spookyysinsanity

[spookyysinsanity]

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: knock knock knock in the middle of the night — two suitcases (plus a vanity case and a handbag) at the door, and not a request, but an announcement—you're moving in. when your dumb neighbor floods your apartment and the renovation will take at least two weeks, you find a very effective way to make it spencer reid’s problem.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, flatmates yay, lots of domestic scenes with them just watching movies etc, but they also talk about murdering each other once (just once, impressive for them), teasing so hard im not sure a single sentence goes by without it, reference to them getting married in vegas, CAT, reader wearing make up, spencer being a weirdo in one scene, spencer and nightmares...hope y'all not bored with one bed trope

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6k

𝐚/𝐧: request | this has a chance to be my favorite fic from this WHOLE series PERIOD masterlist

Spencer wasn’t asleep when the sound of the doorbell rang.

The time on the clock showed such a late hour that he could almost, without any blame directed at himself, ignore it. He didn’t do that, though, because of a passing thought that it might be one of his friends. Maybe in trouble, maybe wanting to share some sudden terrible news (said his fatal side), or on the contrary, something truly wonderful (a weak trembling voice of optimism).

He put the book aside, got up from the bed, and after a moment, suspiciously yet inquisitively looked through the peephole. He held his eye to it for four seconds, then pulled his head back.  A disbelieving snort from his mouth.

He was dreaming, and this dream was really starting to approach the border of absurdity. Lately, nightmares had been happening to him more and more often—that is, they had always accompanied him, but sometimes their frequency was rare, and sometimes they celebrated their renaissance in a truly sick and twisted form. He was currently in the era of such a renaissance, and he had plenty of reasons to suspect that the moment he opened that door, the woman standing behind it would grow fangs, turn into a monster-woman, and push him against one of the walls, in which he would grow like mold into a fresh fruit and remain in it forever, screaming for someone to free him, but no words would come out of his mouth, because it would turn out he didn’t have one.

He stepped a pace away from the door, ready to return to his bedroom.

That was a very sober thought for someone in the middle of a dream, right? Usually, one doesn’t have that much awareness in them — in most cases, one has none at all, is a video game character controlled by fears, but experiencing everything vividly.

He opposed the nightmare. Cool. But why, then, was something so strongly pushing him toward that door and making it impossible to walk away? The doorbell rang once more, and then again in short intervals, and Spencer already knew — this wasn’t a dream. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his face and opened the door—only to come face to face with the woman’s fist, which had been just about to (firmly) knock on it. When his person appeared in the doorway, her hand froze in mid-air, then dropped onto the handle of one of the two suitcases with a leopard print.

And then, unfazed—despite the fact that she had just nearly punched him in the face—she spoke in an overly cheerful voice.

“Oh, you’re not asleep. How wonderful.”

Spencer briefly clenched his eyelids shut. Her facial expression, her tone of voice, and literally the suitcases at her feet made it obvious what this was about. A favor. One he would either agree to right away, feeling small about it, or agree to after several (dozen) minutes of her persuasive game, which he somehow never managed to resist despite being a profiler. Feeling even smaller in the process.

“I’m not asleep because someone is pounding on my door. There’s nothing wonderful about that.”

“Me visiting you at night. What about that isn’t wonderful?”

Spencer looked at her from under raised eyebrows, but she bore it with dignity. Silence had never been the cure for her brazen behavior—he had to approach it differently. He slightly relaxed his posture and nodded toward her suitcases.

“Quite a bit of luggage for a one-night visit,” he observed.

She shrugged.

“Just the essentials. What I managed to grab after my entire apartment got completely flooded by my stupid neighbor and now needs a deep renovation.”

He nodded with exaggerated, fake sympathy. He already knew what she was doing at his place at this hour, which didn’t mean he intended to be all meek about it. Besides, with people like her, sometimes it’s healthy to show them, to remind them, that you’re not at their beck and call.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What are you planning to do now?”

She gave the handle of her suitcase a casual pat.

“Stay in the home of my generous friend,” she said, giving him a meaningful look. “Who doesn’t mind me disturbing him just a tiny bit for the next…hmm, not sure, let’s say two weeks.”

With those words, she confidently stepped forward, as if he had at least invited her in. As if he had said go ahead, make yourself at home. But Spencer didn’t move an inch, still blocking the entrance with his body, causing her to bump into him and take a half-step back. Frustration flickered across her face, but she swallowed it quickly, looking at him with fake confusion, continuing their little silly game.

“Your friend,” Reid pointed out, now standing about half as close to her as before, which forced him to clear his throat slightly so that his voice would remain steady. “Sounds like a really nice guy.”

The corners of her lips really wanted to lift. Instead, she nodded with full agreement.

“He is a nice guy,” she confirmed, looking straight at his face, directly into his eyes. “Although, if I had to list his flaws, we’d probably be standing here for at least another fifteen minutes—which of course we don’t want. But deep down, he is a nice guy. And besides…”

She paused for a moment, leaning her face a little closer to his.

“He’s my husband. And it’s his civic duty to let me in.”

He didn’t blink under the force of her gaze, surprised she even chose that weapon in their argument. Their marriage which—oh, man—should’ve been annulled ages ago, but at this point they’d both kind of forgotten about it.

Anyway, focused on her lips as they slowly and precisely pronounced the word husband, he completely missed the moment she slipped swiftly under the arm he had resting against the doorframe, leaving all her luggage in the hallway.

The thought crossed his mind to leave it there, just to make a point. But then he remembered he’d never really trusted his neighbors, so with a loud sigh of protest he grabbed her two suitcases, what turned out to be a small trunk behind them, and a handbag resting on top—so tiny he genuinely wondered what could fit in there besides lipstick.

Even the plastic evidence bags from crime scenes were way more spacious.

He carried the bags inside—her silhouette had already vanished somewhere deep into the apartment, which was a little weird considering she’d never (okay, except for that one time ages ago) actually been here before. His brain slowed for a second as he felt the weight of her suitcases in his hands. There was no way she was settling in here for the next two weeks! The fact that they were a pair of idiots who’d gotten married in Vegas didn’t obligate him to anything!  He had to find a way to get rid of her. He’d let her stay the night, sure, but after that…

“Oh, and my baby is here!” Her high, delighted voice rang out, and a moment later he found her in his living room, clutching a black cat tightly to her chest. “Mommy. Missed. You. So. Much.”

With each word, she planted a kiss on Marie’s tiny head.

Spencer generally avoided anthropomorphizing animals or assigning them emotions, but he could not shake the impression that the cat was staring at him in full-blown panic. And yet she stayed in her arms, even curling her tail up in contentment.

He shook his head, realizing he’d been standing still for too long, just staring at the scene. He cleared his throat to get her attention—not that it worked even in the slightest.She was still fully immersed in kissing their cat. Still, he decided to assume she was listening.

“How exactly do you see this playing out?” he asked, more seriously this time. “You’re planning to live on my couch for two weeks?”

She raised her brows at him, like he’d just said something worthy of divine punishment.

“Who said anything about the couch? You have a bed.”

“Just one.”

She sighed, like the whole conversation was exhausting.

“You know, I think savoir vivre has some thoughts about offering your bed to a guest.”

“Maybe it does. But a guest is usually someone you invite. Not someone who invites themselves.”

“I always thought you were a gentleman, Spencer. Don’t ruin that image.”

“Wait, seriously, you thought I—No. No, I’m not falling for that. You can call me whatever you want, I’m not giving up my bed. Listen, I’m tall, you have no idea how much my neck hurts after just one night on that couch…”

“In that case, we can take turns,” she said finally, with open displeasure in her voice. Spencer paused, genuinely surprised at the offer—and even more surprised it came from her. Then his eyes fell on her clothes, clearly the same ones she’d worn all day, and her makeup, still in place, suggesting she’d had a long—very long—day and probably just wanted to crash, no matter the terms. “My eternal need for comfort will be halfway satisfied. Your neck will be equally safe. Thoughts?”

He ran it through his head for a moment. He wasn’t used to compromising with her. Wow, sleep deprivation really did do unimaginable things to a (wo)man. Finally, he nodded—just a little. It actually sounded pretty fair. Besides, the idea of her sleeping on his couch for two weeks didn’t sit right with him.And it had nothing to do with her calling him a gentleman…

“But as for tonight… rock, paper, scissors?”

She shook her head quickly.

