readingisfunactually

[readingisfunactually]

SHE DOES, MINE

SYNOPSIS: Damian Wayne has never been the kind of man to fall in love halfway. And when he loves, he does it with all the ferocity and devotion of someone who was trained to safeguard what he holds most dear So when the girl he loves shines—he makes sure the world never dims her PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader TAGS: Alternate Universe, Romance, Fluff

🜼 :: i've seen too much alpha male content on tiktok i had to write this masterpiece to calm myself

🜼 :: i get that this might be ooc for damian—like i said, i'm not very familiar with the canon material yet—but i don't care because this is my fic and i can do what i want with it

🜼 :: i wanted to post this before part three of my tim fic just 'cause that one isn't quite done yet. i'm not yet satisfied with the way i've written it so this is a little something to have while you guys wait for that one.

There’s something in her—

Something radiant.

It’s not loud or dramatic.

Not desperate or flashy.

It’s just… bright.

The way she walks into a room and transforms it, like someone opened the windows and let the sunlight in—suddenly everything feels warmer, clearer, alive.

Damian fell in love with that brightness.

And the moment he did?

He made it his job to protect it.

One Year Ago

He showed up on her window balcony with a dislocated shoulder and a look that said: don’t ask.

So she didn’t.

She just opened the window, said, “You’re bleeding on my basil,” and went to get the first aid kit.

They weren’t dating then. Not really.

He was Damian Wayne. She was the girl who sat beside him in class—lip gloss always perfect, boots too pretty for Gotham grime, with a knack for saying something ridiculous and making it sound profound.

They met in a Philosophy 101 elective.

He thought she was an idiot for quoting Barbie.

She thought he was repressing sixteen years of rage and probably slept with his fists clenched.

Both were right.

But they also partnered on a debate project, complained about their annoying classmates, and kept running into each other at increasingly inconvenient moments.

He’d show up to class with split knuckles and a stitched lip, and she wouldn’t ask. She’d just pass him an ice cold water bottle, slide her hoodie over for him to use as a makeshift ice pack, and keep talking like nothing was unusual.

One time he came in with blood drying beneath his collar. She only raised an eyebrow, moved her takeout box closer to him, and said, “The garlic bread is still warm.”

When he disappeared for five days and returned, knocking on her door—limping, face paler than usual and shoulder stiff—she didn’t ask where he’d been. She just opened her door, pointed him to the couch, made soup, and put on a movie he once mentioned he enjoyed.

He stopped showing up anywhere else after long nights. Only her window.

They weren’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love

There were too many unsaid things between them—too much shadow in his world, too much light in hers. He carried weight in his shoulders like he was always bracing for war. She wore joy like armor, all sunshine and clever comebacks, like she could survive anything as long as she stayed golden.

But he kept coming back. For her. For the way she patched him up in glittery pajamas and brewed him coffee the way he liked it. For how she met every argument he made—disarming his logic with a well-placed “actually”—and still managed to be gentle about it, like she was offering correction with a ribbon tied around it.

For the way she made being brilliant look fun—and made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to. Things he didn’t have the time or luxury for.

It drove him insane.

He called her infuriating. She called him dramatic.

He kept coming back. And she let him.

Eventually, he told her. About Robin. About the League. About the fact that he wasn’t just bruised from bar fights, but from chasing actual death through rooftops and gutters.

She blinked. Took a breath. Then asked, “So that’s why you’re so bad at texting back?”

He stared.

She handed him his coffee. “Cool. That explains a lot.”

Now

Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.

Not in battle. Not in love.

So when it came to her—there was never going to be anything halfway about it.

He calculated the risk, weighed the consequences, and still handed her the keys.

He didn’t accidentally fall in love.

He didn’t casually let her into the Bat-side of his life.

And he’s sure as hell not going to keep living under the same roof as his gossiping, nosy, emotionally invasive brothers when he could be waking up next to her in a place of their own.

So yes.

The only logical next step?

Move out. Take her with him.

“Damian. Baby. Love of my life. Please do not fold my dress like it’s a tactical vest.”

She didn’t even look up from her side of the room, where she was carefully organizing makeup into a padded case like it was crown jewels. Damian, meanwhile, was frowning over her favorite silk dress, currently flattened into a rectangle.

“It wrinkles when you pack it like that,” she said, tone calm but pointed—clearly watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s more space-efficient,” he said flatly, still folding.

“It’s Dior.”

“That doesn’t make it less wrinkle-prone.”

She sighed, standing up and crossing the room to peel the dress from his hands. “This is why you’re not allowed near my closet unsupervised.”

“I rescued a civilian diplomat in less time than it’s taking you to pack makeup,” he muttered, watching as she delicately re-folded the fabric with a practiced roll.

“And yet here you are,” she said softly, “ still showing up for me anyway.”

He flies her to the new place—not because it’s far, but because he likes the way her eyes light up when he does things like that. Private jet. Window seat. Her favorite drink already waiting.

The residence is technically still in Gotham.

Discreet. Reinforced. High above the noise.

A penthouse—three levels of clean lines and curated light. 

The kitchen looks like it was designed for a cooking show.

There’s library already holds all her annotated books, shelved just the way she likes them.

Their bedroom has blackout curtains, soft sheets, and her favorite throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

She’s silent for a long moment. Then:

“You decorated.”

“Tt. I’m not a savage.”

The adjustment, the rhythm, the quiet luxury of building something together.

It doesn’t happen all at once. But the space eventually starts to feel like them—like a home.

Damian, ever precise, takes to domesticity the way he does combat: intensely, instinctively, and with startling dedication. 

He remembers—too clearly—those nights she wordlessly cleaned the blood from his knuckles, nudged a warm bowl of fresh soup toward him, handed him a fresh shirt and didn’t ask questions.

Back then, he hadn’t known how to say thank you. So now, he shows it in the only way he knows how: by making her life gentler wherever he can. By handling the sharp corners before she gets near them. By protecting her from the quiet exhaustion she never complains about.

It starts small.

She’s humming—soft, distracted—while folding towels on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Damian walks in.

Pauses. Frowns slightly.

“Beloved.”

“Hmm?”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It’s laundry. I’m not battling Deathstroke.”

“Still.”

Two days later, every piece of clothing she owned—including ones she didn’t remember buying—was folded, hung, and steam-pressed in perfectly color-coded rows.

No explanation.

Just a silent housekeeper named Marta, who appears twice a week like clockwork.

“Why?” she asks later, a little amused.

“Because you were humming,” he says simply. “And your voice is better when you’re not tired.”

She doesn’t cook. Unless you count heating water for tea.

Every morning, she wakes up to a pre-set breakfast bar tailored to her weekly cravings.

Avocados? Already sliced.

Eggs, soft-boiled for exactly six minutes? Naturally.

Chocolate-dipped strawberries on Tuesdays? Of course.

She once jokingly asked for pancakes shaped like bats.

The plate was waiting the next morning—complete with tiny edible batarangs. 

“You know I can cook, right?”  she once mumbled, more puzzled than insistent. 

Damian, without looking up from his tablet, “You could also write a thesis in glitter gel pen. Doesn’t mean you should.” 

She doesn’t grocery shop. She’s never had to. 

The fridge is always stocked. The pantry never dips below half. The fruit is always fresh, the snacks never stale, and somehow, everything she loves appears just before she realizes she’s craving it.

The exact brand of instant ramen she lives on during final?

Local lemonade she swears tastes better than store-bought?

Her favorite brand of oat milk that always sells out?

It’s just there. Always. As if the universe anticipated it

—or Damian Wayne.

He’d hired a private grocer before they even moved in. Arranged deliveries on a rotating schedule. Commissioned a smart inventory system that flagged replacements before she noticed anything missing. 

There’s no grocery list taped to the fridge, no scribbled reminders on the counter, no panicked “we’re out of milk” moment. It just… never happens.

“Did you go to the store?” she asked once, squinting at the restocked shelf of her favorite jam.

“No,” Damian said. “The store comes to us.”

She doesn’t clean.

Not because she’s lazy.

Because Damian has built a life where she simply doesn’t have to.

The housekeeper arrives exactly when they’re out.

The vacuum runs on a silent schedule while they sleep.

There’s a scent diffuser system that releases calming scents like warm vanilla and fresh linen. 

The kinds of scents that say: You’re home.

She tried to vacuum once.

He unplugged the cord without a word, handed her a cup of tea, and delegated the task to Marta.

“This feels excessive,” she said once, laughing.

“No,” Damian answered. “It’s called priorities.”

“Priorities?”

“Yes. You have better things to do than chase dust bunnies.”

She huffed a laugh. “Like what?”

“Being brilliant. Annoying me. Tending to your garden of plants you call your children.”

“Your attention is a resource I refuse to waste on dust.” he said simply.

The only time she ever picked up a broom was to threaten Jason with it.

She asked him once.

“Is this a power thing?” she’d asked, curled in his lap on their couch.

“Are you trying to take care of me because you think I can’t?”

He had looked at her then, calm and deadly sincere.

“No. I’m taking care of you because you shouldn’t have to waste your time doing menial things. Because your time is valuable. Because your mind is extraordinary. Because I can.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just rested her head against his shoulder, eyes soft.

“You know I’d do the same for you, right?”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That’s why I won’t let you beat me to it.”

“You protect the city,” she tells him once. “And I don’t even do the dishes.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

“You protect me.”

He said it like a fact.

And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes or argue like she usually might.

It was ridiculous. Over the top. The kind of thing people say in movies, in poems, in love songs whispered between verses.

But the thing about Damian Wayne was—

To him, her happiness wasn’t a luxury. It was a metric. A criteria for what was worth her time, her effort, her energy.

If it drained her, it was cut. If it bored her, it was handled. If it made her pause too long before smiling, it was gone by morning.

“But Damian—”

“If it doesn’t make you happy,” he said, quietly, forehead pressed to hers, “it doesn’t belong in your day.”

One of the things she does do—without fail—is wait up.

Damian came back with blood on his sleeve and exhaustion in his bones. The patrol had gone longer than expected, and the gash across his arm told her more than any debrief ever could.

She met him at the balcony window, arms crossed, your expression sharp with worry poorly disguised as irritation.

“We are having words,” she said firmly.

“I neutralized a threat—” he started, voice hoarse.

“No,” she interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing his uninjured wrist. “We are having nourishment, then words. In that order.”

He grunted something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away. Let her guide him out of his boots. Let her steer him to the kitchen. Let her fuss over him even as he rolled his eyes and muttered that he was fine.

Damian Wayne might be a soldier, might be lethal, might have faced down warlords and monsters—

But in her hands, he was just a man who needed soup, stitches, and someone to tell him not to bleed on the countertop.

And she always did. Every time.

“You disobeyed a direct girlfriend command,” she said, dabbing antiseptic on his scrapes and bruises. “I should revoke your forehead kisses.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” he grunted.

She simply leaned in, kissed his brow—gentle, lingering, a silent promise—and whispered, “Next time you come home bleeding, I will.”

It makes her happy, he knows.

To help.

To protect him the way he protects her.

To be part of this secret thing that is his, and now, theirs.

And because he has her…

He trains harder. Fights harder. Smarter. Cleaner.

He fights with her voice echoing in his ear, and with the knowledge that if he slips—if he falters—it will scare her.

“You did good tonight,” she says after every patrol. “Come home safe. That’s all I want.”

So he does.

Because she keeps him steady.

Keeps him from going too far, from losing himself in the mission.

From the silence that used to follow him home.

It was the first time she’d ever hosted anything in their penthouse.

She’d sent the invite on impulse, halfway through raiding the pantry for snacks. Damian hadn’t said anything when he saw the group chat name pop up. He only raised a brow and muttered something about “surviving one evening of meddling.”

The Gotham Partners Support Group™ hangout? snacks, drinks, and possibly unsolicited love advice

KORI: absolutely, i will bring flowers!! KON: on my way as long as no one makes me play charades DICK: lies, you love it

She laughed out loud reading it, already half-buzzing with excitement.

Kori’s heels click against the polished marble, echoing softly through the open space.

Kon lets out a low whistle when he sees the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Dick stops in front of the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Is that real marble?”

Tim pretends not to be impressed, but his fingers haven’t stopped tracing the edge of the built-in espresso bar for five solid minutes.

There’s music—soft. Lighting—warm, romantic. Scents—floral and calming.

And in the middle of it all is her, radiant in pink silk shorts and a cardigan she didn’t button up all the way, offering fresh lemonade in glasses that chill themselves.

Kon accepts his with both hands, eyes wide as he takes in the curated calm of the space.

“This is what you live like?” he asks her, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Tim doesn’t look up from where he’s adding a lemon slice to his own glass. “This is what Damian insisted she live like.”

Kon whistles low. “Damn. I get it now.”

Kon finds the in-house massage chair. Within seconds, he’s flat on his back, eyes closed, muttering something about never leaving.

Dick discovers the balcony garden—rows of herbs, sun-warmed terracotta, and a vine-draped bench with a throw pillow. He whistles low, brushing his fingers over the rosemary. “Didn’t know Damian had a green thumb.”

“He doesn’t,” she calls from the kitchen. “I do. He just bought the balcony.”

Kori, meanwhile, opens the walk-in pantry—and promptly gasps. “You have an entire section just for different kinds of honey??”

“I like options.”, she beams.

Jason hasn’t even shown up yet, and already the place is buzzing.

Kon’s half-asleep in the massage chair, murmuring threats to anyone who tries to make him move. Dick is crouched in the garden corner, dramatically sniffing potted herbs and assigning them names with far too much confidence. Kori’s opened three jars of honey for “taste-testing purposes” and is now trying to convince Damian to try the lavender one on toast.

Tim is loitering by the drinks counter, drink in one hand, the other typing furiously on his phone, pretending not to laugh at the chaos around him.

And through it all, she’s just laughing—at ease, perfectly unbothered—as Damian leans against the kitchen island behind her, watching it all unfold with a look that says: this is his personal hell and also he’s never been happier.

They gather around the low table in the lounge—pillows everywhere, soft throws tossed over laps, bowls of popcorn and fancy chips within reach, half-finished drinks sweating on coasters. Laughter echoes off the high ceilings, warm and unhurried.

