experience would vary from each one of them, due to their different resources/skills/strengths and such. It would probably be a little different too, depending on who it is that is escaping...(for example, like if it was just one of their victims, or their darling)

Hmm it’s hard to say on scale, they’re all pretty difficult to escape from, you have to be very lucky, or smart, to be able to escape from them.

Sylas

Escaping Sylas isn’t impossible, but that's because he lets it feel that way. Sylas gets a certain... pleasure from the chase. The moment someone tries to slip away, it flips a switch in him. He doesn’t panic. He smiles.

To Sylas, a darling on the run isn’t a threat, it’s an invitation.

He’s not the type to have tight security, not because he’s careless, but because he’s confident in what he does. You think you’ve outsmarted him. You think you’re safe. That’s when he reappears, calm as ever, amused that you thought it would be that easy. The more you run, the more his obsession grows. Not just with owning you, but with proving that you belong to him, no matter how far you try to flee.

“You really thought you could make it, how cute.”

His strength isn't just physical, though he is capable, it’s psychological. He doesn’t just want to drag you back. He wants to make you want to return. Or make sure you never dare to run again.

If you’re a victim: He doesn't feel much for you beyond fleeting curiosity. You're not precious to him, you’re just a toy, a job to get done. Unlike his darling, he doesn’t plan to keep you. He’s just dragging out the time until he gets bored, or until you break. When that moment comes, he doesn’t make a big show of it. He appears like a shadow at your back. Maybe with a soft chuckle. Maybe with nothing at all. And he’ll say: “That was fun, but time’s up.” Then it ends. Quickly. Quietly. Coldly.

Cannibal-chan

Trying to escape Cannibal-chan is like trying to sneak away from a wild animal that knows you’re in the room, even when you think you’re being quiet.

She’s similar to Sylas in that she enjoys the chase, but Cannibal-chan is even more impulsive and violent. She lives for the panic in your eyes, the terror in your voice, the way you trip over yourself trying to flee. The moment she senses fear, it turns into a game for her, one she doesn’t plan to end quickly.

She doesn’t care about letting you go to prove a point; she lets you run because she wants to have fun. The more you resist, the more inspired she becomes. You might get away from her physically for a short time, but mentally? She’ll have already gotten under your skin. You’ll start wondering if she's watching you. If she’s nearby. If she’s already behind you again.

And when she finally catches up? It won’t be clean. It won’t be quick. Cannibal-chan likes her messes. She likes watching you squirm.

If you’re a victim: If you're just a victim to Cannibal-chan, you’re basically a snack with legs. She might find you amusing for a bit, especially if you scream nice or run in interesting patterns, but once the fun runs out? You’re meat. She won’t mourn the loss. She won’t even remember your name. Her only interest in you lies in how entertaining your fear is, how creatively she can hunt you, tease you, and pull you apart once she’s done playing.

Dominik

Escaping from Dominik it’s more like a test than just escaping. A curated, calculated experience designed to dissect your mind like a frog under glass. Unlike the others, Dominik isn’t impulsive. He’s patient. Chillingly so.

He observes how you react to the obstacles. He’ll let you think you’ve found a weak spot in the security. A window left open. A moment when the cameras “weren’t working.” But all of it? Intentional. He wants to see how long you’ll last. How much you’ll hope. How far you’ll push yourself before it all crumbles.

Then, right at the peak of your adrenaline, your desperation, he appears. Calm. Immaculate. Unbothered.

And then come the questions:

“How did you feel when you thought you were going to escape?” “Did it make your heart race?” “Were you disappointed… or relieved to see me again?”

He’s not asking for answers, he’s watching how you answer. How your voice shakes. How you avoid his eyes. Dominik doesn’t just want your body under his control, he wants your mind. Your patterns. Your fears.

I believe the worst part is that you’ll start to feel like he knows you better than you know yourself. And when he says “You were never going to make it.” you’ll believe him.

When he brings you back, he won’t raise his voice. But you’ll feel the walls close in subtly. Quietly. Until there’s nowhere left to go.

If you’re a victim: He won’t romanticize you. He won’t feel sorry for you. You’re an opportunity to observe, and maybe refine his methods. He’ll let you run. Not because he’s giving you a chance, but because he wants to see what you do when hope is dangled in front of your face. For him it’s not cruelty, it’s curiosity.