 “No. No way. Not with you. You probably know the exact probability of me throwing paper and you’ll use it against me. So—no.” 

Spencer stared at her for a beat, silently urging her to come up with a better tie-breaker. Not that they had straws in the apartment to draw from. Suddenly, the corner of her mouth tugged upward. 

At first, he agreed—hesitantly, but he did. She was already about to set the cat down at the far end of the room when a warning light suddenly went off in his brain.

 “Marie will decide,” she announced, shifting her gaze to the cat in her arms.

“Whichever one of us she walks up to gets the bed tonight.”

“You’re not, by any chance, hiding cat treats in your pockets, don’t you?” he asked, suspicious.

He wasn’t teasing. He was genuinely considering the possibility.

She let out a disbelieving huff.

“I barely even have pockets in this outfit,” she declared.

Spencer didn’t change his expression. To him, that sounded suspiciously like a deflection.

She closed her eyes for a second, visibly holding herself back from yelling at him—then suddenly threw her arms out wide.

“You don’t believe me? Fine. Be my guest. You can search me. FBI style. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of practice with that, don’t you?”

For a moment, he looked into her eyes—challenging, teasing.Then his gaze slid over her clothes, tightly clinging to her body, and the body itself—every curve highlighted by the fabric. Admittedly, there weren’t many places to hide anything in that outfit.

They managed to convince Marie to stay in one place while they both crouched on opposite sides of the room, each calling the cat to themselves. Her black paws went tap tap tap (a moment of hesitation) then tap tap tap ended in her arms. Spencer sighed, but he didn’t really have a reason to be annoyed, since he had agreed to the terms himself. The couch wasn’t that bad anyway, not as bad as he always claimed.

“Let’s not be ridiculous,” he suggested, finding it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.

He caught the mocking glint in her eyes and ignored it—just like he ignored the brief flicker of embarrassment that washed over him. “It’s late. Just…put Marie down and let’s see what happens.”

“That’s only because you haven’t seen each other in a while and she missed you,” he justified it.

What hurt him the most was the betrayal from his own child.

How could he have raised a Brutus?

“Mhm,” she nodded dismissively and adjusted the cat in her arms the way you’d shift a child on your hip, and a genuine smile, not part of any game, appeared on her lips. “Or maybe she just loves her mama more.”

🐾

That night when she decided to show up at his apartment and disturb him just a tiny bit for the next… hmm, not sure, let’s say two weeks, Spencer had assumed her moving in would be a lot more invasive. But somehow, they quickly fell into a rhythm that allowed them to mostly stay out of each other’s way.

The biggest differences were the chaos that overtook the bathroom (but more on that later), and the fact that every other night, he was forced to sleep on the couch. In that regard, when he agreed to her arrangement, he completely overlooked one surprisingly obvious thing. After just one night of her sleeping in his bed, it completely absorbed her scent.

He should’ve predicted it—it was pleasant, a blend of body lotion and other cosmetics, with a trace of her tying it all together. Because of his germophobia, he had always been a little more sensitive to smells than most, but this wasn’t germophobic Spencer talking, repulsed by her scent and finding it disruptive to the point of sleeplessness.

This was a different kind of Spencer. One who felt under some strange spell every time he laid his head on the pillow, his thoughts drifting in a direction he had no intention of exploring.

He couldn’t change the sheets every single night—she would notice, and he wouldn’t be able to explain himself. Not without completely combusting from embarrassment, assuming he even told her the truth.

So on the second night of her stay, when he was supposed to sleep in the bed marked by her presence and it all became too overwhelming…he accidentally spilled coffee on it, just to have an excuse to change the bedding.

He never drank coffee in bed. But they had never lived together before—she didn’t know his habits—so it went unnoticed. Still, just to make it more believable, he actually started drinking coffee in bed, even though he hated it.

But of course, he couldn’t keep doing that every time.

So eventually, he just forced himself to get used to it as quickly as possible.

It was a bit like the first time he let the cat sleep in his bed—foreign and strange at first, but over time, he even started to appreciate it. Especially when it began to ease his nightmares.

🐾

That night, it was his turn on the couch again, but he decided to delay falling asleep. Seriously delay it, dedicating the entire time to binge-watching several episodes of Doctor Who.

She was a bit of a night owl—it wasn’t unusual for her to come home very late—but that evening, she was around and constantly moving about the apartment.

He didn’t mind the sound of her footsteps (in fact, he found it rather endearing, especially when it was followed by a tap tap tap… the sound of tiny paws). He’d already gotten used to not living alone anymore, and besides, he was far too absorbed in the show.

He was pulled out of his absorption by a scoff from behind him. He turned around to see his flatmate, dressed in a satin pajama set with short shorts and a short-sleeved top. Her hair was freshly washed, and she was leaning on his kitchen island with her elbows, eyes fixed on the TV with a not-very-convinced expression.

“What is this supposed to be?” she asked.

“Doctor Who,” he replied shortly, not intending to get into a discussion about his favorite show—which was his favorite for reasons that were not up for debate.

“Easy there, Reid. I was just asking.”

“I can now subconsciously sense when one of your snide remarks is approaching. Thank yourself for moving in.”

“Snide remark right away? Maybe I just wanted to share my constructive criticism.”

“In your dictionary snide remark and constructive criticism are synonyms.”

“That all depends on your sensitivity level. For example, to me, saying this show is lame isn’t mean at all. It’s just how I feel.”

He rolled his eyes. She thought Doctor Who was lame, yet she kept cutting through the living room surprisingly often—just as often as she glanced toward the screen. And she was even engaged enough to form an opinion. Interesting.

He shook his head mockingly. “Good thing no one’s forcing you to watch. You have free will and can just…” he made a little walking-man gesture with his fingers.

She made a face that landed somewhere between a cynical smile and a grimace nonverbal way to say very funny. Then she pointed at the box of tea sitting right beneath her hand, which she must have forgotten about, so not at all focused on his lame show.

“There’s no other place I can make tea. So, in a way, I am being forced to watch and I can’t just…” She mimicked his earlier gesture to cap off her far-fetched explanation.

Spencer let out a dismissive laugh and turned back to watching. But it was hard to focus—there were constant noises coming from behind him: a mug being taken out, water being boiled. He caught himself glancing back discreetly more than once. Only to catch her staring at the TV screen.

Their eyes would usually meet then, and instead of looking away bashfully, she would just nod, as if doubling down on her opinion.

Uhm, lame.

Her large mug of green tea was ready, and he wondered what she would do next. Whether she would just head to her room or...

“I bought ice cream,” she announced, pulling a liter-sized tub from the freezer. She grabbed two spoons and walked over to the couch, handing him one over the backrest.

“No, I’ll pass,” he said. 

She shoved the spoon into his hand and took a seat beside him on the couch, close enough that their shoulders brushed with each unsynced breath, and sharing one tub of ice cream became easier.

“You said you wouldn’t watch my show,” he noted, turning the spoon in his hands.

The surface of the ice cream was so frozen she had to stab it with force to get the spoon in.

“I’m not watching,” she said with a shrug. “I’m just enjoying my tea. And sharing ice cream with you, like a good flatmate should. Give me some blanket, I’m freezing ‘cause of that ice creams” 

She lifted the tub slightly, giving him room to throw the blanket over her bare legs and smooth it down around her waist to keep the warmth in.

“Are you gaslighting me into thinking you’re not watching Doctor Who when you clearly haven’t taken your eyes off the screen since the episode started?” he asked, glancing up at her.

She didn’t answer—too focused on the screen, spoon resting against her bottom lip in total concentration. She might not have even heard him.

Spencer shook his head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

He watched her for a moment longer, trying to figure out whether the faint trace of a smile was truly forming on her lips or if he was just imagining it.

Two episodes of Doctor Who later, the ice cream tub was empty, so was her mug of tea, and her shoulder wasn’t just brushing against his anymore—it had fully settled there. His teasing about her hidden nerdy side and her totally-not-real fondness for the show had been met with the kind of patient silence only she could pull off, but that didn’t stop him from indulging in it with growing—by now no longer internal—satisfaction. Another episode ended and Spencer held off on starting the next one, the living room fell into a brief silence, broken only by his roommate’s yawn.

Sleepiness didn’t keep her from throwing him an expectant look toward the remote in his hand.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’re out of tea and ice cream. What’s your excuse this time?”