Kori nudges her with a grin, eyes sparkling.

“So you really don’t cook?”

“Nope.”

“Or clean?”

“Not once.”

“And Damian doesn’t mind?”

Before she can answer, Damian—seated beside her, legs crossed, perfectly composed, fingers idly brushing her knee—scoffs.

“Mind? I’d be offended if she tried.”

Jason, fork in hand, lazily gestures toward her as he leans back into the cushions.

 “So what do you even do in the penthouse all day if you’re not cooking, cleaning, shopping, or doing laundry?”

The question wasn’t malicious. Just curious. Playful, even.

Damian answers before she can—calm, certain, unapologetic.

“She studies, she writes, she drives me insane by reciting musicals.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “You’re spoiling her.”

“She deserves it,” Damian said simply.

Jason raised a brow. “What’s she ever gonna do if you’re not around to handle everything?”

“Thrive,” Damian repeated—cold, final. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m building her a life where she can.”

Damian leans back, calm and unaffected. “I don’t understand why her not doing chores surprises you. My mother never lifted a hand to sweep a floor in her life. And no one dared question her capability.”

Dick raised a brow. “Your mother also runs an empire of assassins.”

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly. And she never wasted time on tasks that diluted her strength.”

Because Damian Wayne may live under Bruce’s roof, fight under the Bat’s symbol, and protect Gotham’s streets—

But the foundation of his worldview?

That was all Talia al Ghul.

“I grew up watching people serve my mother. Not because she demanded it, but because her time was valuable. You don’t train the world’s most dangerous woman to hand-wash her robes. You let her focus on what makes her extraordinary.”

His gaze flicked to her, sitting beside him—pink silk and soft joy wrapped in confidence.

“So I made sure my beloved—who is, in her own right, extraordinary—lives the same way.”

Kori nodded slowly. Kon glanced her way, thoughtful.

Damian spoke without hesitation. “Why would I ask the person I love to waste time on things I can pay others to handle—when she could spend that time with me, pursuing her passions, or simply existing in peace?”

Dick leaned back, arms crossed, mulling it over. “So it’s not spoiling her.”

“It’s honoring her,” Damian corrected, voice calm but absolute.

Jason scoffed, grinning. “And here I thought you were just whipped.”

Damian raised a brow. “Oh, I am. Fully. Willingly.” A pause. “You should try it.”

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then:

Kon let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I get it. She glows in this place. Like she owns the world.”

“She does,” Damian replied, calm and certain. “Mine.”

And somehow, that was the final punctuation.

ARCHIVE

divider: @enchanthings

[readingisfunactually]

unhealthy codependency is really a top tier dynamic. like they need each other to survive but god. should they.

[readingisfunactually]

(opening the author’s works page after finishing a fic) and if im lucky they’ll have written this exact same fic but different a bunch more times

[readingisfunactually]

[readingisfunactually]

this shit rocks dude.

love it

Pure/Honey - Percabeth, Rated E

tags: squirting, vaginal sex, oral sex, college-age Percabeth

~

Percy tapped his pencil against the Latin book of Cicero's writings. He wasn't concentrating well enough to make a decent translation of it, but he was getting the gist, and that would do for class discussion tomorrow.

Annabeth was laying on his bed working on some math problems that made him dizzy when he tried to look at them.

They hadn't gotten to see each other at all yesterday or most of today. She'd finally gotten away from study groups, and him from swim practice to spend the night working together. When she'd come into his dorm (private suite, former Praetor privileges), she'd gone to his pajama drawer and stolen a pair of his sweat pants and a tee shirt. Percy thought she was looking extra cozy and extra cute.

Percy leaned back in his chair, glancing at her over his shoulder, and he caught her looking at him with a suspicious smile.

"What?" Percy asked, glancing around to make sure he hadn't missed something obvious.

"Nothing," she said, looking back to his book.

Percy tried to do the same, but the Latin didn't interest him, and he ended up staring at the words without making any effort to comprehend their meaning.

"Have you ever heard of squirting?" Annabeth asked without warning.

Percy's face went red, and he really tried to look at his books then, totally sure he'd stumbled into some trap. He and Annabeth had never talked about if she was okay with him watching porn. It's not like he watched a lot of it. But maybe she didn’t like that he did it some time. But why would she fixate on the squirting? Sure, some of the videos had that, but not all of them --

He tried to play it cool. "Uh, yeah, yeah, I've heard of it. Why?" He asked.

Annabeth started to move her books to the floor. "Do you have ... opinions about it?"

"Are you mad at me for watching porn? Because I can stop --"

"What?" She almost laughed. "I don't care if you watch porn. That's not why I'm asking."

Percy took a deep breath and moved to sit on his bed next to her. "Oh, okay, cool. Um ..."

"Do the women in the porn you watch .."

"Sometimes," Percy confessed.

"Do you like it?" Annabeth asked. Her expression seemed hopeful and curious. Did she want him to try and make her ... he didn't really know how, but he was certainly willing to try as many times as it took.

"Yeah, it's pretty hot," Percy said, "but it's not like a fetish. I don't need you too --"

"But I think I know how to," Annabeth said quickly, cutting him off.

Percy blinked and bit the inside of his lower lip to avoid smiling at an awkward moment. "You think you know how to?" He asked back.

She nodded. "I mean. I did it last night."

Percy's mind started to whirl. In front of him, Annabeth looked a little sheepish, sweet and adorable dressed in his clothes, coyly confessing to something that Percy had fantasized about dozens of times. His mind ran wild with the idea of her on her back, gasping for him, pawing for him, while she --

He hadn't been with her last night, a little voice in his mind reminded him. Percy smirked and moved closer to her. He knelt on the bed, standing on his knees so he towered over Annabeth, who was still sitting. Percy rested his hands on the side of her face, just brushing the edges of her curls.

"Last night?" Percy said, running a thumb over her lower lip. She opened her mouth, but instead of sucking on it, she bit down on the tip. "Were you touching yourself last night, Annabeth?"

Annabeth smiled, shameless. "What else was I supposed to do without you?" She asked in an insincere tone that told him she had done a fine job on her own. A pretty fine job, it seemed.

Percy lowered her onto her back. Hovering over her, he pressed his lips to hers gently as one hand slipped under her shirt. He let it rest at her side for a moment.

"What did you think about?" He asked her.

Annabeth let out a small laugh, and then carded her fingers through his hair.

"Guess," She said.

And then her legs wrapped around his hips and pulled him in close. Percy folded immediately. He gave up on teasing her and melted into the white-hot kiss. She didn't try to flip them over, but she did seem to be making an effort to press him as close to her as she physically could. Not that he was complaining.

Percy rocked up against her, their pants still between them, but the light friction was a pleasing little tease. His hand slid up under her shirt more until it found her breast, long-since free of her bra, and his lips found a sensitive part of her neck as his fingers found her nipple with a little pinch.

"Oh, Percy," she moaned. "It felt really good," she said.

Percy pinched her nipple again, thinking that was what she meant.

"No, squirting," she said. "I want -- oh -- " Percy captured her mouth again. He was starting to get hard just from grinding against her and thinking about what she might be able to do.

"Anything," he said between kisses, "I promise."

Annabeth smiled and tugged at his hair. "I want you to make me do it."

Percy nodded and pulled away. A string of spit went with him, connecting the two still. Percy swatted at it to break it, but Annabeth spotted it with a small giggle.

"How do I do it?" He asked, trying to move on from the spit. 

They'd done lots of stuff together in the last year and a half since they'd started really touching each other, especially in the last eight months since they’d started making love. Percy thought he had a pretty good fingering and eating out technique down. But if she was able to squirt just from touching herself, then he must not be doing a great job.

Annabeth leaned over and dug through her bag. She pulled out what looked like a black pencil case.

"I was using this," she said, handing it to him.

Percy opened it. In it was a purple vibrator, dick-shaped by only about four inches long, and not very girthy.

"Is this your way of telling me I'm too big for you?" Percy teased.

Annabeth sat up a bit and took the toy back. "It's a G-Spot stimulator. It doesn't go in very far, but you press it up against the front wall."

"Is this new?" Percy asked.

"I hope it's okay that I own toys," Annabeth said, much less nervous that Percy had been to ask about porn.

"For sure. Do you have more?" He asked.

"A few," Annabeth confessed. "I could bring them over. We could have some ... play time?"

Percy smiled and nodded. He'd never used toys with her before, or on himself. And if he knew his girlfriend, he was willing to bet she had some things in her possession that she had specific intentions for.

"I like that idea a lot," Percy said. Annabeth smiled. "Now, wanna show me how to use this thing?"

She stood up. "Well, it helps if I'm not wearing any pants ..."

Percy let the vibrator drop to the bed as his eyes fixed on her. She slowly pushed down the sweatpants, turning her back to him and hinging at the hips to push them down to her ankles without bending her knees. Her panties were simple cotton, but a pretty dark red color that looked great on her. Percy couldn't help it. He reached a hand out and touched her butt. Annabeth lifted the hem of her tee shirt a little and wiggled her hips, encouraging him to give it a little smack.

Annabeth hummed, satisfied for now. She'd asked him to spank her before, but he hadn't quite gotten over how much he hated to hit her, consent or not. He felt proud of himself for getting a little tap in.

Annabeth seemed willing to reward him. She slowly pulled his shirt up over her head, exposing her breasts. Percy reached out for her then, helpless and horny. Annabeth moved slowly towards him before crawling into his lap, straddling him with only her panties left on.

"I think these need to be off too," Percy said, teasing around the top edge of the panties.

"I want you to take them off," she said before kissing him. With her mouth still against his, she added, "with your mouth."

Percy tossed her back onto the bed, ravenously hungry and desperate to taste her. He kissed his way down her body, hardly pausing at her breasts or anywhere else. Finally, he captured the top of her panties in his mouth and yanked them down over her thighs.

He didn't make an effort to get them all the way off after that. The sight of her on his bed, curls splayed out, her cheeks pink, and her cunt damp and waiting sent all thoughts out of his brain except for one: taste her.

Percy pulled her panties all the way off with his hand, before tossing her legs over his shoulders to lick at her. This was second only to being inside her. It tasted sweet and distinctly like Annabeth. He still had dreams about the first time he got to taste her; he'd only just gotten permission to finger her a few days earlier. On what was only their third attempt (he hadn't even made her cum yet), he licked his fingers without thinking about it.

"Does it taste good?" She'd asked. Percy nodded and rocked himself up against her to show her how hard he was just from touching and tasting her. "You could try licking it if you wanted?" And Percy had wasted no time drinking her in. He even finally got her to cum.

Now, he was sure of himself, and he was able to lick her clit in the exact pattern she liked, licking up from below, pressing his tongue flat to it, and then repeating until she was gasping hard. Then he started to suck on it gently. He'd gladly never speak again if it meant keeping his mouth full of her forever.

In his pants, his cock was rock hard and waiting for his attention. All Percy offered himself was some rocking up against the mattress, preferring to keep all of his attention on her.

All of Annabeth's attention was on him. She was tugging at his hair, holding him close to her as if he'd ever try to escape from right where he was. Her thighs were pressed tight against his ears, but even so, he could hear her babbling his name.

"Percy ... Percy ... do you want to try ..." She was saying, reaching for something. Percy couldn't focus on what she was asking. His hands were holding onto the fat on her ass tight, working harder and harder to get her off. He wanted her to cum, cum right on his face, and cry out as he just kept licking her afterward until she came again and again. He didn't have any thoughts but the thought of getting her off.

"If you --" she was tapping something against his shoulder, "-- put this in, I might ..."

Percy came to a little bit and remembered what she was asking him to do. He pulled away, regrettably abandoning whatever momentum he'd built up in her. To make it up to her, he kissed her hard, licking into her mouth a little so she could taste herself. He couldn't help it, he rocked himself against her center, not caring about any Annabeth stains on the front of his sweat.

Annabeth gasped and smiled. "You're hard," she said.

"It's like Medusa made eye contact with my dick," he said. He realized how dumb and goofy that sounded only after it'd left his mouth. Annabeth laughed a little, and Percy pouted, whining: "Don't laugh at me. There's no blood left in my brain."

Annabeth pulled him in for some sweet, small kissed, "I'm sorry," she was still smiling and trying hard not to laugh, "I'm sorry. You're adorable."

"Wanna show me how to use that thing?" Percy asked, nodding down towards the vibrator.

"It's easy," she promised. She clicked it on, filling the room with a low buzzing noise. "That's the setting I like," she said, "but if you touch these buttons, it'll change."

"Do you want me to experiment?" Percy asked.

"Maybe later," Annabeth said. "It just ..." they'd masturbated in front of each other before, to show each other what to do, but it wasn't a usual part of their love making. And he'd never seen her put anything else inside herself besides her own fingers. Annabeth suddenly looked a little embarrassed.

Percy leaned forward and kissed her gently. "It just what? Come on, show me," he said.

Percy didn't expect that watching her slip the small toy inside herself would make his brain so fuzzy. He thought toys might make sex less intimate, less connected, but already he felt pulled even closer to her, like they'd unlocked something new between themselves. The toy had never stopped buzzing, so it had an immediate effect on her. Annabeth's head tilted back as she held it in place; her other hand slid over her tummy to her clit. She used two fingers to roll the bud back and forth.

"Do you want me to just watch?" Percy asked.

"It can be a hands-on learning experience," Annabeth said with a smile. "Unless you're really enjoying the show."

"Watching is great, but I'd love to participate," he said.

Percy reached forward towards where the toy was sticking out of her. He rested his hand over hers, trying to mimic how she was holding it.

"Do you feel the little triangle on the back?" Annabeth asked. Percy's fingers brushed over the slightly raised part.

"Yeah?"

"That should be facing the mattress, and then you just kind of ..." she adjusted his hand so the toy pressed against her insides with a little more pressure. Annabeth gasped "... hold it like that."

Percy did as he was told, his body buzzing with pleasure too it seemed. "Can I keep licking your clit?" Percy asked her.

Annabeth smiled. "Sure, but if I squirt, it'll get all over you."

Percy leaned forward to kiss her. "Good," he said, "that's the idea."

He felt her hands at his back, and the next thing he knew, she was pulling his shirt off of him. Even on the edge of orgasm, he could trust her to be forward thinking.