Almas

Almas isn’t the type to chain you to a bed or lock the door. No, he’s the type to wrap the chains around your heart, your mind. Giggling, teasing, and whispering sweet nothings until you don’t even realize you’re trapped. Escaping him isn’t about fleeing a physical space, it’s about disentangling yourself from a feeling that refuses to let go.

He's an incubus, after all. Seduction is second nature. He’ll make you feel seen, desired, adored, even when it’s all part of the game. You think you’re pulling away? He’ll pout, act hurt, maybe even cry. And then suddenly you're comforting him, even as you're trying to leave. His power isn’t brute force, it’s emotional disarmament.

He plays. He flirts. He pouts when you pull away, only to turn possessive the second you get too close to someone else. And if you do manage to run?

He won’t run after you. He’ll draw you back in. Maybe with a dream. Maybe with a voice in your head that sounds just like him. Or maybe with that lingering ache in your chest that whispers, “did he really love me?”

You’ll never truly escape. He’s already made a home inside your thoughts, and he’s very comfortable there. The most dangerous part isn’t the chase. It’s how much you don’t want to leave.

If you’re a victim: Almas is an incubus. He feeds on desire, attention, emotional charge, and if you’re just a victim, you’re mostly bait to pass the time. He might flirt with you, toy with you, confuse you with mixed signals, but he won’t grow attached. You’re fodder for his ego or appetite. He may seduce, manipulate, or even pretend to be kind, only to end you when he’s done feeding from you.

Viktor

If there's one thing he can’t stand, it’s when something doesn’t go according to plan.

Especially when they run away from him.

He doesn't lose his temper, he just gets sharper.There's this edge that starts showing in the way he moves, how short his sentences get. He won't yell or rage, but you can feel it. The irritation in his voice. The pressure in the room.

At first, he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was fear. A mistake. A moment of panic. But once he realizes you're really trying to get away? That’s when the clock starts ticking.

He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t chase for fun. He hunts you down to end it quickly.

And he always, always finds you.

You’ll know he’s close when everything just… stops working. The car won’t start. Your phone dies. The safehouse feels too quiet. You catch your breath in the alleyway, and hear the familiar sound of boots behind you.

Then comes his voice, steady and tight with irritation:

“Was that really necessary?”

He doesn’t hurt you if you’re his darling. But you’ll feel it. The disappointment, the tension, the way his hand tightens a little too hard on your wrist as he brings you back. He hates wasting time, and running just made things messy.

If you’re a victim: You’re a mess that needs cleaning up. Viktor is fast, brutal, and completely impersonal. No speeches. No lingering looks. Just a clean job and a quiet disposal. You won’t see him coming. You won’t get a second chance.

Liam:

Trying to escape Liam isn't like running from a sadist or a stalker. He’s not the type to breathe down your neck, play psychological games, or leave cryptic messages in your locker. He doesn’t enjoy the hunt, he just sees it as part of the job. You're not special. You’re a task. A name on a list. Kill. Get the money. Move on.

He’s calm, collected, and efficient. He won’t get sloppy. If you run, he doesn’t panic. He just starts walking with a bat in his hand. And he won’t stop until he gets you.

There’s no thrill in the violence. No pleasure. It’s a chore, but one he does without hesitation. He’ll crack your skull open with a baseball bat just as easily as he’d take out the trash.

If you’re someone who tries to interfere with Ophelia, if you get too close, too friendly, too curious?

You’ll die differently. Slower. Not because Liam wants you to suffer, but because he wants you to understand. You don’t touch what’s his. You don’t look at what’s his. You don’t exist near what’s his.

Then he’ll check his phone, wipe his hands, and text Ophelia something sweet.

“Miss you already. Dinner tomorrow <3?” (Poor Ophelia)

[berryunhinged98]

Love a fanfic where Stone is a test subject in one of Robotnik’s experiments. Literally can’t get enough of that shit.

[tired-hydra922876]

Y'all, feel like we're forgetting the obvious here -- Makoto and co. did not know about the Hajime and Izuru thing. They appear surprised that Junko even brings Izuru up in the first place, Makoto is incredibly shocked at the reveal, and Kyoko is visibly disturbed by the implications of her father's probable involvement. They did not know Hajime and Izuru were the same person, or the fact that (pre-fusion, at least) the existence of one requires the other to experience a death of personality/complete memory loss.