Right on cue, their black cat jumped up onto her lap, curling into a nest. He gave the creature a look of betrayal. The woman let out a theatrical sigh and sank deeper into both the couch and his arm, sliding just slightly against them both. “I’m not heartless. I’m not going to make her move.”

"I’d argue with that," he muttered, referring to the first part of her statement. He reached for his traitorous cat, scratching behind her ear, only to find something else besides soft black fur—her fingers, brushing against his. His hand froze for a moment before he pulled it back, deciding that two people petting the cat at once might be a bit much. “All this just to avoid admitting that Doctor Who is actually a captivating show.”

“Oh my sweet baby loves when mama rubs her belly?” preoccupied with showering the cat with affection, she completely ignored his words.

“Pretending you don’t hear me, huh?”

In the meantime, the next episode had already begun, and her eyelids looked heavy, lazily half-closed.

“But I think it’s time to clip those claws, look at yourself Marie, when was your last little mani-pedi?”

"A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?" he remarked, nodding toward her own long nails. He realized he wasn’t paying any attention to the episode that had just started and was barely aware a few minutes had already passed. What he was very aware of was how late it had gotten—and how much heavier her temple was pressing against his shoulder.

"Well, I’ve never accidentally scratched anyone, unlike this little missy. On purpose, once or twice, I’ll admit. Be a dear and lean further into the corner of the couch, I’m figuring out how to get comfy here..."

Spencer let out a quiet sigh.

"I don’t get it. You fought so hard for my bed, and now that it’s your turn, you’d rather fall asleep on me?"

Her gaze slowly settled on him, and there was something searching in it. And that’s when it hit Spencer—their closeness, the position they had somehow ended up in, and the surprising comfort that came with it, one neither of them had questioned for even a second. He swallowed nervously, and she nodded thoughtfully.

 “You know what, you’re right,” she said slowly. “It would be a shame to waste my turn in the bed. Enjoy the episode.”

She kept her eyes on his face for a moment longer before setting the blanket aside, her bare feet carrying her toward his bedroom. Soft paw steps followed behind her, leaving him alone on the couch.

Spencer watched her go before fixing his gaze on his lame show. This was what he wanted, technically—catching up on a few episodes in peace. And yet, deep down, he really regretted not just keeping his mouth shut and letting her fall asleep.

🐾

A small excerpt from the bathroom chronicles.

It was the one room where Spencer always managed to maintain the greatest order, a near-sterile state. Mostly because he didn’t store books or documents there, and toilet paper and a toothbrush didn’t change their place on their own. Since she had moved in, the cosmetics cabinet looked more confusing than an overfilled bookshelf. Every morning he wondered how those shelves managed to withstand their weight. Once, he made a calculation in his head, added up the estimated weight of each of those cosmetics, assumed a certain shelf durability. He concluded that if he ever made a mistake and put the soap there instead of on the sink, everything would collapse.

A small assumption he had also made at the very beginning of their living together was that the woman would get up earlier than him. After all, she had to get the time to use all those cosmetics from somewhere, right? It turned out to be the opposite. They got out of bed at roughly the same time, and it always came down to an exciting race to the bathroom door, which she often won by resorting to tactics like grabbing the fabric of his shirt.

That morning, both of them had a solid chance of being late, so in response to one of his increasingly impatient knocks, she simply opened the bathroom door, letting him in while she finished doing her makeup.

The focus on her face as she traced the shape of her lips with a lip liner seemed sacred. While brushing his teeth, Spencer watched the process from the corner of his eye, considering two things in his mind. Why they hadn’t previously thought of simply sharing the bathroom instead of fighting over it, and why she even did that, since the shape of her lips was already so pretty. Then a silly comparison came to his mind — that as an occasional consumer who valued factory settings, he should only appreciate any enhancements.

Her fingers slowly lifted the lipstick and gently pressed its active side to her lower lip, spreading it. Oh, and now he probably understood the purpose of the lip liner — the two cosmetics created a very fitting combination on her bottom lip. Her eyes, focused on her reflection and her face, completely unexpectedly caught his, in the mirror.

Caught in such an inelegant act of staring, Spencer wanted to return to brushing his teeth, but he was doing that already, so he tried to do it more — which only resulted in his long arm with its long elbow knocking against the shelf and sending two creams tumbling down.

She smudged the lipstick outside the edge of her lips and turned toward him, ready to scream. Spencer was prepared to take a defensive stance and shift the blame onto—well, he didn’t know what yet—but it turned out the containers had landed on the floor intact. He quickly bent down to pick them up and set them back on the shelf, straightening up and raising a calming (yet simultaneously nervous) hand in her direction.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it, it’s fine…”

“You’re lucky. You and your big clumsy paws are very lucky.”

“There’s no need to overreact, seriously.”

“Oh, I’m overreacting?” she raised her eyebrows at him, hands on her hips, and her serious expression looked absurd with that red lipstick going well beyond the edge of her lips. He tried to point it out to her somehow, but she silenced him with a look, so he gave up. “Should I remind you how you reacted when I almost broke your mug?” she asked.

He shook his head side to side, smoothly deflecting the argument.

“It had sentimental value. Did your cream?”

She just looked at him in silence, for a long moment.

“It cost $300.”

Spencer blinked. Okay, a totally justified crash out. He really should control his clumsiness better… he leapt back suddenly when both her hands moved toward his neck.

“What are you doing?” he almost squeaked.

She widened her eyes at him like he was a complete lunatic, even shook her head in disbelief.

“I was going to tie your tie, you idiot,” she snorted. He looked down, stunned. Sure enough, his tie was hanging loosely around his neck.“You thought what? That I was going to strangle you right away?”

“Well…yes?”

She shook her head again. In fact, she hadn’t really stopped.

 “And I’m the one who overreacts,” she muttered to herself. Louder, she added, “This job is seriously messing with your head, you realize that, right?”

Still pulling himself together, he shrugged. It wasn’t exactly a new opinion. Before he could get any kind of response out, her hands — this time slower, more controlled — reached for the two ends of his tie hanging loosely on either side of his neck.

That required a step in his direction; her elbows brushed his chest once or twice in the process, and on her face, in her lowered gaze, Spencer saw the same concentration she’d had while putting on her lipstick.

��We literally spent two weeks on a case where a wife strangled her husband,” he offered. He just needed to say something — anything — to break the silence that had fallen over the bathroom and cover the intrusive sound of him swallowing a bit too loudly.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, eyebrows raised.

“I’d be tying my husband’s tie if I planned to kill him?” she asked. Her fingers were just now folding one end of the tie over the other; looking up at him made the knot uneven. Spencer noticed, but said nothing.

Instead, he gave a small shrug.

 “Lulling him into a false sense of security?”

“First the tie, then cyanide in the coffee?”

“Exactly. Though, for future reference, maybe don’t say your plans out loud. Especially not around an FBI agent.”

“And the husband in question, while you’re at it. You can’t leave that part second.”

Spencer couldn’t stop the reply that slipped from his mouth.

 “I’m starting to suspect you really enjoy bringing that up.”

“I do. ’Cause it’s funny,” she said, giving his tie a pat with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “Done.”

He’d almost forgotten she was tying it at all. She stepped back, watching his reaction as he finally looked down at the tie. He frowned. Moving past her to stand closer to the mirror, he checked his reflection, just in case his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Only then did he let out a short laugh.

 “This is the worst tied tie I’ve ever seen.”

She crossed her arms with an offended scoff. “What exactly is wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” He turned to her, pointing at the crooked knot like it was offensive. “Just look at it.”

Spencer just huffed at her stubbornness and started undoing it. He hadn’t said it to be cruel—the knot really was terrible. She watched him retie it properly, something close to wounded pride flickering in her eyes.

She shook her head, completely unbothered.

“It’s a decently tied tie.”

“You should let me try again, then,” she said.

“I’d like to remind you we’re almost late.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

His fingers were still on the tie, about to let it fall loosely back against his shirt when her words made them pause. He glanced at her expression—no teasing this time. The first few sounds he made barely qualified as speech; he had to clear his throat to make the words come out properly.

“Tomorrow, then.”

🐾

He opened the door slowly, careful not to make too much noise. Not just because it was the middle of the night—or really, the early hours of the morning by now—but also to spare his aching, exhausted head from any sound that might make it throb harder. The apartment, of course, was silent and dark. Spencer turned on only as many lights as necessary to find his way to the bed.