With his shirt gone, he pressed his chest to hers for another kiss. His hand was still between them, one finger on the triangle she’d pointed out to make sure he kept the toy where she wanted it. Even through the kiss, Annabeth was already starting to moan. 

“How long does it usually take with a vibrator?” Percy asked, realizing he’d never actually asked what the difference was. 

“It’s faster, but that’s not always a good thing,” she said. Percy looked at her as if to say yeah right, you’re just being nice. “I like the slow build. And most of all, I like having you with me.” To prove her point, she pulled him back into the kiss. Under him, her hips were wiggling a little bit. 

“Is the thing in the right spot?” Percy asked. 

“Go just a little lower,” Annabeth said. Percy did, and her sudden moan, her head lulling back onto the pillow told him he’d stuck gold. “That’s so good, Percy. Oh gods, I need more --” 

Percy knew what that meant. He did his best to keep the hand holding the vibrator steady as he slipped back down to get his mouth on his clit. With his face so close to her now, he could see just how wet she was already. He licked around the toy a little bit, getting a good taste of her and a little bit the taste of silicone. 

Once his mouth was back on her clit, Annabeth grabbed his hair, pulling it hard as her back arched in pleasure. 

“Gods, you have no idea how good this feels,” Annabeth said. Percy tried to keep his tongue movements consistent, despite his smile. 

Instead of humping the mattress this time, he forced himself to stay still, too worried he’d cum the moment she did if he didn’t keep all friction off his cock. He kept his focus on his face pressed against her, breathing in her smell, enjoying her taste, as her thighs tried to crush his head. What a way to die that would be! Of all the ways he’d nearly died, suffocated between Annabeth’s legs would be the preferred way to go, for sure. 

Her thighs were starting to tremble. 

“Percy,” she warmed. Percy didn’t move. He wanted her to cum, squirting or no, and if she waterboarded him, then that’s what he asked her to do. “Percy, I’m gonna cum. Please don’t stop --!” 

He squeezed her ass as if to say, don’t worry baby, I’ve got you. 

Annabeth let out a sharp gasp, and Percy felt something hot gush against his chin and neck. He  moved his mouth down a little, replacing his mouth with his fingers quickly, hoping that he could keep her cumming. He wanted to taste it. It didn’t taste like much, and it came out in quick, warm bursts. He let one fill his mouth; He swallowed her down greedily, impressed at how quick it came, before pulling back a little hoping to see a little. 

Her orgasm was just about at the end, but he did get to see a little of the show, and the aftermath. The sheets under her and in front of her were soaked and so was Percy’s chin and chest. Watching her do it was way hotter than seeing it in porn. Percy couldn’t help it; he pushed his sweat pants down and started to touch himself at the sight of her squirting for him, on him … the mess she’d made of her bed … She wasn’t as jealous as she used to be, but she certainly had marked her territory tonight, he thought. 

She still had the vibrator inside her, and Annabeth reached for it, pulling it out and tossing it to the side, still on, as her chest rose and fell quickly with each deep breath. 

Annabeth, still in a teasing mood even after an orgasm like that, smirked at Percy touching himself to the sight of her and asked with a pout: “You’re not going to fuck me?” 

Percy pitched forward, not caring that his sweats were bunched at the knees. He didn’t need his lower legs for the next part anyway. 

Percy kissed her, opening his mouth right away, making sure she could taste every part of herself. 

“Fuck, Annabeth,” was all he managed to say. 

“Did you like it?” She asked. She looped her legs around his hips, and then reached between him to his cock. She lined him up for them, and then pressed her heels into his back to entice him in. Not that Percy needed enticing. 

Percy rocked forward until he was buried deep in her. “‘Did I like it,’ she asks,” Percy said to no one in particular. “Annabeth, it was amazing.” He started to rock himself inside her, keeping the pace slow so he didn’t blow his load right away. 

Annabeth hummed content to have him inside her. She was probably still sensitive from her orgasm. If Percy did a few things right, she might cum again. 

She reached over to where the vibe was, and switched it off. Then she held it up to Percy’s lips. Percy’s lips parted instinctively, and he sucked the toy clean. It wasn’t big. He figured it probably wasn’t what sucking a dick was actually like, but either way, Annabeth was licking her lips at the sight of it. 

“Did you like that, baby?” Percy asked. He started the push into her harder. His thrusts got deeper and faster as Annabeth nodded, her lower lip quivering a little, which told Percy she had another orgasm building. Percy took the toy from her, switched it back on, and slipped in between them, resting the tip over her clit. 

“Oh shit, Percy,” she said, her back arching at the new feeling. “Oh, I have … I have a …” 

“What?” Percy asked, moving the toy just a little bit, experimenting with what worked best. 

“I have a … hah .. strap-on you could suck on.” 

Percy blinked and then smiled. “You have a what?” 

“I bought a strap-on, in case you ever wanted to …” Annabeth’s hands roamed from his lower back, where his Achilles spot used to be to a … um … different Achilles spot. She bravely slipped her finger between his cheeks and rubbed around his hole. 

Percy blushed bright red. “You’d fuck me?” He asked. 

Annabeth nodded. “I’d love to fuck you, Percy,” she said. 

Percy kissed her hard. “Yeah, yeah, we can do that,” he promised. 

Annabeth smiled through the kiss.

Invigorated by the idea of her pegging him, Percy picked up the pace. Under him, Annabeth started to whimper. 

“Do you think you’ll cum again?” Percy asked.

Annabeth nodded. 

“And squirt again?” He asked. 

“I don’t know. Last night I thought I peed my bed and stopped before I could cum a second time,” she said with a small laugh. “I had a lot to Google. And laundry to do.” 

Percy rested his face on her shoulder, kissing her neck to avoid outright laughing at her or the idea of his hot, sexy, smart girlfriend reading about squirting for the first time. 

“Don’t laugh at me!” Annabeth said. 

“I’m not,” Percy lied. “You’re adorable.” 

Annabeth pouted again, and he just kissed the pout off of her. She seemed to just melt under the kiss. Her heels pressed in hard to where his Achilies spot was. It was still sensitive to her touch, even after all this time, like a thousand volts of lightning through his body. 

“I’m gonna cum,” she said, breathless. Some pieces of blonde hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, and her cheeks had gone bright pink. Percy kissed her swollen lips again. “I -- oh --” 

Percy could feel her cum, and leaned back a little to get another look at her finishing hard and hot against his thighs. He tried to fuck her through it, but his brain and heart seemed to stop at the sight of her squirting on him again. His grip on her hips got tight and possessive as his hips kept moving, drawing out her orgasm, while trying to hold back his own.

It wasn’t any use. Before she even finished, Percy lost control and started to finish inside her. He pulled out as fast as he could, finishing the rest on her tummy. He needed to work on his pull-out game, or work on asking for permission to finish inside before they started fucking, he thought, grateful once again for her arm implant. 

Percy hovered over her, both of them breathing hard, the vibrator once again left on and ignored. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then her nose, and then her lips. 

Annabeth was smiling softly, her blonde hair spread out on the pillow. She looked like an angel. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Percy told her. 

Annabeth hummed, happy. “So are you,” she said. 

Percy’d never been called beautiful before, but he didn’t mind. “Thanks, baby,” he said, kissing her again. “Let me get you a towel?” 

When he got her wiped off, he tried to concentrate on pulling the dampness out of the sheets, but he didn’t seem to have the brain power to make it happen at the moment. So, they settled for towels. 

“That was amazing,” Annabeth said. 

“Now I’ve gotta figure out how to get you to do that acoustically,” Percy said. 

Annabeth buried her face in his shoulder and laughed. “Acoustically?” She asked through her laughter. 

“Do you have a better adjective?” He asked. 

Annabeth paused. “No,” she confessed, and then they both fell into a fit of giggles. 

“Clear your calendar for this weekend, baby,” Percy told her, “we’ve got some experimenting to do.” 

(When Percy woke up on Saturday, he found his girlfriend in nothing but lacy panties and his hoodie, creating a spreadsheet labeled: Sex Experiments, with categories for acoustic and eclectic orgasms, as well as other data points. For the first time in his life, Percy felt himself get turned on at the sight of a spread sheet. Or maybe it was just the woman explaining it to him.) 

[readingisfunactually]

You have just been magically transported into a random ao3 fic!

Spin the wheel of ao3 tags three times to find out what your fic is about. Put in the tags what your fic tags are!

[readingisfunactually]

unasked for rec but

The Desert Storm by Blue_Sunshine ( @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning )

is PEAK obi-wan time travel fix-it. world building, character development, over a million words, relationships you didn't expect but will come to adore. it truly has everything

obi wan kenobi time travel fix its…..save me obi wan kenobi time travel fix its…..

[readingisfunactually]

thanks to hangman || bob floyd

guess what? a pt. 2: [ curiosity killed the hangman ]

includes: smut 18+, fem!reader, abs riding, doggy style, mating press(?) but not really, creampie, praise.

+

sometimes, you really wanted to shove a sock down hangman’s throat just so he could shut the fuck up for once.

you had enough of him bullying your poor wso. robert floyd was a ray of sunshine—how jake managed to terrorize him day and night had you beat. he always shot bob down, making sleazy comments about his appearance or his nerdiness. he’d claim it was all in good fun, but you couldn’t tolerate his behavior anymore.

of course, sweet bob never complained. he took hangman’s torment all with an easy stride and an adorable smile; the right corner of his lips curling up in a way that was just so bob. even when jake made a particularly demeaning comment about bob’s sex life—the joke honing in on the lack thereof—bob just pursed his lips together and gave a nod. however, he did have his moments when he’d sass back at hangman—phoenix’s influence, no doubt—but still, you wanted hangman to eat his words.

so you came up with a plan.

you always had a thing for bob, you won’t deny it. but you figured he was the type to have a wife and 2 kids back in lemoore that he just never spoke about, according to rooster’s teasing, at least. so you never asked, never made a move—partially too scared to find out if it was true.

until now.

you knocked three times on the door of his quarters, which just so happened to be right next door to hangman…how convenient.

bob opened his door and you didn’t miss the way his eyes slightly widened behind those glasses. “oh, uh…hi?” he greeted, clearly confused by your unannounced visit. you don’t blame him.

“hi, bob. mind if i come in?” you asked nicely with a smile.

his eyebrows arched up slightly but he found himself opening the door wider to let you in, “no, c’mon in…” he said, albeit his tone was hesitant.

you thanked him and stepped inside. your eyes swept around the humble-sized room. the room’s setup was identical to yours and everyone else’s, but you admired the subtle ways bob tried to fill in the sterile cracks with pieces of home—from posters to picture frames, and even a crocheted throw pillow that you assumed either his mom or grandmother made for him.

“did you want to talk about my performance today or…?” bob tentatively asked as he closed the door behind you.

your gaze landed on a framed photo of bob and a small child. shit, that certainly ruins things. maybe you shouldn’t go through with this pla—

“my niece,” he mentioned when he noticed your drawn attention to the image.

you let out a mental sigh of relief.

“she’s cute,” you said truthfully. “got any kids of your own?” you needed to ask.

bob’s bespectacled eyes widened at that before quickly shaking his head, “oh, no no. no kids, no wife, n-nothing like that.”

you nodded, more to yourself than to him.

you took a step back from the picture frame and faced him, “i didn’t come in here to discuss your performance in flight today, bob.” you told him.

you saw the way his eyebrows knitted together in a small furrow. fuck, that shouldn’t have gotten you clenching on nothing, but it did.

“then why—“

you cut him off by pressing your lips to his, your hands snaking up to hold the back of his neck. bob’s entire body froze for a moment, and before he could get the chance to reciprocate, you pulled away just enough to murmur against his pink lips:

“stop me if you don’t want this.”

bob sucked in a breath, “i want this.”

you bit down on a smile before leaning in to kiss him again. this time, he reacted and actually kissed back. you let out a surprised moan when he quickly swiped his tongue along the seam of your lips, greedily intruding his tongue to tangle with yours.

it wasn’t long before you found yourself tumbling backwards onto his bed. his strong arms caged you between the mattress and himself, you stared up at him in awe. his dog tags hung low and you were so tempted to just pull him by the chain, but before you could, bob was lifting his old naval academy tshirt off and tossing it somewhere in the room.

your jaw dropped. hidden underneath layers and layers of military issued flight suits and raggedy cotton tees was the relic of a roman fighter’s torso. those washboard abs—kept perfectly tucked away from the eyes of your squad; concealed and covered so masterfully—it pierced like an act of betrayal, tasted like beach salt on the days he’d worn a tshirt during your team building football games.

“i want to ride your abs.” the words left your eager lips before you had the time to regret them; it shocked you, the unabashed need in your tone.

bob blinked down at you before he smiled that damned smile, right corner of his lips tugging upwards. “yeah, pretty?”

you moaned at the pet name, your core, once again, clenching around nothing. you liked being called pretty by bob, it felt fitting, like him calling you by anything else was wrong.

he picked you up easily and moved you to straddle his torso. his hands found purchase on your hips, his nimble fingers working quickly to lift your shirt up; his eyes silently asking for your permission.

you helped him take your shirt off, throwing it to join his discarded tshirt on the floor. bob let out a groan at the sight of your bare chest, you mentally patted yourself on the back for choosing to go without a bra.

“been hiding these from me?” he asked as he reached up to squeeze your tits, his thumbs making quick work of rolling your nipples.

you let out a sinful sounding whimper, leaning into his touch. “only fair…you’ve been hiding these from me,” you replied, punctuating your words with an experimental rut against his abs. the friction from your bottoms only made it feel better.

bob grunted, “take ‘em off,” his command was weak when his voice faltered with desperate need, but you found it all the more arousing.

you tugged your pants down and kicked them off, another garment appending to the floor. you rubbed against his abs again, this time the feeling was much more intense, the thin material of your panties being the only barrier between you and him.

bob let out a curse, “you’re wet, i can feel it.” he said, and he wasn’t wrong. you’ve soaked through the cotton of your underwear, shamelessly dragging yourself over his abs in repetitive motions.

his hands met the plush of your ass and helped you move over him, “need you to cum at least once before i bury myself inside you.”

and they say romance is dead.

with his guide, you ground your heat against him. your pussy weeping through the slick fabric of your underwear, so much so that bob lifted your hips up to tear them off and away to the growing collection of clothes by the foot of his bed.

when your skin first made contact with the cool surface of his abs, you thought you touched heaven. you let out the whiniest moan you ever heard yourself make before losing yourself in the throes of your pleasure, wantonly rubbing your core along the ridges of his well-defined ab muscles.