If they did know, they probably would not have put him in the program in the first place. You think Makoto - the guy that tried to reason with Junko that he didn't want her dead just before her execution, even though she murdered his friends, destroyed the world and nearly killed him - would knowingly attempt to erase a person? If Makoto knew that Izuru was a separate set of memories (that, if put in the program, would be fully gone - in the same way that Hajime's memories were violently suppressed), I think he'd have taken a much different approach.

Still, yeah, the 'remove their traumatic memories' plan is alright in theory, but has horrific implications in practice. Consider Hajime specifically, for example: he'll still be dealing with the physical and psychological scars - except he has no clue why he's like this.

He'd be scared/anxious around hospitals (in chap3, he paces the lobby when a prior line of narration described the group "waiting patiently", and he wonders to himself "On a side note, why is it I can't relax around hospitals?" Note: he's experiencing this fear response even while in the program and with those traumatic memories removed.)

He'd still be dealing with the ramifications caused by his talents/the boredom they cause. Also, even if the graduation program removed the talents, he'd still have to deal with the canonical lobotomy (to cite my sources here, we get an image in chap6 that resembles the operation of a transorbital lobotomy, that image is called 'Lobotomised?!' in the extras menu, and Izuru's lack of initiative and lack of emotional intensity fits with common effects of a lobotomy.)

In the Island Mode ending where no killing happens and everyone graduates as intended, Hajime would have no access to Izuru's memories. He would be dealing with severe psychological and physical issues (scars, changes in behaviour, new unexplainable fears, unexplainable competence, unexplainable boredom), and have no clue what happened to him as a Remnant to cause these new issues. Also, if the crew correctly put together that Hajime was experimented on/medically tortured, everyone would probably come to the conclusion that Mikan was the one that did it. The guilt Mikan would be dealing with would be awful - and she wouldn't know she's innocent of that because she wouldn't remember anything from the Remnant days either!

Just a messed up time overall...

I'm thinking about that one post that went "Amnesia but you're haunted by your scars" post, talking about how wiping someone's memory in fiction doesn't completely erase the trauma they went through, and I just immediately look to DR2's cast and go "... Yeah."

I think Makoto was well meaning in wanting to wipe their memories of being remnants and putting them in an island paradise, but like. That's not therapy. That's not healing. That's only covering the scars on their hearts with an ill-fitted bandaid.

Even without the KG for that game, I think the Remnants would have like, sensations of fear they can't explain, sensations of trauma they can't address.

I don't think it's cruel to want to erase someone's painful memories... but I don't think that's a solution, either.

[drill-bits]

Does Drift feel a moving inside himself (like pregnant humans) and do pregnant Cybertronians change in look, do they have mood changes, do Sire feel the baby?

Carriers should only feel moving during Movements. Sparklings don’t shift or kick, because unlike humans, cybertronian internals aren’t flexible or made to stretch (mass displacement within the gestation tank prevents this from happening). So carriers don’t get bigger, they get heavier as a result of armor reinforcement, and additional support in their back, legs, and hips. 
Appearance wise, and depending on the frame type, they might bulk up over time. The only other give away is that a carrier will have two EM fields.

They typically experience sour moods during the first term as a result of exhaustion and spark strain, or during later terms from fuel inefficiency.

Yes, sires can feel the sparkling (they are the other half of the merge and thus are tethered to it).

Sires are the ones with mood swings, as sire protocols make them more protective, defensive and determined to provide for and care for the carrier and sparkling, especially during gestation when the carrier becomes heavier and incapable of transforming (which typically occurs long after the T cog has frozen).

The intensity of these protocols varies between Forged and CC coding.

So if you thought Ratchet was cranky before, he would have been UNIMAGINEABLE if he’d been around for the whole carriage.

[16-puppies]

Sorry for being all “grrrr i hate it here!!!” on my first day on therianblr but i promise I have actually good posts in the works. I want to propose a new definition of therianthropy that helps include those outside of the “standard” spiritual/psychological origins that might also dispel some confusion about what it means to identify *as* an animal… I’ve gotta revise it a bit more because I wrote it at 5 am and most of it is ramble but i promise yall it will be peak… Not sure if anyone else has done something like this before but im just a regular guy trying to give my two cents 👍 Im not a physical therian myself but one of my kintypes is an emotional kin which I dont see talked about a lot either!