First, though, he headed to the bathroom. He didn’t have the energy for a full shower—he’d take one after at least a short nap—but he had to wash his hands. He needed to rinse the entire day off them. The last few days, really. The whole case they’d finally managed to close. He had to make sure that none of it lingered on his skin or fingers when he touched his blankets, when he reached into the cupboard for his favorite mug to make coffee, or when he scratched the cat behind the ear.

Only after that small ritual drag his body to the bedroom. On autopilot, he approached the bed and was even ready to lie down when he suddenly froze in place.

There was already someone in his bed. And it wasn’t just his cat, who was normally curled up on the pillow like a single mom who works two jobs.

Spencer was so sleepy that he forgot he had a flatmate for almost two weeks now. A flatmate who first turned restlessly in her sleep, then her eyes lit up in the darkness, awakened. It didn’t have to be bright for him to notice that she flinched.

“God, you scared me,” she said. Her voice still sleepy, hoarse. There was a chance that if he had left without a word, she would’ve fallen asleep again and wouldn’t remember the interaction in the morning, or that she had even been woken up. “I didn’t expect you guys to be back so soon,” she added.

Spencer nodded slightly, barely able to make any use of his mouth and form a sentence. He wiped his face with his hand, trying to shake himself out of that state.

“Me neither,” he mumbled.

Silence between them. He realized he’d have to go to the couch. That wasn’t a problem for him, all he cared about was sleep.

“I-I’ll move Marie, okay? I just want to take the pillow and go to the couch.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

Confused, he didn’t understand what she meant, and silently watched as she moved the cat to her side of the bed and pulled the blanket back on the other side.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch tonight,” her voice, though quiet and gentle, had a lot of command in it.

“I’m not?” he repeated uncertainly.

Only then did it register, and he scratched his nose, shaking his head.

“No, seriously. Just give me the pillow—”

“Just lie down.”

He was probably too tired to insist, so he just sighed softly and rolled onto the mattress. He didn’t even manage to grab the edge of the blanket to cover himself when her hand did it for him, pushing it up almost to his nose.

A quiet snort escaped Spencer, and he adjusted the fabric so it ended just below his ribs.

There was a soft sound of impact — he recognized it instantly as the thump of cat paws hitting the floor as she jumped off the bed.

“She’s probably mad I took her spot,” he muttered.

“Mhm, likely. But her sulks don’t last long. You’ll wake up with her tail on your face,” she said, and Spencer liked how her voice adapted to the surroundings and the quiet. Even though she was lying right next to him, on her side, he didn’t feel like she was speaking directly into his ear. She fell silent for a moment, but didn’t fall asleep. “What kind of case was it?”

In the way he immediately shook his head, there was a surprising amount of force.

“Not something you’d want to hear about right now,” he assured her. “At night. In bed. Before sleep. Trust me on this one.”

She exhaled through her nose.

“Maybe you’re right,” she murmured in agreement. “Goodnight then.”

He replied, but without even a hint of conviction in the words. Suddenly, slides of all the nightmares that had been keeping him company the past few nights flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to push them away, but it only made them more vivid. Suddenly, it felt like something was pressing down on his chest, making it harder to take the next breath.

“Goodnight,” he repeated, though it felt a little strange.

Just to say something. The words left his mouth, so did the air, at least partially imitating a regular, healthy breath. It didn’t help lift the weight off his chest, but at least he didn’t look like his whole body was slowly being flattened.

He squeezed his eyelids shut too tightly, then tried to relax them, ready to fall asleep with that unpleasant feeling. I mean, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done that before.

Only then did he feel a certain weight actually settle on his chest. Not imagined, not vague, and not ominous.It was real, in the shape of a hand, resting on him softly— connecting him to the person lying next to him, and making him aware of her presence, and of her calm—unlike his—breathing.

Both the sound and the feeling were grounding in their own way, making him relax his tightly shut eyelids.

He woke up with a cat’s tail on his face and the slow realization dawning on him that he hadn’t had a nightmare that night.

[spookyysinsanity]

who else cried slash came while watching this

[spookyysinsanity]

pairing: evan buckley x reader

sum.: evan buckley loves nothing more than spending time in between your thighs.

warnings: MDNI. smut. literally like 99% smut. plot? don’t know her. oral (f!receiving), fingering, overstimulation, implied that buck cums in his pants, implied p in v sex, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: requested by a lovely anon, anon, i apologize for slightly drifting from the request. i started and then the ending just came out of nowhere but felt right. no one look at me, idk what came over me. unedited. any feedback is extremely appreciated, especially reblogs/asks!

wc: 941

Evan Buckley loves nothing more than coming home to you still in bed, wearing nothing but one of his LAFD t-shirts and pretty pink lace panties.

He’s exhausted. But he hasn’t seen you in over 24 hours. Hasn’t tasted you in over 24 hours.

Evan could live and die in between your thighs. And most days, he tries. Not that you let him most days, citing that the two of you have far more important things to do than spend the day in bed.

You’re off today. Probably scheduled a hot yoga or pilates class for around noon, but you shouldn’t have any real plans today.

Which means he can spend his morning in his favorite place.

Evan makes quick work of stripping himself down to his boxers and crawling into bed next to you.

He wastes no time kissing you awake, quickly and greedily placing his hands on your jaw and bringing his mouth to yours.

You moan into his mouth and kiss him back, waking back up.

“Evan,” You bite your lip as he kisses his way down your neck, making sure to bite down sharply at the junction where your neck and shoulder meet.

“I have, oh fuck, a class in like 20 minutes,” You moan out, and feel him grin against your skin.

“I’ll pay your no show fee, again,”

You roll your eyes when you feel his greedy hands play with the waistband of the frilly pink lace you call panties that he knows you put on when he texted you that he was on his way home.

“They’re going to just cancel my membership at this rate,” Your fingernails dig into his bare shoulders, his mouth finding yours as he starts yanking at your underwear.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing there’s about twelve other pilates studios in a five-mile radius,”

Cheeky bastard.

“And are you going to be paying for my membership to one of these nicer studios?”

He finally pulls away from you to practically rip the t-shirt you're wearing off of your body, one hand immediately pinching at one of your nipples.

“If you want to go to the most expensive pilates studio in LA, I’ll make it happen baby,”

Smirking, you grab his free hand and place it right at your pussy.

“Well then, big boy, you better get your money’s worth,”

Not needing to be told twice, he quickly rips your panties off, kissing your hip bone where one side of the lace dug in harshly.

Blue eyes quickly meet yours, gleaming slightly at the pout on your pretty mouth, “I’ll, uh, replace those too,”

“I know you will, baby,”

Wasting no more time, his tongue licks from the bottom of your cunt to your clit, lightly sucking on your bundle of nerves.

“Oh my god,” Hands finding purchase in his hair and tugging sharply, causing him to groan deeply.

He feels his cock harden, between your whiny moans, the feeling of your fingers tugging at his scalp, and the taste of you on his tongue, he imagines he’ll be cumming in his pants before you have your first orgasm.

Well, he can’t have that.

Tugging your thighs over his shoulders, he tugs you closer to his mouth, tongue making quick work of your clit.

Your grips on his hair tightens along with your core, thighs shaking lightly as you cum with a sharp moan.

Light whimpers leave your mouth as he continues to lightly lick at you, groaning as he grinds his own hips into the bed searching for some sort of relief at the hardness in his boxers.

You push lightly at his forehead, and his lips pull away from you with a light pop.

“You can give me one more,” It’s not a question. Your heart races at the gleam in his eyes

Four orgasms later, you’re hyperventilating and all your limbs are shaking.

Evan’s mouth, and now fingers, have yet to relent their assault on your poor pussy, eyes rolled back in pleasure despite the wet, sticky feeling coming from his boxers.

“E-evan I, oh god,” Tears are streaming down your face as you feel yourself clench down on his fingers, signaling your fifth orgasm of the morning.

“I can’t, oh fuck, oh fuck. Evan, I can’t cum again,”

He pulls his mouth away, but his fingers continue curling up against that spot inside you just right.

“Oh more, please, please. Gimme one more,”

If you didn’t feel so overwhelmed, you’d make fun of him. Looking at you like a puppy begging for scraps.

You’re surprised you can even cum again, you’re less surprised when Evan quickly pulls his fingers from your twitching hole to replace it with his tongue, desperate to drink what your body gives him.

His tongue is kind as it fucks you through your orgasm, hands rubbing your thighs gently to ease the shaking when he finally pulls away from you.