“shit, if i knew you could sound like that, i would’ve gone shirtless a long time ago,” bob commented as he watched you climb up the edge of ecstasy.

your hands laid flat on his pecs as you kept working yourself on him, borderline humping his abs as you grew closer to your peak, your volume only getting higher.

“look so perfect, look like you belong there, just grinding on my abs.” he spoke as he stared at the remarkable scene in front of him. “like it was made for you to sit on.”

his words were getting to you, making your cunt drool all over his lower abdomen, slick finding home in the valleys between his muscles. you tossed your head back, “ah! bob!”

“i bet you’re getting close, huh?”

you nodded frantically. “uhuh, gonna cum for you.”

he smiled, “i’d like nothing more than that, pretty.”

and you were a goner. one loud cry of his name later and you were panting, collapsing onto his chest. you could feel the obvious puddle you had left on his abs, not realizing you came so hard and released so much. bob didn’t seem to mind, though. he simply rubbed your back gently as you tried to catch your breath.

“how’re you feeling?” he murmured softly.

“like i want you inside me,” you answered.

bob let out a small chuckle, “insatiable, aren’t you?”

you shook your head as you lifted yourself up with wobbly arms, “no, i just know what i want.”

and who was he to deny you of that?

bob maneuvered your limp body, pressing your face down on the mattress and hiking your ass up for him. you wanted to object—reason with him that you wanted to see his face, but the moment he slipped his thick cock into your welcoming heat, any words of protest died on your tongue.

“fuck, you’re sucking me in,” he muttered roughly.

you could only whine into the sheets as he bottomed out inside of you. his grip on your hair loosened a bit and you managed to shift your head to catch a glimpse of him. he looked absolutely delectable. if he wasn’t busy stuffing his cock inside you, you might’ve begged him to fuck your throat just so you could see that pretty face of his.

your eyes rolled to the back of your skull with the way he was thrusting into you, his pace deliciously rough enough to excite you but frustratingly gradual enough to make you needy. what a tease.

“should’ve came to me sooner, princess. would’ve treated this pretty pussy so good if you only asked,” bob breathed out. you didn’t know he could speak so filthily; you felt yourself grow wetter.

you moaned, “didn’t know you—ah!—wanted me,” you squeaked out.

he let out a groan, his eyebrows furrowing together from where you could see. “you kidding me? i dreamed of this; dreamed of you clenching ‘round me and crying my name.”

and you did just that.

he let out a string of curses.

“oh, princess, i’m gonna cum.” he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

you lifted your head up from his bed, “wanna see you, please,” you pleaded.

he flipped you over in no time, pushing you down on your back and holding your legs up against your chest, his dick slipping back into you like it was returning home.

you could finally see his face, notice the way he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, the bead of sweat running down the vein on his forehead, and the shakiness of his fogged up glasses as it slipped down the bridge of his beautiful nose.

he met your heated gaze and that was his fatal mistake. you let out a gasp, feeling the warmth of his cum fill you up. a shiver went down your spine.

“fuck, sorry! ‘m so sorry, i didn’t mean to—you just look so fucking hot,” bob rushed to say as he pistoned into you so fervently to ride out his high.

you didn’t know you could get off from just his babbling and relentless thrusts. with a cry that ripped through your lungs, you came around his cock, your vision blacked out momentarily as you felt yourself ascend to the peaks of your pleasure.

bob slumped against you, being mindful not to crush you under his weight. you both panted as you tried to come down from your highs. you reached up and took his glasses off his face, allowing him to nuzzle into the crook of your neck and leave an array of delicate kisses along your damp skin.

“did that feel good for you?” he asked so tenderly against your neck.

you could only nod, words would only fail you.

you couldn’t wait to see the look on hangman’s face tomorrow during the morning debrief. you’re confident he won’t be making another snarky remark about bob’s game now that the sound of your voice screaming his name is probably engraved in his head.

written by vivianfiles

[readingisfunactually]

NOT SO SECRET HISTORY | a masterlist

abridgment: in which the team doesn’t know that spencer has a girlfriend, much less that she’s a history professor at the university he lectures at part-time, but a series of happenstances make it hard to hide from the smart eyes of the profilers.

i. in between history (coming soon)

ii. history needs time

iii. history reveals itself

iv. history makes mistakes

v. knowing history

[readingisfunactually]

FLATLANDS

Hotch sends you and Spencer to Iowa to conduct a death row interview with an inmate. Thing is, there's not much to do in Iowa but fuck.

pairing: spencer reid x bau!reader

tags/warnings: 18+, wc: 5.9k, whew, smut, porn w plot, piv sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, soft-dom spencer ish, biting, praise kink, this is so self-indulgent muahahaha, discussions of a case, but nothing too bad it's canon typical stuff, iowa hate idgaf!!, drinking/getting drunk, i think that's it!

notes: this is likeeee. one of my first times writing longer smut. also i did in fact say i would re-upload old re-worked fics before posting anything new but alas! i am a liar! here is something brand new! i spent like. 9 straight hours on this yesterday. and it is currently almost 8 am and i just spent all night finishing it up instead of sleeping. ALSO i am in fact a philosophy major (future barista moment) and my fics get soooo. philosophy-esque. like. every single time. i'm sorry... i am who i am.

If you had to remove one state from the contiguous union, it would be Iowa. 

You’re standing in a rusty hotel room, which, according to Hotch, is the best they could do to accommodate you. And Spencer. He’s one room over. Your feet vibrate against the rug. You tell yourself it’s the thought of him, one wall over — thinking, sitting, reading, whatever he’s doing — and not some rare kind of bacteria you’re going to catch from the stink of this place.

Hotch sent you and Reid here for a death row interview. One of the inmates, having spent the past seventeen years as a self-proclaimed monk, decided he was done with silence. He answered the bureau’s request for an interview in a letter addressed to Hotch’s desk, written in red ink. It’s your first prison interview — you usually wear the bad guys down before they’re locked away forever — but Spencer has done one or two, he said. You think it might be more.

You’d never been to Iowa, never had a case here. You’re not great with time off, even worse with real vacations. You don’t look out your window for fear the corn fields have gotten closer since you last peeked through the curtains. You swear you can see twenty miles out; the flatness makes it easy to mistake the horizon for something that never, ever ends. 

You’re picking at the skin of your fingernails, toes curled as they still rest but resist against the carpet, when there’s a knock at your door. You don’t check, because you’re not really fearful. It might make you a shitty FBI agent, but you doubt anyone is tracking you down in Iowa. (Iowa. It gets worse each time you think it.)

“Hi,” Spencer says, lips pulled flat. Flat. You think of fields. Corn. Emptiness. Your stomach churns then lurches when you think of your own bed in your own home in a state that has real hills and mountains and trees. 

“Hi.” 

“Thought you might want to look over the file before tomorrow?” He frames it like a question, and you offer a soft smile at his hesitancy before opening the door to let him in. He turns his body to the left to avoid making contact with you as he accepts the invitation and walks on through.

Your bed is still made, your suitcase resting on top of it. He scrunches his nose before recovering.

“I’m not a germaphobe, like someone we both know,” you mock.

“Maybe you should be.” You laugh. You’ve been his teammate for three years now, and it still gets you when he decides he can lighten up and make a joke.

He looks around, still awkward in the yellow tint of the hotel lamp, then decides to sit in the desk chair in the corner.

“You look so ominous,” you say, shaking your head as you pull the file out of the nightstand. 

“Why is your casefile in there?”

“Where do you keep yours?”

“I never put it away.”

“Checks out,” you say, raising your eyebrows and sitting criss-crossed on the edge of your bed, facing him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Gary Foster,” you read off the top of the page, ignoring his bait. “Killed twenty-three women in his basement. His wife never knew.”

“Or claims she didn’t know,” Spencer corrects. 

“You think she did?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

You glance up at him to find him staring intently at the file in his hands. He’s gripping onto it like it’s all he knows. You store your observations away in your head under a tab titled Perhaps Ask Later. 

You’ve gone over this file a dozen times. It’s virtually seared into your memory. Still, you let him tack off the rest of the information to you, compile the intensive profile Hotch gave you into a bullet point list. 

“He’s gonna focus on me,” you say once he reaches a lull in speech.

“Because you’re a woman?” he confirms. You nod. “Maybe.”

You tap the file a few times with your fingers as a yawn creeps up your throat, threatening to escape. Spencer seems to get the hint before you even let it out. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” he says before standing. He takes a step forward before turning around and tucking the chair back into the desk. You smile at the politeness. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?” you tease as you lead him to the door. “I promise I won’t jump out of the window.”

“There’s not much out there.”

“No, there isn’t.” He fumbles with the key for the door across the hall. You wait for him to open it before you start to close yours, the way you would after driving a friend at home. “Night.”

“Night,” he says, though the latter half of the word is muffled by the shut of the door. 

The room is barren again. You open the curtains now that it’s nearing total darkness outside.

It takes six more hours for you to drift off into sleep.

– 

Your hand is immediately on your temple when you awake, rubbing at the budding headache you know will consume you once you get up. This is the punishment you get for allowing yourself only three hours of sleep.

The sunlight hits your bed in fluttering intervals of perfect warmth and scorching heat. This time, when the hindmost rolls around, you force yourself up and place your feet on the ground. You hold your tongue to refrain from releasing a long string of fucks and shits and realize your hand is still refusing to move from its spot rubbing circles in your face. When you make your way to the bathroom, you realize the bed is so hard you’ve left no indent. 

The sting of the shower is pelting, boiling enough that it feels purifying. After a night spent in sheets you’re sure dozens have sweat through, it’s more than welcome. The heat is the perfect substrate for the anticipatory dread of today’s interview. Speaking to monsters as if there’s a hint of human behind the stitching has never pulled at you in the right way. 

If anything, it’s slowly pulled you apart.

The outlet in your bathroom is broken so you’re forced to dry your hair sitting on the carpet of the room, right next to that window that stares out into nowhere. You feel itchy just sitting on it. You swear the fibers are pressing into your skin, merging with your skin. 

The file is open on the floor in front of you, and you use your thumb to wipe the water falling from your damp hair. The pages already begin to curdle like the feeling in your stomach. 

You put your hair in a ponytail, then worry it’s too sexual — because you’ve absorbed the profile and you know what earns a check on this guys list —- so you take it down and let it rest on your shoulders again. Your knees crack when you stand up and your hip tenses up like it might, too, when you slip your legs into your pants. 

There’s a knock on your door and you mutter fuck as you balance your time between finishing the rest of the buttons on your blouse and stumbling to the door.

“I need a couple minutes,” you say, before you say hello. You leave the door open as you retreat farther into the room. “You can wait in here.”

You squeeze your feet into your heels — half a size too small, and in your head you call the saleslady who insisted on that being necessary for this brand a word that would make your grandmother sour — and peripherally watch him step into the room, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“You ready?” he asks. You can feel his eyes on your unmade bed. 

“Mhm.” You glance in the square mirror facing the bed and smooth out your clothes. 

“I mean for the interview,” he says after clearing his throat.

“My answer remains.”

“Cool.” He says it in the way that feels fraudulent, but is really just the way he speaks, you’ve come to realize.

“Are you ready?” you ask back, muffled by the file placed between your teeth as you fumble around your desk for your car keys and room card. You make eye contact with him as you head for the door.

“Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

“Stand up straight,” you say, holding the door open for him as you both step into the hallway.

“What?” he mutters. He does it anyway.

“He’s gonna zero in on you if you seem to lack confidence.”

“Right.”

It’s silence between you two in the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, and until you’re pulling out of the parking lot. There’s overgrown wheatgrass in the field to your left and plowed corn crop to your right. The furrows stretch on until the curve of the earth swallows them up.

The sky is dull, slate-colored, and bears striking resemblance to something that could wipe you clean. Grain silos whir by every couple of minutes. These people really own a lot of fucking land. Every few miles, a new one, along with a rusting tractor or collapsing barn or crop that looks about ready to dry up and blow away. It gets predictable after mile seven. 

The prison doesn’t appear so much as it settles into your vision. It’s low to the ground, sprawling, gray. A scar pressed into the ground. 

You feel like Spencer the way you’ve completely memorized the profile. You flash your badge at the gate, sign some kind of form and drive into a parking lot that feels as far from the prison as your hotel was.

Spencer lingers in the car two seconds after you get out. He’s nervous, and he’s trying not to show it. You don’t want to mention it, but you need to be on the same page, so you don’t stop your lips from unfurling.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The anxious math,” you say. “You’re calculating the probability of saying the wrong thing before we even walk in.”

“That’s-” He seems to think better than arguing and redirects his sentence. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

You give him one of those closed lip smiles. “He’ll spot it in five seconds. He feeds on nerves like that. First, he’ll comment on your hands, because you fidget when you’re trying not to.”

“You sound like Hotch.”

You scoff out a half-laugh and choose to ignore the comment otherwise. “And he’ll ask how long you’ve known me. If we’re sleeping together. He won’t say it like that, of course. He’ll be crude. He wants to gauge what version of you shows up when you’re off-balance.”

“Why would that knock me off balance?” he asks. The hesitancy has stolen his tone again.

“You fluster easily.”

“Do I?”

“Mhm. You blink three times, touch your collar, and then deflect with statistics. You did it the first time I challenged you during a case.”

He tuts then holds the door of the prison open for you. “You’re profiling me.”

“Of course I am,” you say, then turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for him to walk back up beside you again. He’s close behind you, so close you can almost feel his breath on you. It makes you feel warm. “So will he.”

You greet two more guards inside before shaking hands with the warden. He thanks you for coming with that grim look on his face that everyone in this field seems to have permanently etched into the creases of their skin. The prison is colder inside than it has any right to be, as if the concrete has learned to hold onto every winter it’s ever survived. 