[somewhereincairparavel]

I grew up thinking I was dumb and not bright, even the teachers and classmates thinking I was, bc I was bad at math, but then after I became homeschooled (and some of my classmates thought it was bc I failed my final exam 💀 which I didn't, I did quite good, even at math, my parents just wanted me to learn beyond school)

I realize that knowledge goes way beyond school subjects and that being bad at ONE subject didn't make me dumb at all.

now I'm interested in physics even though I despised it in school (bc of the teaching) and plenty of other things that the school never taught me.

[creepyscritches]

Just finished another class on how to not put my foot in my mouth and it's soooo validating to know people have to learn these skills like anything else. I've signed up for uhhh I think this is like my 3rd or 4th? And experts on how to not sound like a dick will school me and 30 other professionals on how to not sound like a dick. Wiiiiiiild how much there is to learn on the intricacies of communication :O

[kittenstrategist]

god i think part or maybe even most of the reason i can't decide what i would want out of a physical transition is because even if i know what i want i have SO little faith that i would find a doctor who would be on board with helping me achieve my goals. every time i consider the topic i talk myself out of every possibility and convince myself there's nothing out there that would make me any happier

[errantabbot]

A Call to Honest Religion

Exclusionary religious rhetoric, and exclusive salvific schemas are no longer viable. In fact, they haven’t been for a long time, and the praxis of religion must contend with this reality.

In the face of a globally connected society, wherein religious experiences are easily enough shared by those willing to listen, we find that people of all faiths are primed to have very similar experiences of the sacred, both those that inspire wonder and awe, and those that motivate fear and trepidation.

People of all spiritual persuasions find prayers answered and encounter the miraculous. They hear voices and otherwise receive inspiration and intuitional guidance. And what’s more, we can predictably map the types of practices and observances that prime human physiology to produce many of these experiences.

Suffice it to say, these factors are certainly not sufficient to establish the reality of any faith, nor to preference any one system of belief as being any more true than another. Healthy religion recognizes this, and doesn’t assert illusions of primacy or superiority, especially on those bases.

To be clear, religions all wade in the great expanse of mystery that undergirds and sustains all of our life and experience. And there’s plenty of mystery to go around. Indeed, it is healthy religion’s imperative to help us approach that mystery with increasing comfort and grace, to live and love with hope and faith amidst the uncertainty and temporality otherwise intrinsic to being. And to do that without doing injustice and violence to the facts illuminated by disciplines such as psychology and physiology, anthropology and sociology, alongside critical textual scholarship and history otherwise.

Doffing the unsustainable, tribalistic capades of spiritual supremacy is not simply about asserting that truth might also be found in other systems of faith, but about finding ways to re-envision our internal approaches to salvation that are predicated on fixed cosmologies and divine personages approached other than through a lens informed by the forces of archetype, myth, and metaphor, in addition to those of projection, desire, and a willing suspension of disbelief in favor of the lust for certainty.

Healthy religion deals in unknowing, it thrives on questions (especially those unanswered), and persists in humility.

Religion is not an endeavor apart from psychology, physiology, anthropology, sociology, and history. Its healthy varietals exist as conscious stewards of those disciplines and the phenomena that they exist to examine and explore.

Spirituality is, in essence, a field of applied humanity, that moves beyond the mere survey and study of the human condition by inviting its adherents into specific ways of being that that refine our capacity for understanding our common lot, for making meaning from it, and for integrating our experiences into a trajectory of maturation and wisdom that yield peace and ease amidst the difficulties of life.

In many ways religion has been a pinnacle pursuit of humanity. As such, caution is warranted in wielding its power. Just as the study of physics has been capable of producing both radiation therapy to treat cancer and nuclear bombs to eradicate entire populations, the “unique moods and motivations” that religion is capable of producing and manipulating in humans (to invoke Geertz) can bring both transcendence and misery to the masses, and it has.

+JRP

[fingertipsmp3]

I am once again having a sexuality crisis (read: wondering if I’m a lesbian or just have been stuck in my hometown for too long yet again and therefore haven’t seen a man who doesn’t look vaguely like a fish in years)

[ssseriema]

apologizing to the seri ssseriema community. I leave an ask everytime I have cramps 😔

hey, its ok. i forgive you!

[philosophiesde]

Zoomposium with Dr. Dr. Walter von Lucadou: "At the borders between physics and psychology - hauntings, ghosts and other physically phenomena"

In this very exciting interview with Walter von Lucadou, this time we go to the extreme limits of physics but also of psychology, as our guest can also be seen as a border crosser between the two fields. First of all, here is an excerpt from Wikipedia.