His mouth is on yours just as fast, both of you whimpering when his, somehow, still hard cock grindes against your overstimulated pussy. The sticky wetness of his cum seeping through his boxers and slick of your own cum making your toes curl.

You chase his mouth when he pulls away from you, both of you taking deep breaths.

He looks desperate for you still, puppy eyes shining brightly.

A sadistic feeling climbs up his spine at the tears filling your eyes when he starts grinding just a little harder.

“You did such a good job for me baby,” He sighs, closing his eyes, exhaustion from work slowly starting to creep in, “but can you give me just one more?

[spookyysinsanity]

LIKE OMG 🤭 I'll never get tired of this clip — castiel girlies havin a field day (me)

[spookyysinsanity]

after a night out ࿓ best friend’s dad!jensen

intro to bsf!dad!jensen .ᐟ

summary: jensen catches you tipsy in his kitchen after a night out with your friends.

warnings: none tbh, yearning, teasing, soft touches, reader is tipsy, mention of kissing others (bsf!dad!jensen x reader)

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

it had been a long night of drinking, dancing, kissing pretty boys against the sticky walls of the nightclub, and feeling absolutely nothing as their wandering hands groped and squeezed at your body.

a typical night out… to say the least.

your regular spot—the beanbag on the floor of your best friend’s room, accompanied by the various pillows and blankets—felt off. you were tossing and turning, overheating and dehydrated from all the alcohol, and overstimulated from your pyjamas twisting around your body and your unruly hair getting in your face.

you stood up with a quiet yet drunken huff of annoyance, rising to your feet in the darkness of the room, your best friend’s quiet snores filling the otherwise silent space. you closed your eyes for a moment, your head spinning a little as you found your bearings.

you managed to stumble out into the dim light of the hallway, your footfalls heavy on the wooden floor, highlighted by the silver moonlight peeking in from the windows. your feet led you down the familiar path to the kitchen. it was dark and silent, apart from the clock ticking on the wall.

you felt at ease just existing in the heavy silence of the night. your eyes squeezed shut in protest as you flicked on the overhead light, and a quiet groan escaped your throat, cutting through the quietude. you drunkenly rubbed your tired eyes, smearing the leftover mascara you’d failed to completely remove barely an hour ago.

after a moment, you stepped further onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor and swung open the cabinet filled with the drinking glasses, grabbing one.

“oh.”

you jumped at the sudden voice behind you, your body flinching. you turned around. jensen stood in the doorway with a lazy smile spread across his face, his hair tousled, dressed in grey sweatpants and a black shirt that clung to the muscled expanse of his shoulders and arms. goddamn, that sight was going to be burned into your brain until the end of time.

“it’s you,” he commented quietly, taking in your appearance at the late hour, letting his gaze fall down your body before meeting your eyes. “you look a mess, sweetheart.”

you couldn’t help your lips from tugging into a reluctant, yet amused smile, or the way your cheeks heated up at his playful jab—exacerbated by the alcohol still flowing through your system. the combination made your cheeks aglow, and you lowered your head in embarrassment, trying to save face under his fixated gaze.

“feel even better,” you muttered jokingly in return, your voice hoarse from pounding back straight liquor over the course of your night out. you turned back towards the sink to fill up your glass, still avoiding his eyes, though you could feel them piercing into your back.

a small sound of amusement came from low in jensen’s throat. he stepped towards you, watching as you shut off the water. “told you girls not to drink so much… but you never listen to me,” he chuckled softly, the sound gentle but laced with that teasing undertone you’d grown so used to.

you sipped your water as you turned to face him once again and took a moment to stare at him, trying to find a quick response in the depths of your tipsy brain. however, you realised you’d been silent probably a fraction too long as the room filled with an awkward and undeniable tension, the only sound tick tick tick from the clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

jensen shifted on his feet and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, basking in the discomfort radiating off of you. his green eyes bored into you, studying you with an almost calculated stare, waiting to see how you’d respond to his playful attempt at displaying his “authority” over you.

“didn’t drink too much,” you finally replied, leaning against the counter opposite him, trying to appear nonchalant, like your heart wasn’t racing from just his presence alone. you took another sip of your water, watching his smile quirk into a small smirk.

“oh, yeah?” he asked, his brows raising as he watched you. he tilted his head, the gesture challenging, yet filled with jest. 

his gaze shrunk you down, stripping you of all the defences you’d tried so hard to build up over the years since you first developed your stupid crush. you felt like he could see right through you, and you didn’t know why you weren’t completely mortified by that.

you shifted your weight on your feet and cleared your throat. “yeah,” you offered back with a shrug, trying to keep up your bravado of indifference.

“then what’s with the…“ jensen trailed off, raising a hand and gesturing to his face.

“what?” you scoffed out in a smile, now crossing your arms—a little in defence, and maybe a little in defiance.

“your eyes, little lady. y’got makeup all smudged under them, looks like you got punched in the eye. there’s no one i need to go out and knock on their ass for hitting my girl is there?” he smirked, this time not so subtly, letting his words linger in the air as that fucking expression shot straight down to your core. his girl. damn right.

your hands rubbed under your eyes after you’d placed your glass down, your heart thumping against your ribcage as you tried to wipe away the black smears. “no,” you huffed with a smile, “no fighting needed, jensen.”

“good,” he murmured, stepping towards you, “i’d be sad if someone was slinging fists your way, honey. y’too sweet to be gettin’ into fights.”

you blinked up at him, dropping your hands as he approached; your body language was open to him, welcoming his proximity as he neared closer.

“wouldn’t want to see you hurt. i’d hate that,” he continued, his voice still a soft murmur. he raised his hand, letting it linger just a centimetre from your skin, hesitating for a moment, before finally making contact. his thumb gently rubbed at the stubborn mascara under one of your eyes, his palm resting on your cheek. the feeling of his skin against yours was searing, setting the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. your breath caught in your throat for a moment; his touch felt good, like it belonged there.

your eyelids fluttered shut, silently submitting to his touch, and you felt his gaze deepen. it was intense and all-consuming, kind of like standing under a spotlight, but it was gentle at the same time, like it was one you’d been under a thousand times.

“mmm,” jensen hummed, “my messy girl.” his quietly spoken words made your heartbeat stutter. his. it’s like he knew exactly how to take you apart without even trying. the butterflies grew more rampant in your stomach, his words forcing goosebumps to grow on your skin. “at least this shows you had fun tonight though, right?”

your eyes flickered open, blinking up to meet his. your eyes locked, and his smile grew, making a warmth bloom in your chest. jensen’s thumb stilled under your eye, but he left his hand cupped against your cheek, the heat between your skin sending tingles down your spine, straight to your core. you had to fight off the urge to turn and place a kiss on his palm, or better yet, take his thumb into your mouth.

“yeah, had a lot of fun tonight…” you muttered with a soft smile, letting your eyes dance between his green irises, so deep and soulful you could just drown in them if he’d let you.

“yeah?” he asked, letting his hand slip down to grasp the side of your jaw. he rubbed his thumb along your cheek, his eyes sparkling with mirth, drinking you in, as you tried to not physically react to his touch. 

“yeah.”

“did you kiss any boys?”

you paused, your whole body tensing, completely thrown off by his question. you tried to not let the surprise show on your face, but jensen could see right through you.

“s’alright if you did, baby. you’re a pretty girl. lots of boys’d be lining up for a kiss, i’d imagine,” he purred out his words, and you felt like you could just melt right then and there.

your throat bobbed as you swallowed down the words you wanted to say. no boy would ever beat you, jensen. i want you first in line. every time.

instead, your smile grew sheepish, and your eyes darted away for a moment, fighting off the blush from staining your cheeks. an awkward chuckle bubbled up your throat, an attempt to diffuse the tension he’d built between you.

“umm,” you began, “yeah, i— i kissed a boy… or two.” your eyes met his once again, falling back into the trap of his unwavering stare. you searched his face, your heart beating as you waited for a response. you felt guilty. why did you feel guilty?

you caught the way the corner of his lip twitched, threatening to curl ever so subtly at your words, and the guilt intensified tenfold in your chest. why did you admit that to him? why didn’t you just lie?

“yeah?” he asked, letting his face fall back into a neutrally intrigued expression, guarded almost. “did you like it?”

your brows pinched together. 

“like what?” you asked, part of you hoping he’d just drop it. you didn’t think you could keep your face from flushing any longer; you didn’t want him to see you so flustered over a silly question.