“Still nervous?” you whisper to Spencer. 

He smiles, shakes his head no. 

Good, you mouth.

You pretend not to notice his eyes fixate for a beat longer than necessary on your lips. You lick them in response. When he meets your eyes again, you pretend not to notice that something undecipherable is hidden behind his lids, too. 

—

Foster smiles when you walk in. He doesn’t look at Spencer. You let Spencer pull your chair out for you, which immediately catches the guy’s attention. You think of still water, use it as a guide for being calm.

“Well,” Foster says. He hasn’t dropped the smile from his face. “They sent a good-looking one.”

“We, the FBI, are really grateful you chose to cooperate with us,” you say. “You know, in your final days.”

“Hm.” He turns to Spencer, finally. “She yours?”

You don’t look at him, and you will him to ignore him, to start asking him the standard questions. What’s your name? What year were you born? 

“She’s her own,” he says instead. It comes out even and flat. 

“You hesitated,” Foster says. His smile shows his teeth, now. “I suppose that’s not a crime.”

“No,” you agree. You open your file and lay a picture of his mugshot on the table. You can tell he was expecting photos of one of the women whose life he stole away. “But murder is.”

Spencer clears his throat and nudges your ankle with the tip of his shoe. You give him no reaction, but the next time you reach for the file, you let your fingertips brush against his wrist. 

—

“That wasn’t awful,” Spencer says when you step out, though he says it like he’s releasing one big breath born out of a collection of accumulated air trapped in his lungs. 

Foster did say something crude. You’d prefer not to repeat it, mostly because you’re not sure if Spencer was blushing or if he was just hot. 

The prison was freezing, you remind yourself. Then you shove the thought back down. 

“It wasn’t great,” you say. “I wish I’d pushed him further about—”

“Stop,” he says. His hand is on your bicep now. “Don’t overthink it, you did great.”

“Okay,” you say. “Don’t profile me, now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The walk back to the car leaves you sticky and hot. You note, aimlessly, that Iowa gets hot enough if you let it — if you stay long enough to let it swelter.

“Our flight’s not till the morning,” you groan, slamming the car door shut.

“Not a fan of Iowa?”

“In how many languages do you know how to say fuck no?”

“Twelve," he says. His eyes flit to the ceiling. “No, fourteen.” 

“Ridiculous.” 

—

You crash as soon as you get back to your hotel room. You sleep for what feels like two hours but you know is way longer than that, and when you finally peel your eyes open you’re sweating. You’re clinging to your sheets, and you consider yourself bed-ridden as you roll over and check your phone. Hotch has sent you three messages asking for updates. Your stomach twinges with guilt for not answering, though you figure he probably moved on and texted Spencer.

Spencer.

You feel bad. You had ditched him, retreating to your hotel room the second you guys got back. You wonder what he did, if he got food, though there’s not much to do in Iowa. In fact, there’s nothing to do in Iowa. 

You slip out of your clothes and take a quick rinse-off in the shower. Your hair is still wet when you adorn yourself in a gray t-shirt and sleep shorts and creep over across the hall. Your fist raps against the door three times, then twice more for good measure. 

“Hi?”

“Hi,” you say, inviting yourself in as you push past him. It’s identical to yours, but everything’s on the opposite side. “Nice room.”

“Much nicer than yours.”

“Oh, for sure.” You clap your hands together, then flop down on the bed. “So, whatcha been up to?”

He nods his head at a book on the nightstand. You stretch over and pick it up. The History of Iowa’s Small Towns.

“Little on the nose, isn’t it, doctor?”

“It’s interesting.”

“Your mind amazes me,” you whisper, then place it back on the nightstand.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“I’m not really hungry,” you say. When he quirks his eyebrow, you add: “Really, I can’t eat for, like, at least two hours after I wake up.”

“You were asleep?”

You nod. “Couldn’t last night. You didn’t think I just ditched you, did you?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

You place a hand over your heart. “Well, doctor, I’m just plain offended.”

He smiles, real, genuine. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it?” you ask. You move up on the bed, as if it’s your own, making space for him to sit next to you. 

He sighs, like he really doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation, but his lips pry open and you know he will. “Morgan always says I ramble too much.”

You shrug. “What’s much, anyway?”

“Well, if you’re not hungry,” he starts, lifting himself off the bed and over to the mini fridge, “are you thirsty?”

“My, my.” You smile, teeth and all. “I didn’t know you drank on the job.”

“Not technically on the job anymore, am I?” He holds up a little bottle. “It’s not exactly a martini, but it’s all I’ve got unless you want lukewarm ginger ale.”

You accept the bottle with mock ceremony and open it the second it’s in your hands. “Guess federal per diems only cover motel whiskey. Honestly, this is probably the classiest thing happening in Iowa tonight.”

He laughs softly, twisting open his own cap. “From what I’ve read, and seen, that’s a low bar.”

You raise yours. “To meeting the bar.”

He tilts his head, scrunches his nose. “To stepping over the bar with minimal effort.”

You both take a sip. It’s terrible. You make a face.

He sees it and raises an eyebrow. “Too refined for hotel whiskey?”

“Just surprised it didn’t come with a warning label,” you say, setting the bottle down on the nightstand. “Or a tetanus shot.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, taking another sip of his. “I’m sure the Iowa Department of Health is on it.”

You nod solemnly. “They’re probably just as fast as the Wi-Fi.”

That gets a small smile from him. He sits on the edge of the bed, a little closer than before, but still careful. He’s always so careful.

There’s a lull, full of quiet until the nighttime air-conditioning kicks on and you’re too tired to pretend anything really matters for a while.

“You ever drink from the mini bar before? Like, during a case?” you ask eventually.

“Only when I expect to be stranded somewhere like this.”

“Smart,” you say. 

He glances at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t profile your way out of a cornfield without it.”

You hum in agreement. “I’m not sure if that’s depressing.”

He shrugs, taking another sip. “Probably.” His hand falls to his side, dangerously close to your thigh.

You accept another one. And then another one. You’re sure he’s going shot for shot with you, but you can’t really tell because your head is full and everything’s hazy and suddenly this bed is so, so comfortable. 

You lie back, legs still dangling off the edge, and stare up at the popcorn ceiling like it might reveal state secrets. “Did you know Iowa had one of the highest populations of covered bridges?”

Spencer blinks. “Iowa doesn’t.”

You squint. “It doesn’t?”

“No,” he says, amused. “That’s Madison County. Which is in Iowa. But it’s a specific — actually, nevermind. I’m not sure either of us are in a state for nuance.”

You wag a lazy finger at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Sure,” he says, and leans back beside you with a soft thud, hands crossed over his stomach. “Next you’ll tell me Iowa invented jazz.”

“It didn’t?” You cant your head to the side, a smile playing at your lips. 

“God, no.”

You sigh dramatically. “And here I thought this trip was educational.”

He turns his head just slightly toward you. His breath is hot, hotter than it was earlier, and his words are all slurred. You think you might sound the same but don’t keep yourself in line long enough to actually check. “You’ve learned a lot. For example, you’ve learned not to trust the minibar.”

“And that your idea of a good time is reading municipal histories.”

“I sensed you were captivated.”

You pull an arm over your face. “Do you always get this cocky after drinking?”

He tilts his head like he’s genuinely thinking about it. “I think I just feel safe knowing I’m not the only one embarrassing myself.”

You haul a leg up to bend into the bed with you and nudge him with your knee. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re weird. Like, in the good way.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you can hear the smile in his voice when he finally says: “Thanks. You’re weird too.”

“Weird and drunk.” You repeat the word drunk a few more times, drawing out a different syllable each time. “Spencer?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t let me fall asleep here.”

“You say that like I have any control over you,” he murmurs. Your breath catches. Neither of you move.

You peek at him from under your arm. “Are you flirting with me?”

“What?” 

“Whatever. Then don’t speak with that— that tone. Or I’ll start to think you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not really flirting with you.”

You let the arm drop, but not to the mattress; it finds its way to the sleeve of his shirt, playing with the fabric. “Not really or not yet?”

“That depends,” he says, voice dropped low to a whisper. “Would yet be a problem?”

You roll onto your elbow, looming over him. “Guess we’ll have to find out.”

It lands like a match.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Your lips are the closest they’ve ever been.

“I don’t know.” Your eyes move to where his hand has started to creep onto your thigh. “What are you doing?”

He moves first, but only barely. His head tilts up, lips parting like he’s about to ask a question. 

He gets his answer in the shape of your lips.

Your hand finds the edge of his jaw, fingers skimming up the side of his face. He’s warm. Still flushed from the whiskey or maybe just from you.

You’re kissing, you think. You. Spencer. Kissing. It should make you pull back. You work with him. This is strictly forbidden — that should definitely make you pull back.

But then his fingers press into your hips, grounding you, and you shift, and you’re straddling him before you’ve thought it through. It’s automatic, desperate, like the tension finally cracked open and all that’s left is the pull.

“Still not on the job?” you murmur between kisses, breath brushing his lips.

He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

He starts to kiss you deeper, like he wants to memorize it. You wonder if he is. Your hands move up under his shirt, and his breath slips, just for a second. Just long enough to make you smile into his mouth.

There’s nothing quiet about any of this. Just heat. And want. And finally.

You roll your hips once as a test. When he tightens his grip on you, you have half the mind to do it again, and again, and again. 

Suddenly, all you can think of are your clothes on the ground and him inside you. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. You release his lips from yours.

“Fuck?”

“Shh,” he hushes, trying to silence you, but you’re already laughing.

“Oh my god, Dr. Spencer Reid, esteemed supervisory special agent, holder of three PhDs, just said fuck.” You whisper the last part, hand clutching at your chest.  

“Will you please resume what we were just doing?”

“My fucking pleasure.”

“Jesus,” he squeezes out. Your hands remove themselves from where they were resting under his shirt and head to the waist of his pants. You watch his chest rise a little quicker, fall with a little more readiness. His hands release your hips and come up to grip your wrists. “I say fuck one time and I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Maybe we can put it in another context.” You unhook your legs from their desired place around his hips and scooch yourself down his body. Your fingers, which were just barely, ever so delicately toying with his waistband, curl into both the cotton of his pants and his boxers and tug down at once. He helps you, hips coming off the bed just enough for you to drop them both to his ankles. 

He’s already hard, and your mouth is already hollow, already anticipating something to fill a long-lasting void. You say his name, but it sounds off, because your mouth is already imagining itself wrapped around something far less innocent than words.

His hand comes up to your face, brushing your cheekbone, and the feeling is too soft to name but impossible to ignore. You feel as though all the heat in the room has gotten sucked between your legs, and it pools low, desire biting at the edges of restraint.

“You don’t have to,” he says, watching you spit in your hand. You roll your eyes before wrapping the newly wet hand around him. 

“I’m going to. Just stay like that.” 

You stroke him softly, just a few times before spitting on the tip and working it back down. He whispers your name like its wax, made to melt. You’re not thinking and your voice is velvet when you ask him how long it’s been since he’s been touched like this, the way he deserves to be. Too long, comes his response, and you vow to yourself to show him what he’s been missing.

The next time you bring your lips up to release more spit, you reach down and kiss it. Just the tip, and just ever-so-slightly. You’re not sure he noticed at first, so you do it again, this time more pronounced, and then he’s removing his hand from your face and bringing it up to your hair. His grip is firm enough to anchor, not enough to command. 

When you open your lips more, he tightens his grip. When you make your way down, syrup-slick and mouth dripping of sin, he coils his want at the nape of your neck and pulls. You moan around him, which earns you another tug. 

“That feels good,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”

You’re drunk enough that the praise feels more than trembling and temporary. You take it for more than it probably is and pick up your pace.

He lasts not a minute longer before he’s guiding you off of him, and you couch as you come up for air. 

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he mumbles.

“No?”

“No.” He pulls you up off the ground, one hand on your wrist and the other still in your hair. “Wanna take care of you too. Do you want that? Yeah? Lie down for me.”

You do as you're told, nodding along the way, agreeing fervently and with little free will. You’re drooling, enough that it slips past your lips. He brings his index finger up to your face, collecting it on the pad of his finger and pushing it back into your mouth. Instinctively, you suck. He groans, low, a noise you never would have expected to hear from him, and it makes you shut your legs, thighs rubbing together slightly as you try to fight the feeling festering around your limbs.

He kneels before you, the same way you had with him. “Is this what you want?” You nod. “No, use your words.” He pries your legs open, blows between them. 

Your back is coming up off the bed, enough for him to bring a hand up and grab your waist again. “Yes.”

He wastes little time attaching his mouth to you, tongue everywhere, while his fingers leave bruises in your side. One of your hands is gripping the sheets so hard you can feel your fingernails digging into your palm even through it. This can’t be real, you think, because nothing real feels this good. And this feels so, so good. 

You feel fucked out and he hasn’t even put anything inside of you. It’s just his tongue swiping against you, swirling around your clit, sucking your clit, kissing your clit. You can’t think. At some time you stop being aware of what he’s doing and just let him do it.

His hand leaves your hip and you feel it pulse, throbbing at the loss of harsh connection. Then, he forces your fist to open, to release the white fabric, and he locks your fingers together. It feels intimate, more intimate than his mouth on you, and if you were sober you might have shrugged him away. But you’re not. You’re drunk. Very drunk. So instead you hold his hand harder.

His free hand is trailing along your thigh, and when you glance down at him his eyes are closed, and he looks content, satisfied, and you’re not sure you ever want to unfold from this position. He uses his other hand to trail up and down your thigh before his errant fingers find their way farther up your legs. 

When he slips two inside you, both at once, no warning, you mewl.

He detaches his mouth from you, like he wants to focus solely on finger fucking you. When you glance down at him again, he gives you a perfunctory smile before focusing back at the task he’s chosen to take up. He’s practically gift-wrapping your orgasm. 

“Right there,” you choke out when his fingers curl at the exact right moment in the exact right spot. You don’t announce that you’re coming, but Spencer is a genius. You’re sure he can figure it out. Everything comes undone in waves, the way seafoam spits back into the sand before dissipating, carrying itself back out into a vaster part of the water. 

“Good job,” he says. He kisses you. You can taste your slick on his lips.

“Spencer.”