Information about the person and his scientific research work

"Von Lucadou studied physics and psychology at the Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg and at the Freie Universität Berlin. After completing his diploma in physics, he was awarded a Dr. rer. nat. at the University of Freiburg and a Dr. phil. at the Free University of Berlin. From 1977 to 1978, von Lucadou worked as a physicist at the Kiepenheuer Institute for Solar Physics in Freiburg. From 1985 to 1987 he was a guest lecturer at the Parapsychological Laboratory of the University of Utrecht.

Influenced by Hans Driesch's book "Parapsychology - The Science of Occult Apparitions" and his teacher Hans Bender [3], he initiated a research project that was carried out from September 1979 to April 1985 at the Chair of Psychology and Frontier Areas of Psychology at the Institute of Psychology at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. In 1986, he completed his doctorate in psychology at the FU Berlin. In 1989, Lucadou founded the parapsychological advice center of the Scientific Society for the Advancement of Parapsychology in Freiburg, which he has headed ever since[4]. Fields of research Walter von Lucadou conducts research in the field of parapsychology. He is one of the editors of various specialist journals and also acted as scientific advisor for the six-part ARD documentary "Dimension PSI", which was broadcast in 2003. His main areas of research are systems theory and border areas of psychology." (https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_von_Lucadou, formatting and links added) Admittedly, I was a little skeptical about the whole subject at first, as "hauntings, ghosts and other supernatural phenomena" had previously been more in the realm of esotericism for me. During the preparation for this interview and the associated research, however, it turned out that von Lucadou is anything but a "spiritual ghost hunter", but on the contrary has both feet firmly in the scientific camp and tends to use empirical methods to rationally try to fathom the physically explainable phenomena. I was therefore very excited about the interview with him and afterwards also very "enthusiastic" (bon mot ;-), as the conversation with him also brought to light a lot of new findings on topics such as "consciousness, embodiment, but also quantum physics", which I had not expected at all. But before I keep you in suspense, here are the interview questions from Axel Stöcker (die-grossen-fragen.com) and myself to give you a rough idea. Interview questions for Dr. Dr. Walter von Lucadou: "At the boundaries between physics and psychology" 1) Have you ever been called an "esoteric", "spiritualist" or something of this kind and, if so, what is your response?

2) How would you define the term "parapsychology"? 3) What progress have you seen in parapsychology in recent decades and how do you think the acceptance of parapsychology has developed in society on the one hand and in the scientific world on the other? To explain paranormal phenomena, you often fall back on the concept of "entanglement", a term that is also used in quantum theory. As far as we understand, the term as you use it goes back to C. G. Jung's "synchronicity" and describes a non-causal relationship between events. 4) Could you explain this complex term in more detail? 5) In your opinion, is the quantum-physical phenomenon of entanglement related to psychological processes in the macroscopic realm and, if so, how? 6) Hartmann Römer assumes a "generalized quantum theory" in this context. Do you already have empirical findings for this theory for the entanglement relationships in cases of "macroscopic undecidability"? You have been running the Parapsychological Counseling Center in Freiburg for 30 years. One of the best-known phenomena that you deal with there are those that are commonly referred to as "hauntings". However, instead of hauntings, you prefer to talk about an "embodiment disorder" of the person concerned.

7) Could you explain this term, perhaps using the example of a particularly spectacular "haunting" case? You also report cases of "hauntings" where things spontaneously start to burn or where stones fly through the air. 8) In your opinion, where does the energy required for such phenomena come from (keyword: "conservation of energy")? Another well-known paranormal phenomenon is the so-called "near-death experience (NDE)", the existence of which is now well documented (e.g. by Pim van Lommel, 2007). 9) How do you assess the state of research on this phenomenon? 10) In your opinion, is there an explanation for NDEs within the framework of evolutionary theory, which would imply that NDEs are associated with a selection advantage? 11) Do you see any alternative explanations? One problem with phenomena such as "spooks" or NDEs is that they cannot normally be reproduced under laboratory conditions ("displacement effect"). 12) Doesn't that make such phenomena "unscientific" by definition? Or would you say that the world view of the empirical natural sciences is incomplete in the sense that they cannot fully grasp such phenomena with their instruments? More at: https://philosophies.de/index.php/2024/03/12/grenzen_physik_psychologie/ or: https://youtu.be/TPCADLkSBWM

[asvidema]

there's some things happening in the lab that i feel good about but at the same time i still need time to process them