“getting kissed?” he clarified, the words falling from his mouth like it was a totally normal thing to be asking you.

“i— it was—” you mumbled, trying to find the words. “yeah, it was… alright. i was drunk,” you finally concluded, hoping to cease any misinterpretations of your prior actions that night. they were just kisses; you were drunk.

“just alright?” jensen asked, tilting his head once again, still caressing your cheek. “you don’t need to lie to me, sweetheart. you can kiss all the boys you want and enjoy it if you like.”

“i know,” you said a little too quickly out of panic. you mentally smacked yourself when you saw his eyes narrow the slightest bit. fuck. that’s not what you meant to say. i don’t want to kiss anyone but you, jensen. only you.

“mm, doesn’t mean you should.”

the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock trickled out into the background, a new silence swallowing you whole. you stood staring up at him, your tipsy brain trying to scramble through the mess his words left in your head. doesn’t mean you should.

“i— it was just—” you sputtered out, suddenly feeling like a deer in headlights.

jensen shook his head and gently patted your cheek. “just be careful, sweetheart. want you looking after yourself f’me. don’t want a boy breaking that sweet little heart of yours. it’s too innocent, too good for this world. you deserve the best, you know that?”

your brain felt like it was seconds away from exploding and seeping out of your ears. you struggled to make sense of his words, trying to search between them as the silent seconds flew by.

but then suddenly

out of nowhere

he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. your eyes instantly fell closed, the breath from your lungs stilling for a moment as the world around you slowed down. this… this was new.

“you get to bed, baby. i’ll cook you girls a big breakfast tomorrow. the ackles’ hangover special,” he mumbled against your hair, his hand still holding your face.

you hummed; you didn’t trust yourself with words.

“sleep tight, sweet girl.” jensen finally pulled back and shot you a smile, the type of smile that makes your knees go weak. every. single. time.

all you could do was nod, your eyes grasping onto the micro-expressions on his face. god, he was so hard to read, so guarded when he wanted to be, so confusing.

jensen nodded in return. he took a moment to let the sight of you sink in, really sink in, before he turned on his heel and headed towards the door with a smile on his face.

your heart sunk to your stomach as the distance between you increased, missing the warmth of his hand against your cheek, his lips against your hair, his body cocooning yours against the counter, the smell of his cologne that you breathed in like it was fresh air.

a sigh escaped your lungs as he finally disappeared into the hallway. your legs felt like jelly, and that bloody aching sensation had grown between your thighs.

it was going to be a long night.

fig yaps: this felt… awfully restrained compared to my last post,, BUT i wanted to establish their dynamics before they go crazy sucking and fucking !!! anywhoooo thank u for the love on the og post !!! i feel like my inbox has been flooded, and all the kind (also kinda batshit) comments have made my week and made me so eager to write !!! love y’all freaks PLS keep sending me ideas i wanna start writing actual smut for this delicious man i just gotta plan it out omg

also thank u for 1.6k too !!!!!! 🤯

feedback and reblogs are welcome and encouraged as always! thank yaaaa <3

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @daylighted @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @misatxox @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlesoulshine @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @deanswidow @psychicnatural @ghostlyaccurate @k-slla

↑ comment to be added / removed (zero judgement) !

[spookyysinsanity]

x link to nsfw photo 𐔌❤︎ ˖ ࣪

soooo that’s soldier boy! he’s so big and pretty, it takes two hands to grab ahold of him properly. and his pink head is always swollen from how horny he is when you’re around, always wanting to split you open and show you how a real man fucks.

but he laughs at you when you attempt to take him all the way in your mouth, cause you can’t—unless he’s grabbed your head and shoved you down until your nose is buried in his wiry hairs, making you gag around him until he cums down your throat. you’ve mastered the art of ‘taking what you can and pumping the rest’; it’s the only way to make sure your jaw doesn’t ache for the next few days.

and when you try to sit on it, you feel it prodding right at your cervix, threatening to rip you open and fuck up into your womb. and you have to beg him not to… cause he would if you pissed him off enough.

but soldier boy’s favourite thing is holding his hardened dick against you, his balls dangling over your clit as he takes in the size of his cock compared to you. “jeez, baby. where do you pack it all in when i’m fucking you? you must feel it in your fuckin’ lungs.” and you do, which is why he spends an hour licking you out before he dares stuff his cock into your tight cunt.

and his other favourite thing is seeing your tummy bump. it doesn’t matter whether you carry extra weight on your belly or not—you’re seeing it. the little bump, bump, bump every time he thrusts into you. soldier boy just loooves putting his hand on your lower belly, feeling himself inside your guts. he’s gross and presses down on your tummy when he knows you’re completely stuffed to the brim, earning grunts and gasps of discomfort from you. “ohhh, that’s my doll. taking me so well, yeah? such a tight little thing f’me.”

[spookyysinsanity]

[spookyysinsanity]

motivation

professor!beau arlen x fem!reader | MDNI

cw: teacher x student dynamic, unprotected p in v (no balloon no goon), cockwarming, cursing, pet names (darlin’), some kinda bdsm tie ins, this ones actually tame, p2 to this!

wc: 1.6k

def has grammar mistakes!

since the last time he’s fucked you, he hasn’t stopped. beau has invited you over multiple times to his house to fuck you. but it’s a bit different than just the casual hook up. he first cooks for you, then he’ll watch a movie, touching you and kissing you. then he’ll actually fuck you, take his time, make you come at least twice, and clean you up. then he’s the sweetest person ever. he really makes sure that you don’t feel just used.

there’d be times he just wants your presence there, like today. he’ll call you over just to hang out, kind of.

he treats you like a reward. when he’s busy, he’ll keep you close or just talk to you, but he won’t touch until he’s done, something you’ve observed.

but you actually need him today. bad.

beau is in his office, glasses on and grading papers. his shirt is unbuttoned halfway, tie is untied but loose around his neck, sleeves rolled up.

so in response, you walk up to his desk, laying flat on it, covering his papers. your skirt is splayed out, breasts spilling out of your tank top, legs crossed and arms over your head.

“darlin’,” he chuckles and attempts to removes the papers from under you but they won’t budge, “i have to grade”

“do that later mr. arlen,” you roll your eyes, lifting your head to get a better look at him, “do me instead,” your voice is monotone

beau whistles, “first, what did i say ‘bout you callin’ me by my teacher name?”

“sorry beau,” you tease. you liked calling him his work name, it’s fun seeing him all stressed

“much better,” he leans back in his chair, “second, we’re impatient, aren’t we?”

“this,” you arch your back to grab the packet of papers from under you, “can wait. i can’t”

he snatches the packet from your hands, “yeah i’m startin’ to see that darlin’,” he rakes his eyes over you, taking your body laid out in front of him in.

beau doesn’t know how he even got here. one day he fucked you after your retake, the next few weeks he’s having you over at his house. you make his cock twitch, you test his patience, and you give him one helluva fun time. not just sex, but even just talking to you, he’s entranced. he doesn’t know what to do with himself. he wants something more, but you’re his student and he doesn’t want to take advantage of you or make you feel uncomfortable.

so sex it is. you like it, he loves it.

but he just groans, “i will when i’m done gradin’”

you sit up, skirt covering nothing, “i can help,” you say with an innocent smile that you know makes his cock throb 

“like hell you will,” he mumbles and crosses his arms over his chest, “how would you help me darlin’?”

you slide off of his desk, onto his lap, “this is distractin’,” he whispers, his voice heavy

“just wait,” you reassure, pushing his glasses up his nose for him.

you rock your hips on his lap, his fingers crinkle the paper and you feel him hardening under you. he places his parted, soft lips on your chest, peering up at you through his glasses while giving you wet kisses.

“y’can’t jus’ tease me like this,” he nips at your skin

“i’m giving you motivation,” your lips graze the prickly hairs of his beard, “so you can just focus on me instead”

an idea pops into beau’s head, “turn ‘round f’me,” he orders

you pout, “no i wanna see your face”

“jus’ do it”

you stand up, turning your back to him. before you can settle down on his lap, his hands slide up your skirt, removing your panties and watching them fall to the ground. you gasp with excitement and relief, thinking he’ll finally fill you up, the way you love it.

he undoes his pants, keeping a hand on your hip so you don’t turn around. he spits on his palm and strokes himself, biting down on his lip. then he leads your hips down, tip prodding your entrance which makes goosebumps rise on your body.