“You’ve said that already.” You’d laugh if you weren’t so unraveled. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“What did we say about using our words?”

“To… use them?”

“You’re so smart,” he says, and you can hear him breathing in the way that means he’s trying not to laugh as he presses scattered kisses across your cheek, jaw, lips. “Can you speak up and show me how smart you are?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Knew you had it in you.” One of his hands is pressed into the mattress next to your head, and the other is absent from your body. When you finally open your eyes, you look down to see him lining himself up with you.

There’s a pinch in your throat as you feel him ease himself inside, slowly, deliberately, like he’s scared you might crumble and break beneath him. You won’t, which you assure him by using one hand to grab onto his bicep and the other to rest on his hip, guiding him all the way inside of you. 

"I got so mad, earlier," he says. "When he was talking about you like that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he whispers. "Don't fucking apologize."

The heat is back, swirling in your stomach, rushing up your chest like every vein you have has replaced blood with feverish fire. Spencer throws more gasoline on it when he slides almost all the way out, then pushes himself back in. You’re quiet, and even the air around you seems to have hushed itself. 

When he finds a rhythm, he takes advantage of it. Fucks you a little harder, just enough that you can’t close your mouth, can’t quiet yourself even when you try. You’re trying to tread carefully, but you don’t have it in you to not tip your chin up and search for a kiss. You move your other hand to wrap around his forearm, the one right next to your head, and you can’t stop yourself from digging your nails into the skin when he gives you one particularly hard thrust.

“Do that again,” you whisper.

“This?” he asks, though it’s more of a mock. He does it again, this time a little slower. You feel like crying, because you have no other outlet for what exactly it is you’re currently feeling. When he does it again you have no choice but to squeeze your eyes shut. He kisses you again, idly, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not sure you have more than five minutes in you before you pass out. “You feel so good.”

“Needed you.”

“Yeah?” he says. Your words seem to have made him snap his hips against yours a little harder. 

He uses one of his hands to grab under your thigh, then pushes your leg up. You let out a broken moan you don’t even register as your own until he stretches you farther apart and you do it again. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t clawing at an indescribable edge. You feel ripe. Nothing holy is coming for you. You arch your back like it might. 

"Mine." He says it while looking down at you. He says it with his chest. He says it like it's an absolute.

You bring your hand to the back of his neck and make him kiss you. Once for the thrill, twice just to feel the burn of it really settle in. 

Then you come. And everything else does, too. It’s unraveling. Not fingers but friction, not skin but static, not breath but flood. The room is slipping sideways, hips first, mouth second. you forget your name or maybe you give it away. There's no shape to anything, to the sting between your legs, only pulse — wet, reckless, existing in the hollows of your thighs. When he bends down and lets out a sound that sounds suspiciously like your name, your teeth catch on his shoulder like a warning. He doesn’t flinch. You bite down harder.

Nothing makes sense for a while except the sound of the air-conditioner. 

Spencer says something. Then again. Then, he taps your cheek twice, says your name until you come to.

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“‘m okay. Are you okay?”

He laughs. It’s quiet and hoarse and still warm. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Hmm what?’

“I like that. We’ll use that ‘nother time.” You let out a heavy sigh as he chuckles. He slips out of you and you suck in a breath that catches in the pockets of your teeth, cold and shocking against the roof of your mouth.

“Sorry.” You shake your head and hope it conveys that he has nothing to apologize for. He rolls over next to you. “You should pee.”

“Pee schmee.”

“I think I’m gonna retract my previous statements about your high level of intelligence now.” You smack him with your hand and laugh, hearty and probably too loud.

“I’m still drunk,” you say after a few more moments of silence.

“I think that’s how that whole drinking thing works, yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” His answer comes quicker than you were expecting.

“Okay. Me neither. Just checking.” You blow hair out of your face, and when that doesn’t work you bring a palm up and use the strength of four fingers to wipe it away from the sweat gathering in satin sheets across your skin. “I hate this room.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper.

“Well,” he whispers back. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Do you wanna maybe… I don’t know. Not be on the job tomorrow morning?”

It might just be the alcohol, but his expression is soft and lush, like when dawn’s light shudders through early morning fog. 

“I would like that.”

[readingisfunactually]

Do you like to read? If yes, put your current/most recent book in the tags!

Yes

No

I used to but dont anymore

[readingisfunactually]

Heyyy. Can i request dom!spencer x dom!reader, they’re 'fighting' for dominance so the sex is rough. Like hair pulling, biting, spanking/ face slapping.

content warning: Rough sex, dominance struggle, hair pulling, face slapping (light), spanking, biting, choking (consensual), dirty talk, orgasm control, marking, mutual power struggle, safe words implied

a/n: i’m back from vacation! have a little treat

word count ~ 1.1k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Your back slammed against the wall of Spencer’s apartment, books toppling from a shelf as he pinned your wrists above your head, chest heaving. His mouth hovered inches from yours, those usually soft hazel eyes now dark with intent.

“You think you’re in control tonight?” he growled, one hand wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just there, claiming space.

You grinned, lips curling in defiance. “I am in control, baby. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

That made something in him snap. He kissed you hard, teeth clashing, tongues warring. You bit his bottom lip and tugged, making him groan and grind his hips into yours. He was already hard—cock straining against the front of his slacks—and you reveled in the tension between you.

You broke the kiss, spit trailing between you as you yanked your hands free and shoved him back. He stumbled a step, and you grabbed his shirt collar, dragging him toward the bedroom with zero patience.

Spencer followed willingly, but you felt it—the storm brewing in him. He wouldn’t submit without a fight. And you didn’t want him to.

You wanted the fire.

⸻

By the time you reached the bed, Spencer had ripped open the buttons of your shirt. You tore his belt off, tossing it across the room, then dropped to your knees just long enough to get his pants down and suck his cock into your mouth without warning.

“Fuck,” he gasped, hand tangling in your hair. “God, your mouth…”

You hummed around him, dragging your tongue along the vein on the underside of his shaft as you bobbed your head with messy enthusiasm. When he bucked his hips too sharply, you pulled off with a wet pop and slapped his thigh.

“Don’t fuck my face unless I say so.”

His breath hitched. You saw the flicker in his eyes—half submission, half resistance.

That’s what you wanted.

He bent down suddenly, grabbing your jaw tight, forcing your eyes up to his. “Then get on the bed, and let me wreck you.”

You smirked. “Try me.”

⸻

You were naked by the time he climbed over you. You rolled him onto his back mid-kiss, straddling his hips with your thighs spread wide and his cock pinned under your dripping cunt.

“I ride you,” you whispered into his mouth. “That’s how this goes.”

Spencer grabbed your hips, tried to thrust upward, but you slapped his hand away. “Ah, ah. No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You love pretending you’re in control.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you said, grinding your wetness along his length, “there’s no pretending here.”

And then he grabbed your throat and flipped you onto your back in one smooth, practiced motion.

Your breath whooshed out of you in surprise and arousal. His cock slid into you in one hard thrust, splitting you open in the best way. You clawed at his back as he started pounding into you, deep and merciless, his hands pinning your wrists into the mattress.

“Say it,” he growled in your ear, “say I’m in control.”

You moaned loudly, then bit his shoulder, leaving your mark. “Fuck. No.”

Spencer reared back and slapped your face—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to jolt you. You gasped, cunt clenching around him.

“You liked that,” he said smugly.

You spat back, “You’ll like what I do next.”

In a sudden surge, you twisted your wrists free, locked your thighs around his hips, and rolled him onto his back. He landed hard with a grunt, and you wasted no time grabbing his throat with one hand, straddling him again.

“This. Is. My ride,” you growled, lowering yourself onto him in one slick motion. Your eyes fluttered shut from the stretch, then snapped open again to meet his.

You set a brutal pace, bouncing on his cock like you owned it—because you did. Your nails dragged down his chest, leaving angry red trails. He slapped your ass hard, then again when you moaned.

You leaned down, teeth grazing his ear. “You’re not gonna last, are you?”

“Fuck you,” he panted, hands gripping your hips so tight they’d bruise.

“You wish,” you whispered, then clenched around him, controlling your rhythm so expertly it nearly unraveled him. “You gonna come already, baby? You gonna come without permission?”

Spencer growled, then sat up so fast he knocked you off balance. This time he threw you onto your stomach, yanked your hips up, and shoved into you from behind, his hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back.

“You don’t tell me when to come,” he snarled. “I do the fucking.”

You clawed at the sheets, breath catching with every relentless thrust. “God, yes—fuck—you’re such an arrogant little—”

SLAP.

His palm cracked across your ass, then again, hard enough to sting.

“I said what, sweetheart?” he mocked, bending over to bite your shoulder. “Say it.”

You bucked back against him, laughing through the moan. “You’re gonna break before I do.”

“You wanna bet?”

He reached around, thumb rubbing your clit with merciless precision. You gasped, the sudden added pleasure nearly toppling you over the edge. Your pride fought to hold you back—but your body wanted to lose.

“Come for me,” he commanded darkly.

You shoved his hand away, panting. “Not until I say.”

That made him snarl. He pulled out, flipped you over one last time, and sank back in with a bruising thrust. Now you were nose to nose, body to body, sweat-slicked and desperate, a silent war between lips and limbs and willpower.

You grabbed his jaw, fingers tight. “Come with me.”

And he did.

You both did—at the same time, spasming together, crying out in a tangle of teeth and fingernails and shaking thighs.

The orgasm ripped through you like a hurricane, wave after wave while he pulsed deep inside you, biting your shoulder to muffle his scream.

⸻

The aftermath was quiet. The kind of silence only created by utter destruction and mutual satisfaction.

Spencer collapsed beside you, catching his breath.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered.

You turned your head slowly. “We should fight more often.”

He laughed, low and rough. “That was a fight?”

You smiled lazily, dragging a finger down his chest. “Call it foreplay.”

He turned to you, brushing hair from your sweaty face, eyes gentler now. “Still think you were in control?”

You grinned. “Absolutely.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Want a rematch?”

You rolled over on top of him again, heart still pounding. “You’re damn right I do.”

[readingisfunactually]

(opening the author’s works page after finishing a fic) and if im lucky they’ll have written this exact same fic but different a bunch more times

[readingisfunactually]

Busty!reader x damian wayne 💖

Warnings!; suggestive, reader teasing damian, damian being curious, fem!reader, mostly fluff, Headcannons💖

Busty!reader who enjoys watching Damian's face turns hot and red whenever you hug him on the front, how your arms locked around his body and pressing yourself deeper into him on purpose.

He watches ever time he is in your room, how ridiculous he is getting flustered over globs of fat? He has seen breasts before in a none sexual manner(because he is an artist)

Busty!reader specifically saving low neckline or fitted tops to see his reaction(especially if he was the one who bought those clothes) obviously you cant help find it cute whenever you dressed up for him and watch his lips twitch to not form a smirk.

Busty!reader of course doesn't always tease him since it would lose its effectiveness on him, she sometimes wears his hoodies or pyjamas. But its weird sometimes when he grumbles about how you're trying to 'tempt him' or 'seduce' him with wearing a stupid teddy bear onesie.

"how dare you vex me you succubus." He grumbles whilst at the same time cuddling up next to you.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

Busty!reader sometimes forgetting how she has a large chest so she randomly knocks things over accidentally, it was a little funny to Damian watching you get irritated because of it too but he tries to not make it obvious.

Busty!reader forcing damian to have a matching onesie set and taking a picture of you two together without him knowing, of course he counts that as blackmail(which is so dramatic of him🙄)

"I'm not going to post it, and it's not 'black mail' youre just being dramatic."

"No I am not, I dont want any of my brothers getting a hold of this; especially my father."

Its a rather small blurb but I hope you guys enjoyed(⁠^⁠^⁠) I just ran out of ideas putting on this since Im working on other stuff.

[readingisfunactually]

its that time of the year

[readingisfunactually]

「 KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: Unable to be apart from you for long, Damian chooses to call you while on patrol—and when that isn't enough to satiate his aching heart, he swings by your window to wish you a good night in person, and maybe a bit more.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, longing/yearning, fluff, it physically hurts damian to be without you

★ A/N: inspired by 'kiss me thru the phone' by soulja boy, more longing/yearning Dami because no one can convince me that man is not a complete romantic who feels like his chest is being ripped out whenever his beloved isn't next to him 🥰

line divider by @cafekitsune

"I miss you," Damian's voice calls from the other side of the phone, tone so sincere, so loving, that you can feel it in the warmth of the moonlight spilling into your room.

Your lips curve up, eyes melting as you stare out your window like he's right there, stood at your fire escape just waiting to be let in. "You've said that five times already, Dami."

"And I'll say it five more: I miss you, Habibti."

The smile on your face grows without your permission, and your finger practically has a mind of its own when it moves to the sill of your window, tracing little hearts on the surface like some sort of lovesick schoolgirl.

He's always known how to reduce you to one.

"Isn't your dad with you? I thought he doesn't allow calls to partners on patrol."

You can practically hear the eye roll in his voice. "Tt. That man wouldn't know true love if it hit him over the head with a frying pan."

His words make you perk up, slumped over form suddenly upright with life and light and all the stars twinkling in the sky of the night as you exclaim, excitement seeping into your tone, "You watched Tangled!"

"Of course," he replies, firm but soft, like it's obvious, but without all the derision that usually comes with that. "You asked it of me."

His words are simple, but they're kind, sweet, like the candy floss he bought you on your date the other day—and just like how it's flaky strings melted on your tongue, you, too, melt on the spot.

"Dami..."

It's all you can say, his name all you've ever known, and all that you wish to know, as you stand there, under the rays of the moonlight, eyes closed and mind swarmed with the ghost of his touch.

"I miss you, Habibti."

You miss him too.

But your eyes open, crinkling further at the corners as your gaze drifts down and you whine out with all the fluster of a girl embarrassed by her man, "Dami..."

"Hm?" a smile speaks through his tone.

You kick the air. "Stop that..."

"Stop what?"

"Saying that..."

His chuckle sounds from the other side of the screen, hot enough to warm your insides.

"Saying what? That I miss you?" he asks, though you know that he knows the answer to his question, going on to then say, "Would you prefer I tell you how cold the night is without you by my side? Or how it feels like there's a hole in my chest as I jump under the starry sky?"