“always s’wet f’me aren’t you?”

you nod, moaning once he settles you down on him. he rolls the chair closer to his desk, his thick tip hitting your spot at each gentle movement.

he rests his chin on your shoulder and places both hands on his desk, returning to the papers he has to grade. you take it as a sign to start moving your hips on him.

the second he feels you shift, his left hand flies to your thigh, holding you down, “you’re just keepin’ me warm, keepin’ yourself full,” he whispers in your ear, “none of that nonsense ‘til i finish my gradin’”

you whine, clenching your thighs, earning a groan from him, “please”

he flutters his eyes closed, tipping his head slightly back, “no, get used to this”

the statement makes your walls clench

“fuck,” he moans, hips slightly jerking

“bea-“

“get used to it baby,” he mumbles into your neck

after a few minutes, you actually did get used to it, well, used to him being inside of you and gaining control over your body. you distracted yourself, reading over the papers he’s grading. right now the current topic in his class is women’s sexuality, and the empowerment that comes from it. he’s asked you questions every now and then, using his palm to cover the answer on the paper to see if you’re actually reading or trying to distract yourself.

it’s a mix of both.

it’s genuinely hard to focus on anything else, besides his thick cock inside of you, just stilled. you want to grind on him, bounce on his cock, make him come, but there’s something intimate about this that you like. it’s not entirely sexual. he’s still teaching you, making sure you know the topic. he’s keeping you close, trying to keep you somewhat satisfied, a compromise really. it’s all intensifying, like you’re hyper aware of everything pertaining to beau. his chest rising and falling against your back, the warm breath coming out of his nose that hits your chest, how he uses your neck to push up his glasses when they fall: overall, there’s more than just his cock.

“back then, in the 1900s, women were forced to suppress their sexuality, correct?” he whispers

you nod, “correct, cause of many factors like religious teachings and patriarchy,” you turn your head to look at him, his head still resting on your shoulder. 

”patriarchy,” he repeats

“‘submission is not a virtue,’” you quote his words, which he raises his brows in surprise, “‘cause having the choice to is more powerful, right?”

he nods, “correct, same goes for obedience”

“which is different from submission?” your voice wavers, still not fully confident

beau kisses your shoulder, “absolutely correct, obedience usually comes from fear, feelin’ obligated to do somethin’ ‘cause of fear, submission, you’re jus’ givin’ up, handin’ someone else the wheel ‘cause of trust”

“‘obedience is expected, submission is chosen’,” you quote him again

“good girl,” he whispers, smiling when he feels you clench around him, “what’d you learn today?”

you hum, “what you just said”

he chuckles, “from this,” he rolls his chair back, his dick finally moving inside of you

you grip onto his hands, mind going blank from that one singular movement you’ve been craving.

“well,” he kisses your neck, moving his hands while yours rest on them to your hips, “i hope that i taught you somethin’ ‘bout yourself. you didn’t have to listen t’me, but you did,” he moves your hips forward, then back, “you suppressed your desire, because you chose to, correct?”

all you can do is nod, mouthing falling open at the deep and slow rhythm

“did you enjoy suppressin’ it?”

you shake your head, moaning

he moves your hips quicker, groaning when he feels your nails dig into the backs of his hands, “why not?”

“not used to it,” you pant out, “in the end, i liked it”

“yeah?” he grunts, “you submitted to me, doin’ it though you didn’t like it,” he mentions, “obedience would be me threatenin’ you by sayin’ you can’t come unless you talk t’me,” he explains, his fingers gripping onto you tight, “why would that be?”

your mind and heart are racing, thinking about your approaching orgasm, anythingbesides his teachings. but that’s a side you don’t want to see of him, him being mad and punishing you, not that you’d know if he’s capable of that.

he is, but he’s a professor.

he has patience.

“‘cause then i’d feel like i have to talk,” you manage to say, but your voice is unsteady

“good fuckin’ girl,” he praises, moving your hips harder when he feels your entire body tighten up on top of him, “wanna know what i learned?” he asks, and you nod, your face scrunching up, “that you trust me”

you nod, dragging your nails down his hands, “please?”

he kisses your jaw, “you don’t gotta ask, let go”

at his words, you come undone, hips jittering and nails clawing so hard that you make him bleed. he follows shortly after, shooting deep inside of you, which has become normal since he found out you were on the pill.

both of you lean back, you resting your weight on him while he rests on his chair, “when i asked you what you learned,” his voice is hoarse, “i was askin’ ‘bout yourself, not my lesson, but this,” he pulses his fingers, massaging the sore flesh of your hips, “was a part of my lesson, glad to see you learned somethin’”

AN: part two yayyyyyyy i love professor beau

banner by: @cafekitsune

tags: @redhairedgardenfairy

[spookyysinsanity]

[spookyysinsanity]

thinking about dry humping with dean

i just know he would tease you before actually fucking you

I NEED HIM SO BAD

dean isn’t even inside you yet and you’re already soaked.

your thighs tremble as you grind down against the thick, hard bulge in his jeans, your panties clinging to every pulse of slick between your legs. the rough seam catches on your clit just right, over and over, and dean’s hands don’t let you stop.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he grits out, dragging you over him again. “you feel that? makin’ a mess all over my lap, and i haven’t even touched you properly.”

“dean,” you gasp, hips jerking, “please—need it, i need it so bad—”

he laughs, breath hot against your cheek. “needy little thing. can’t even wait, can you? just rubbin’ yourself all over me, tryin’ so hard to come in your damn panties.”

you let out a broken whimper, and his grip on your hips tightens, rocking you slow and deep against the shape of his cock.

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “make a mess. make it nice and wet for me.”

you’re so close you could cry. the tension, the friction, the heat—it’s too much. not enough. everything.

he finally gets his zipper down, slides your soaked panties aside, lets the tip of his cock press right up against your dripping entrance and he groans, head falling back.

“jesus christ. you’re fuckin’ throbbin’. shit, baby…”

he doesn’t push in. doesn’t move. just holds you there, flushed and trembling, stretched barely around the head—

“you’re gonna take it just like this,” he breathes, “slow and deep.”

[spookyysinsanity]

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° dean winchester trying to keep you quiet

mature content

IMAGINE... dean’s hand was clamped tightly over your mouth as his hips rocked behind you, slow and deep but relentless. your muffled whines slipped past his fingers, filling the quiet of the bunker bedroom. dean’s grunts were low and warm against your ear, sending shivers down to your core.

“jesus, woman,” he huffs, his breath is hot, “you feel so damn good.”

you tried to push your hips back against him, desperate for more, but dean’s free hand gripped your hip, holding you still firmly. his mouth brushing against your ear, his voice dropping even lower. “easy there, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand flexing on your mouth when you whine. “sammy’s right next door, remember that? gotta be good. gotta be quiet.”

you could practically hear your heart beating against your ribs, the risk of being caught making everything more intense. dean continues to thrust into you slower, deeper, the intense drag of him sliding in and out pulling a broken, muffled moan from your throat. his hand however, stays firmly planted over your mouth, a low chuckle falling from his lips when he hears the needy sound from you. “atta girl,” he rasp, hips snapping harder. “take it – just like that.”

dean's fingers seem to tighten even more over your mouth as he sets a new pace against you, the motion making your knees tremble. his breath is ragged and hot against your neck. “god, baby,” he groans, his voice wrecked, “you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ good.” his words send a need pulsing through your body. 

he’s making you feel so good, his hand on your hip sliding down to rub at your clit with a gentle, steady pressure. your body arches into his touch, eager for more, but the moment you try to fight the sound building in your throat, a loud, needy whine slips past his fingers. 

“you’re killin’ me, baby.” he mutters, his voice thick with desire, pace quickening.

your body trembles, the coil in your stomach tightening to the point of breaking. you can’t think straight anymore, all you can think about is dean, the way his fingers move on your clit, pulling desperate whimpers from your mouth under his hand. every thrust, meets that sweet spot inside you pushing you closer over to the edge.

he huffs against your neck sensing your impending release, his hips pick up, snapping against yours with reckless abandon. “let go, i got you, baby.”

with his hand still moving between your legs, your body responding on instinct. the coil snaps and you come undone, your back arching as waves of pleasure crash over you. dean grunts, his thrust turning even more frantic as he chases his own release. he buries his face into your neck as he spills inside you. his hips stuttering as he groans deeply, the sound reverberating through the quiet bedroom. his hand finally falling from your mouth.

before you can even fully catch your breath, the sound of a loud bang echoes through the door, followed by sam’s agitated, muffled voice shouting, “for the love of god, can you two keep it down?” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

WE BACK! first writing in like almost two weeks i think? idk don't quote me enjoy, i will be posting some more :)

my main masterlist if interested.

my dean winchester masterlist if interested.