"Dami..."

"It's true."

"No"—you shake your head, turning away from your window with one arm crossed over your chest and a smile upturned on your lips—"I mean—I miss you too..."

The line goes quiet. Too quiet.

"Dami?"

No response.

"Damian?"

Still, nothing.

Your teeth graze your lip, biting down on it by the smallest hair as you feel your insides turn into ice, fingers readjusting themselves around your phone.

The silence is loud—

—until it isn't.

Like glass, it's shattered through by the sound of tapping, and when you turn, heart in your throat, you all but melt at the sight that greets you.

There, with one hand holding his phone up to his ear, and the other tapping its fingers against your window, is the love of your life.

Relief washes over you like a wave, drenching your form until your shoulders fall from its weight and you're left floating step-by-step towards your suited-up boyfriend.

Under the whites of his mask, his eyes hide, unreadable, but they don't need to be, you know by the fall of his shoulders and the slight smile on his face that he's just as eager to see you as you are to see him.

Splaying your hand over where his rests on the glass, you give yourself a moment to take him in, to calm the swell of your heart as you feel the way he stares at you like you're the only one in the world.

A beat passes with the two of you just staring at each other through the glass.

For a moment. All is right. All is warm. All is sound.

And then your heart cries out, and you find yourself lifting your window not a moment after.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, breathless, disbelieving.

"You said you missed me."

Then he adds, without even opening his mouth:

'So here I am.'

Your eyes crinkle for the umpteenth time, and he wastes no longer to perch himself on your windowsill and reach for your hands with his own gloved ones.

"Damian, you have to patrol."

He rolls his eyes, smile still on his lips. "The streets are safe enough in the hands of Batman alone." Then, his eyes crinkle. "I'd rather be here with you."

Warmth swells in your heart, and you almost can't help the way you lunge forward, wrenching your hands from his grip to instead, throw your arms around his neck and bury yourself in his chest, smile a little too wide against his suit.

The position is a little awkward, but it still feels right, natural, when he winds his arms around your back, and the warmth of him bleeds into your form.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Habibti."

Raising your head from his chest, you usher him in, and it's only then that his eyes wander, head tilting down a little in that familiar way it does when he's taking you in.

And as you take a step towards your bed, as you move to lead him further into your room, your body is abruptly halted, wrist in his grasp, before you're yanked with a firm tug straight back into his chest.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

"Habibti," he whispers, smug, like the word is a secret shared between just the two of you, his head dipping until his nose brushes your own. "Do you always wear such attire to bed?"

Your eyes widen, breath hitching in your throat as his gloved fingers start to play with the hem of your shirt.

"Perhaps you knew I wouldn't be able to resist visiting, and wore such clothing on purpose?"

His teasing runs hot and heavy on your ears, and he pulls you closer by the waist before you can even think of turning your gaze away.

"In that case, you wouldn't mind if I were to indulge, would you?"

[readingisfunactually]

i was made for lovin' you.

OR after years of unsaid emotions, supressed feelings and goddamn urges— you and dean finally confront the thing you'd both been avoiding: how there's so much you wanna do in the darkness. and you're gonna make all come true. tonight.

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : dean winchester x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 5.6 k.

「 content / warnings 」 : MINORS LOOK AWAY !!!, lateish seasons (if you squint) dean winchester x reader's first time (not virgins though), unprotected (mostly) soft sex with feelings, feelings, feelings!, aka porn WITH plot!, p in v, handjob, dean being a munch ofc (this is canon. go argue with the wall.), swearing. please let me know if i missed anything!

𖤐 ────────────────────────

from the moment you first met dean winchester while working a case, you knew you wanted to fuck him.

which was a little strange, because you didn't think like that outright about too many men— not ones you knew in real life, anyway.

but here the stupid bastard was, with his annoyingly pretty face and those stupid, big, rough fightin' hands that could touch you everywhere, pull the prettiest sounds right from you—

oh, we're getting way too far ahead of ourselves. you shoved those thoughts away. come on, this was a freakin' case. lives were at stake.

and once the initial secret lust you had finally went away, you realized you were experiencing something much greater than some stupid crush on dean.

because the more hunted with him, you got to see not just the tough, hard-as-nails side of him— but you saw the other side.

his people side.

you got to see the way he interacted with every single person he encountered on a case, not resting until the threat was completely gone and ganked. and sometimes, when a case hit too close to home, he treated victims and affected family no less than his own fuckin' family.

and you knew from your own personal experience that he'd do just about damn near anything for the family he did have. saw the way he got all soft and sweet around kids— and after a good while, even around you.

and that's when you knew you were in trouble.

you'd known dean for years now. and nothing had ever come of you two except him being one of the greatest friends you'd ever had.

but god help you if you didn't want more.

and nothing like a quick fuck, either. no, you wanted to be there for everything— even on those deathly-quiet nights when dean's thoughts got too loud and the debilitating weight he was carrying all alone just got too heavy, you wanted to be the one keeping him afloat.

it was something dangerously close to love.

you tried to ignore it at first. push it down. and it did work-- for a while. until fucking dean started acting weird around you, too.

and now things were... complicated.

you didn't know exactly when things had shifted so much to the point that it almost became unbearable to even be in the same room as dean without either of you knowingly holding back just spilling your guts-- but god, it was worse than dying.

inevitably, one night, it all just snapped.

there was no dramatic fight, or screamed confessions from either of you. no, it happened late in the darkness, when you both were sharing a motel room.

which would have made you fond of all the times you guys had shared motel rooms in the past— you would've smiled at the thought of younger you trying to make the most out of the fact that you had to share a room with a fucking boy.

but dean was now much more of a man than ever before now.

thank god there's two separate beds, you initially thought.

now, though? there wasn't a need for two beds anymore.

because you still somehow ended up in dean's that was closest to the window.

in his lap.

and kissing him.

you were sure you were in just another one of your dreams or fantasies you conjured up to get off— but you could feel dean's hands on you through your shirt, grasping at the fabric. so this had to be real— but just for precaution, you roll your hips into dean's a little.

yeah. that sound he made when he grinds his hips up into your own was definitely real— and right in your mouth.

you knew you were probably moving too fast— but fuck if you cared. your hands sneak in between you both and trail downward on the front of dean's shirt, not stopping until you reach the hem— and your voice is a whisper against dean's kiss-swollen lips.

"arms up, de."

and dean obliges in a heartbeat, raising his arms up over his head immediately— and he's silently praising the fact he decided to just wear a t-shirt to bed.

you actually somehow had only seen dean shirtless once or twice over the years— the latest being last summer when the air conditioning in the bunker was broken, and you conveniently and hurriedly stated that you had to stay in your room the entire day—because it was so much more skin than you were used to seeing.

but now?

you're staring.

dean's looking at you looking at him— and if the motel room wasn't so dark, you could've sworn his face got a little pinker under your gaze.

but you don't dwell on that for too long. because your hands are itching to reach out and just touch— and the moment your fingers start to graze on dean's biceps first, his eyes flutter shut and he lets out a shaky exhale, fighting to keep himself under control.

because it's you that's touching him.

you're still touching him when you lean back and kiss his lips again— and dean is very aware of the fact that you still have your shirt on.

but you have to break the kiss after a while to get stupid air— and your hands are reluctantly taken off of dean's skin, much to his protest. but the words he was about to say die in his throat when he sees where your hands were going.

you grasp the hem of the oversized shirt you were wearing, tearing it over your head and discarding it in the same motion— all while you were silently thanking whatever had possessed you not to wear shorts to bed.

or a bra.

and now, dean thinks he might die.

it was his turn to stare, eyes raking and flicking over every inch of you as you're straddling his lap like he didn't know where to look first— and dean's just so in awe, he says what he was thinking out loud in a barely-audible.

"god, you're beautiful."

you can feel a blush burning your cheeks at dean's words-- and judging by the way his eyes widened ever so slightly when he uttered those words, you knew he meant it. you smile softly down at him, your voice just as quiet as his once was.

"you're not so bad, yourself.''

and that makes the corner of dean's lips turn up in a small, soft smirk. god, he loves you. and he's gonna show you that.

all night long.

dean starts with his hands, the rough callouses trailing up your thighs, hips, waist, stomach, tits, arms, back— fucking everywhere on your bare skin as he stares up at you.

but your hands move on dean, too— touching him everywhere you could reach before you go lower, your fingers grazing on the waistband of his boxers— but you look back up at him again, a silent question in your eyes.

dean looks confused for half a second— until he realizes you're asking for permission. then he nods, his heart feeling warmer than it was before.

you tear his boxers off in one fell swoop— and holy goddamn.

you stare— again. and dean's fighting the urge to roll you over onto the mattress and just taking you.

instead, he forces himself to stay still under you— because the urge to do that and see what you do next is stronger.

dean's smirking up at you. the damn idiot. and then he quietly murmurs out—

"your turn."

you'd almost forgotten you still had your underwear on— oh, but dean didn't forget. the speed at which you yank down the fabric and discard it somewhere in the motel room should be a world record.

you look back down at dean again when you get situated back on his lap— but he's not looking at you anymore.

no, the man gulps at the sight of your pussy being exposed to him— and it takes him a while to look back up at you, his voice low and rough.

"c'mere."

you obliged, one of your hands reaching down and grasping dean's own that had been resting on your thigh.

this was new. oh, so new. dean wasn't new to you by any means, and that familiarity, that bond was still there— but he was new in this sense. this was different.

this was real.

dean was a man who rarely ever got what he really wanted— so you wanted dean to get whatever he wanted out of what was about to happen between the two of you.

"tell me what you want, dean," your voice is a mere whisper. "tell me what you want me to do, and i'll do it."

dean really thinks you should be illegal. you're all he's ever wanted—and you're asking him what he wanted.

he doesn't answer right away— dean's eyes rake over your naked form in his lap, and he's got his hands resting on your thighs as he meets your gaze once more.

"touch me."

you knew what dean meant by that. dean knew what he meant by that. and you both were fully aware of the line you were about to cross. but you weren't even nervous. and neither was he.

so take your hands, reaching down and trailing a path on dean's lower torso before you take him all in your hands.

and dean thinks he might die.

again.

because you start stroking him slowly— you weren't an idiot, you knew if you went too fast at first, it would hurt dean like a motherfucker rather than feel good.

and you're just looking at him, reading his reactions, making sure that it feels good.

all dean can get out at first is your name. he had opened his mouth to say something, but that's all that came out in a broken groan. he's letting out these little broken noises of pleasure— and his head has to fall back on the shitty motel room’s headboard so he doesn't cum right there.

you keep your pace of your hand on dean's dick steady, only increasing the intensity after a few moments when you can tell he needed more— by the way he gripped onto your hip, his rough fingers curling into the meat of your skin— and by the way he was fighting back the moans that had been treating to escape his throat.

it was definitely embarrassing how close dean was to cumming already, he knew that. but he also knew it was because it was you who was bringing him there. not some quick fuck with a chick he'd met that night, or his own hand— no.

it was yours.

and that thought combined with the way you're still looking at him— in awe, like he's something out of a museum, gets him way closer to the edge you were guiding him to.

"i'm— fucking christ, jesus—"

your name along with the man upstairs' son had come out of dean's mouth in a desperate attempt to warn you that he was right there, all because of you.

"i gotcha, dean," you whisper, and your free hand not jerking him off reaches to cup the side of his face as his head's tilted up towards you.

"just let it happen."

and that does it for him.

dean cums hard, his hands clutching on your thigh and part of your hips with all he's got, gasping and groaning, letting little out broken moans the whole way down.

you just guide dean through it with your hand, watching him under you as his skin was all flushed and red now, hair sticking up everywhere (courtesy of your hands), his pupils blown out and half-lidded before shutting fully.

"y'okay?" you whisper, your eyes flicking over dean under you. his own eyes continued to be closed— and you take that time to grab a tissue from the nightstand, wiping your hand clean before looking back and giving dean your full attention.

your other hand was still on his face, your thumb grazing on his cheek now, and for a split second, you almost think dean must not have liked it, or you went too far, because he wasn't saying—

"holy shit."

the curse leaves dean's mouth as his eyes open— and all he can do is reach his free hand up that wasn't grasping yours between the two of you already and rest it on the one cupping his face.

you can't even open your softly smiling mouth to respond, because the next words are coming out of dean's mouth, his voice still raw and rough from the way you just broke him apart.

"you know what i wanna do right now?"

you tilt your head a little to the side, still looking down at dean below you with his back resting against the headboard as you so desperately wanted to know.

"what?"

dean's downright devilish smirk reappears— and his eyes flick down to your almost dripping pussy that was spread as you straddled his legs before looking back up at you, his voice still rough as ever.

"I wanna taste you."

and a strangled sound gets stuck in your throat at the mere thought of dean eating you out. maybe it was a little embarassing how breathless your voice sounded when you leaned just a fraction closer to him.

"then go ahead."

an actual growl escapes dean at that— and you don't need to tell the man twice. he's got you flipped over and pinning you down, your scorching back hitting the cold motel sheets before you can even blink. you stare up at him when he hovers over you, both hands on the sides of your head, holding him up— and he's just looking at you.

but dean doesn't stay like that for too long. his lips hit your neck immediately after he leans down enough— and he starts just attacking at your skin, nipping, biting, sucking— he draws a path all the way down, until he reaches your now sopping pussy.

dean changes his position when he does, spreading your slick inner thighs further apart and settling between your legs, wrapping a strong arm around the meat of your thighs.

but he hesitates for a brief moment. he likes eating out pussy, but did you enjoy it? his pussy-drunk eyes flick up to yours— and you're a sight all spread out for him, your back against the pillows and sitting up a little so you could watch.

"i ain't gonna be gentle. y'know that, right?"

you knew that dean had always been considerate of you, long before this night— for as long as you'd known him, for that matter. but hearing him tell you that he didn't want to be gentle made your gaze soften and a smile tug on your lips as you nodded in response.

"yeah, i know."

and in that moment, dean thinks he loves you.

well, in all actuality, dean knows he loves you— but seeing you all soft and just so goddamn pretty in the moonlight that's filtering in through the motel room window, he's well aware of the blessing that's before him.

dean gives you one last smile— softer this time. then he dives in, burying in his face and going at you full force, his tongue flat and working against your puffy, slick folds before letting out a groan that vibrates everything.

and dean was right.

he was not gentle about it.

your eyes threaten to flutter shut as dean's tounge works on you— but you force them to be half-lidded as you look down at the sight of dean eating you out like a starved man.

and he's looking right back at you as he does it.

your hand flies to grasp onto dean's that was still resting on your thigh as his mouth continues to attack you— and he gladly takes it in his, not faltering his pace once.

you couldn't help but bite down hard on your bottom lip, attempting to contain the moans and noises that were threatening to spill out of you— and dean isn’t having it.

“nuh uh, darlin’,” dean shakes his head between your thighs, talking right into your pussy between flicks of his tongue on your clit. “i wanna hear you— wanna hear how goddamn good i’m makin’ ya feel right now.”

and with that, your mouth drops open almost immediately. it's like a switch flipped in you— and the first moan you let out is his fuckin' name.

"dean..."

christ on a cross. dean had wanted to hear just anything come out of your pretty mouth, but his name being the first thing on the tip of your tongue does things to him.

dean's imagined you moaning his name countless times, of course, but nothing can compare to the real you right now— tits heaving, groaning and eyes fluttering a little each time he brushes on a few sensitive spots on your pussy with his tongue.

now, it's embarrassing how close you are to cumming on dean's tongue. and oh, he notices. he holds your bucking and writhing hips down with his free hand that's not grasping and holding onto yours—

and goes to fuckin' town.

"fuck— dean!" you think you're gonna pass out— because you could barely hear the sounds of dean slurping up your juices and sucking on your clit when you cum without warning, back arching off of the sheets and grinding into his tongue, your grip on his hand becoming almost bruising as the pleasure cascades over you in waves.

dean doesn't look away from you for a second as your pussy flutters on his tongue, moving his mouth slower once more to not let a drop of you go to waste, making sure you're completely spent, pulling soft groans and gasps from your lips.

your legs tremble and shake under the arm that dean had wrapped around your thigh— and he takes a second to just watch you in the post-orgasm state you're in.

"y'okay?" dean's voice is rough but soft at the same time, looking up at you from his position between your legs like you're the night sky itself.

you open your eyes again, lifting your head off of the pillows just enough to see dean's eyes looking right back at you— and oh, he's a sight, his lips, nose and chin absolutley covered in your slick— and his hair's even more messy than before now.

"yeah", you breathe out softly, managing a nod against the pillows. "yeah, i'm all good. c'mere."

dean sees the soft look in your eyes— and his own gaze melts as he obeys, lifting off of the mattress and out from between your legs to hover over you, your faces just inches apart again.

dean can't look away.

and he never wants to.

"you're goddamn gorgeous, y'know that?" dean murmurs as he looks down at your moonlit face.

at that, you reach your hand up in the distance between you two, cupping the side of dean's face— and his head immediately leans into your touch before you whisper back.

"and you're perfect, dean."

dean's chest tightens at that— and his gaze somehow softens even more. no one's ever called him perfect before, and he couldn't think of one person in his life who even believed that to be true.

but you were looking at dean like he was.

you notice dean's reaction immediately— it was hard not to with how close you were.

you meant those words you said to dean— because being perfect wasn't about having absolutely no flaws or weaknesses.

it was about knowing that, and still carrying on anyway.

and then it clicks. because you could talk all you wanted to dean.

or you could show him how perfect he was.

"lemme show you," you whisper before dean could even open his mouth to deny it. "let me show you how perfect you are, dean."

and those words are completely breaking down what little resistance dean had left. his eyes actually get a little misty as he’s looking down at you— because he can't believe you're here, telling him everything he's never heard before.

dean nods— and his voice is shaking with anticipation mixed with pure awe.

"yeah. yeah, okay."

and that's all you needed. you look at dean's face one last time before lifting your head to close the little distance between the both of you, kissing him with everything you had to give him.

you didn't kiss dean like before— that was in a state of pure lust, desire, and want. now, you're kissing him softer, slower, and with purpose.

and purpose was exactly what dean needed. he tries to keep himself upright and hovering over you, but the way you're kissing him has his arms trembling as you're literally melting him.

you only take my lips off of dean’s when the air he and you had been breathing through your noses wasn’t enough— and your thumb grazes on his cheek again as his forehead rests on top of yours, eyes fluttering a little as i whisper against his lips.

“lay down for me.”

you don't have to say it again. dean obliges in a heartbeat, lifting off of you and rolling onto his back in one fluid motion— and you follow behind, tossing your leg over his to straddle him once more

dean’s hands go to your hips once you’re straddling him, looking up at you now— he still looks a little wrecked from earlier, and his chest is rising and falling in a slower, steadier rhythm than before, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

but seeing your naked form straddling him like this once more is just making his heart start to thump against his chest— again.

your hands find dean’s own on your hips,your fingers trailing on his skin, grazing past his wrists and up his arms— you're not exactly slow, but you're also not very fast with it, either.

no, you take your time touching dean all over again, fingertips tracing over every scar and dent you could see and feel as you're straddling him. your eyes flick up to his face, meeting his gaze once more— but you just keep touching him.

"oh, look at you," your voice is an awed whisper while your hands move on dean’s chest, grazing on the anti-possession tattoo he had on his skin. "see? you’re perfect."

and dean can’t help the little shiver your touch brings him right now, even though he's literally just laying below you, half-propped up by the pillows like you once were. he just can’t help it, because you’ve always been able to get the best reactions out of him.

dean swallows hard as your hands continue their journey over his body— your fingertips roaming over his skin, tracing all the scars he’d earned, right across his chest and down to his stomach.

and his breath actually hitches when you touch his anti-possession tattoo again.

your fingers trace on dean’s tattoo, watching and loving his reactions to just your freakin' hands.

and your hands stay resting on dean’s chest, but a little closer to his shoulders, shifting closer to him in his lap, pressing the entirety of your bare body completely against his.

your voice is still a whisper when you talk again, searching his face as you ask him to do what you've always wanted to.

because you needed to show dean how much you wanted him.

"can i ride you?"

if dean was hard before, it's nothing compared to the way his dick almost hurts now, throbbing at the way you asked permission to ride him.

"god, yes" is what comes out from dean's clenched jaw, and his gaze is locked onto yours as his hands rest on your hips.

a soft smile tugs on your lips again, your gaze flicking down for a brief moment when you hear how strained dean’s voice was— and the sight of him hard for you sends a wave of heat that pools in your stomach, making you clench around nothing.

because you needed dean just as badly as he needed you.

your eyes flick back up to dean’s green ones. and you notice that neither of you are nervous for his to happen. this was dean, after all. you'd wanted him in the least friendly way possible for as long as you could remember— and now? it was actually going to come true.

you didn’t have to ask dean anything else, or even say something. he wanted all of you— and you were going to give it to him.

so that’s why you shift a little, reaching down and guiding yourself to sink onto dean, keeping his gaze while your hands are still on his shoulders.

a broken groan escapes dean when you start to lower yourself down on him— and his own body’s reaction to your walls sucking him in just makes him want you even more.

dean lets his gaze travel all across your face— and he’s still looking right into your eyes when he lets himself go completely slack underneath you, letting you take the lead.

your fingers dig a little into dean’s shoulder at the burning sensation of your pussy being stretched— and your breath hitches, hard. your head falls forward a little as you screw your eyes shut.

your mind had felt like it was going over a thousand miles per second, but when your legs finally hit dean's and your pussy hits the base of his dick, everything just... goes away.

and dean couldn’t keep himself completely still anymore. he actually growled a little when he felt you fully sink down on him, and the sound that left him when he feels your tightness around him was a little more primal-sounding than he’d like to admit right now.

"oh, fuck," he breathes out your name, "you’re tryna kill me."

you can only respond to dean’s words with a strangled noise as the burning sensation was becoming full-throttle now, your grip on dean’s shoulders a little tighter, your head still hung as you try to keep my breathing steady.

because you literally couldn’t move yet. it was still the best feeling you'd ever felt— but you had to get used to dean's dick being buried deep inside of you before you could actually start to move on top of him.

and the way you’re holding on to his shoulders right now and how you’re trying to hold back little noises is driving dean insane.

he’s gripping your hips so tight that it has to be almost painful, and his eyes are fixed on you, still watching you while he tries to stay still for you. but it was taking a hell of a lot of effort on his part.

dean's chest is rising and falling fast, and he can’t help it when he finally chokes out your name in a whisper, unable to keep it in anymore.

"move. please."

at dean’s plea, you flick your hips just a little to see if you were adjusted yet.

and oh, were you ever. your fingers finally release their death grip on dean’s shoulders, one of your hands finding and grasping one of his own that was on your hip— and you finally start to move on top of him, rocking your hips into his.

the groan that escapes dean is the deepest one yet, his hand clutching onto yours and his eyes shutting for a moment as he feels you moving, his free hand tightening on your hip again.

"oh, god," dean gasps out, "jesus—"

you let out a raggedy exhale mixed with a moan, attempting to stop your eyes from rolling back into your head as you continue to ride dean's dick. it was hard, but you managed to keep your eyes open and half-lidded and on him, wanting to see his face— and you grind your hips into his faster and harder.

seeing you like this was getting to be borderline unbearable for dean.

your tits are bouncing a little in dean's face, and you're just not letting up, and you're so tight and warm, and he just fuckin' loves you—

dean realizes he's gonna cum if you keep this up.

and the embarrassing part is you barely even started riding him.

so it’s a damn good thing he’s still got a shred of control over himself right now.

"je— s— slow it down for a sec, darlin'," dean manages to get out, gritting his teeth as his eyes screw shut. "please."

the moment those words leave dean’s mouth, you immediately do as he says— you don’t abruptly stop, instead gradually slowing your movements to allow for an easy transition.

your hand trails up from dean's shoulder to cup on the side of his face while your're still on top of him— your eyes then search his when you breathlessly whisper to him.

"you okay?"

dean opens his eyes when you ask him if he’s okay right now, knowing that was pure concern in your words. he’s taking a moment to let his body level out a bit, since you stopped like he asked you to. and when he does, he manages a nod once he’s able to somehow form words.

"yeah, 'm good, darlin’—" dean swallows and takes a big gulp of air. "just got a 'lil too close to the edge for a second there. don’t wanna blow it right now."

an exhale of relief you didn’t know you were holding in was let out at dean’s confirmation— and your thumb almost absentmindedly grazes on the skin of his cheek as your hand was still on the side of his face.

"oh," you also nod, gaze softening as you look down at dean under you still. his words make you feel warm inside, along with a little sense of pride, too— but you still had to confirm. "it doesn’t hurt, though, right?"

"doesn’t hurt,” dean responds immediately. and that’s a bit of a complete understatement, because being inside of you right now felt like heaven. his own hand comes up to where yours is, his fingers skimming over your skin as he smiles softly up at you once more. "just wanna be able to last a 'lil bit longer for you, 's all."

your eyebrows scrunch together at that, and your expression is almost goddamn melted at this point as you look down at dean. you weren't sure why those words impacted you so much, but your chest tightens with emotion before you speak again.

"oh, de," you literally whisper, your thumb still skimming back and forth on dean’s cheek. "y'know you don’t have to do that."

"yeah, i do," dean murmurs immediately in response, looking right into your eyes the whole time he talks. "i've wanted this— you for goddamn years. i'm not lettin' this end yet."

so you don't.

you nod, leaning in and pressing a kiss on dean's lips before you talk again.

"okay," you nod against his forehead. "just move me when you want to, alright?"

dean gratefully nods, too, appreciating your understanding. his hands find and hold your hips again—this time, with less of a death-grip. and after he takes a steadying breath, he starts to move you.

you just let dean work and grind your hips into his own, holding his shoulder and face with your hands, allowing him to take what he needed and set the pace.

after a while, though, dean lifts you up off his dick by your hips a few inches before setting you back down fully, repeating the motion— starting to actually fuck you a little.

you'd been quiet for the most part so far— but once the head of dean's dick brushes against that spongy spot deep inside of you, a string of broken moans and gasps spill from your lips.

and that just spurs dean on.

you'd both waited long enough now. it's been years of stolen looks, suppressed jealousy, unspoken thoughts and feelings— and tonight, you're making it all come true in the darkness of the motel room.

thank god dean's hands had been guiding your hips— because you're starting to unravel faster than you can comprehend. and so is dean.

dean's fucking up into you now like he'll never be able to fuck you again— which you both know wasn't true. and after tonight, you know you'd happily sleep with dean's dick buried inside of your pussy.

it takes only a whimper falling from your lips for dean to know that you're close— and your hand flies down to one of his on your hips again. he gladly takes it, wanting to hold your hand when he cums inside of you—

wait. is he allowed to do that?

"y— oh," dean groans out your name— he has not been silent throughout this entire ordeal, either. broken noises of pleasure and little groans of your name escaped his lips whenever your walls clenched around him. "can i— god—"

you didn't have to ask what dean meant by that. you nod almost frantically as his hand are still gripping your hips, guiding your pussy up and down his dick— and you squeeze his other hand tighter, the one you were holding.

and only then does dean let himself go, again.

your orgasm comes at the same time dean's does— and you both arch into each other and trembling as your moans echo off the motel room's walls. dean's face buries between your tits and groans into the skin while he spills up into you, your juices mixing with his.

you both stay like that for a while, naked, sweating, slick and gasping for air for god knows how long— until dean's raw and breathless voice vibrating on your breasts breaks the silence.

"i think i was made for you."

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you now have two ( 2 ) new message from the author ! ↓

oh heyyy... are any of y'all still here ??? but seriously, on a real note— if you have stayed to the very end: first, THANK YOU for reading! and second, if you enjoyed, please consider SHOWING ME THAT ( reblogs / comments / etc ) because this took me FOREVER to write, and i want to know if my efforts are worthwhile!

OH i also used a very special headcanon from @figthoughts' mastermind brain for this one because mr. dean winchester holding your hand while he eats you out is very much and totally 100% canon for me as well. fig you match my freak like no other and i hope to one day write as good and absolutely filthily as you do HEHE smooches to you my pookie <3

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3