[spookyysinsanity]

half of me wants to cradle a crying dean winchester and tell him everything is going to be alright and the other half wants me to bounce on his dick crazy style

[spookyysinsanity]

mutually assured destruction | dean winchester

[ summary ] you always knew the tension between you and dean would reach the breaking point...you just didn't think it would be because of a busted a/c unit

[ content warnings ] 18+ mdni, nsfw, explicit sexual content, one bed trope (kinda), age gap (reader early 20's + dean mid 30's), mutual pining, mutual masturbation, dean has a dirty mouth (i'm not sorry), a pinch of possessiveness + if i missed any pls lmk!

[ word count ] 2.2k

[ author's note ] hi hi! this is the first fic that i've actually sat down and written (also the first time i've written creatively for about 5 years) so kindness and constructive criticism are much appreciated!! enjoy!

📍twin lakes, wisconsin — ⏰ 12:07 am 

You'd thought tonight was gonna be easy.

Hot water. A working TV. Two beds. Clean ones. With no mysterious stains. It feels like a luxury resort after the week you've just had.

Until the A/C unit kicks on. And refuses to stop.

You try to tough it out, pulling on a hoodie and tucking the thin motel blankets around you. But the damn thing is relentless—humming and wheezing like it's on its last leg, but refusing to die—blasting cold air directly at your bed.

Across the room, Dean sprawls out with a low sigh, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lazily over his stomach. His eyes closed, looking so relaxed, like sleep is already pulling him under.

"You gonna make it over there, Frosty?" he teases, not even opening his eyes.

You glare, pulling your knees up to your chest. "I hate you."

"Mhm," he smirks, low and amused.

Ten minutes later, he's apparently let you suffer long enough. "M'kay, c'mon," he mumbles, patting the space next to him like he's not giving you a choice. "'M tired'a hearin' your teeth chatter."

You don't hesitate, no teasing, no smartass remark, not even a sigh.

Sliding under the covers beside him, you instantly feel your shoulders relax as his heat seeps into you. His body heat is unreal—like lying next to a furnace. You squeeze in close, arms tucked between your chest and his, your cheek resting against the soft cotton of his shirt.

He exhales, his body settling against yours like it always does, his arm coming around your waist automatically, fingers tracing softly up and down your spine. Casual. Familiar.

"You warm enough now, or you wanna get closer?" he teases softly.

"Shut it," you mumble drowsily.

⏰ 4:05 am

The sound of a car door slamming somewhere outside rouses you. Faint, muffled, but loud enough to pull you from your blissful slumber.

What isn't faint is the heavy weight of Dean's arm—still around your waist—anchoring you to him, or the fact that your arms have shifted to rest around his neck, or the way his thigh presses firmly between yours, his hips flush against you.

This isn't new. Sharing a bed with him, ending up like this. It's familiar—comfortable, even. A habit created over time, born out of necessity.

But what is new? The hard, unmistakable pressure of him against your belly, insistent and impossible to ignore, making your pulse quicken.

Your breath catches, the last remnants of sleep dissolving as your senses heighten from the realization you've just made. Your eyes dart up to his face and find his eyes still closed. His features look younger, almost boyish, if it weren't for the stubble, with sleep. His breathing changes, just barely.

Clearly having sensed your movements, his voice is low, rough with exhaustion when he speaks. Barely more than a murmur against your hairline. "Relax." 

His hand squeezes your waist, urging you to follow his quiet command. To release the tension in your muscles.

"It's not about you. It'll go away. Go back to sleep."

You want to scoff. Like that's gonna happen.

Because now? Now, you're wide awake. Hyper-aware of every inch of your body that touches his. The way his hand holds your waist like he has every right to. Like he's done it his whole life. Like he'll continue to do it for the rest of it. The way his thigh stays perfectly slotted between yours. Like it's begging you to move against it, the subtle pressure sparking a heat that shouldn't be settling between your legs. And his hard-on, still firm against your stomach. Like it's daring you to do something you've only ever let yourself fantasize about.

Because that ache that's building? It's telling you that you want it to be about you.

Your heart rate increases again. Not from nerves—not really. From want. From need.

You shift slightly.

He grunts. Fingers flexing into your hip, urging you to stay still.

"Don't," he mutters, voice still low and gravelly. Authoritative.

But the way he holds your hip betrays him—tight, possessive, like he needs you to do it again.

You swallow hard, daring to look back up at his face. Your eyes meet his in the dim light of the room.

"Not unless you're ready to cross a line," he adds, voice hushed, as though he's confessing something he can never take back.

That makes you pause—but not because you're unsure. It's because you know exactly what you're about to do.

"You mean, like... this line?" you tease, voice laced with a playful challenge, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. You tilt your head, watching him with a daring look.

You let your hips grind down, ever so slightly, on his thigh—testing the waters. Finding the friction your body has been craving since you heard that damn car door.

Dean's eyes never leave yours, and the air between you thickens—charged with heat, like the space around you finally feels too small. His body tenses, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you, but his lips quirk up in that familiar, cocky grin.

"Yeah… that one," he says, voice thick with approval. And what sounds a lot like restraint. 

You let your hips grind down again, a little more forcefully this time, your body craving more of that friction. Your heart hammers in your chest as the heat between your legs intensifies.

"Baby," he growls. "If you do that again," he mutters slowly, barely audible, his voice tight with barely contained desire. His hand flexes on your hip again, a warning in the action, like he's holding back. "You'd better be serious."

You don't respond verbally, but your hips move again—slower. More deliberate. His thigh shifts, pressing up between your legs, giving you more to grind against. Your eyes find his again, and you give him the tiniest of nods.

Dean's breath hitches, and he adjusts his grip on your waist, holding you steady as you grind against him. His eyes narrow, but the smirk on his face never fades. "Yeah? That what you want?" he asks, somewhere between a tease and a dare.

A quiet "mhm" slips from your lips, soft but eager.

"Then do it again," he encourages, his hand hooking under your knee, pulling your leg to hitch further over his hip. "Make yourself feel good."

"Dean," you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

"I've got you," he assures you. "Show me how you wanna be touched, sweetheart," he coaxes, his voice dropping lower. 

Your eyes meet his, unsure if you heard him correctly, but your body follows his command without question. You slide your hand down his chest, your palm skimming over the warmth seeping from beneath his shirt before it lowers to your own body. Slowly, purposefully, you trace the curve of your waist, your fingers lingering before slipping under the waistband of your panties.

You don't look at him as you do it. Your focus on the rush of heat pooling between your legs. The second your fingers graze your clit, you gasp—a sharp, needy little whimper escaping your lips. You meet his eyes for a split second, and it's like looking into a storm. Dark, ravenous, and electric. Drinking in every detail of every movement you make.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're doin' so fuckin' perfect, baby. Sound so pretty," he praises. "Lemme see how you like it."

Your fingers move in slow, practiced circles—just like you've done before, to the thought of him. Dean doesn't move or even blink—he just watches you like he's memorizing every flick of your wrist, every shaky breath that spills from your lips.

"You're so fuckin' pretty like this," he murmurs, voice thick with restraint. "Touchin' yourself for me like a good girl."

Your cheeks flush, but the way he says it—for me—knocks the breath right out of you. It hits you somewhere deep, making that heat between your thighs burn even hotter. You bite your lip, your hips rocking slightly to meet your touch, already aching for more.

"Do it with me," you whisper, breathy, needy, pleading. "Please. Wanna see you."

His jaw clenches. For a second, he doesn't move—like he's deciding if he can handle it. But then his hand slides from your waist down his stomach, slipping into his boxers. His breath catches when he wraps his hand around himself, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he starts to stroke—slow, purposeful, matching the rhythm of your fingers.

"Fuck, honey…" he breathes, his voice unraveling. "You have any fuckin' idea what you do to me?"

You whine in response, your eyes flicking down to the way his hand moves steadily between his legs like he's savoring every sensation.

His dick is thick in his hand, flushed, glistening at the tip, twitching every time he squeezes himself. The sight makes your fingers move faster, rubbing quick circles over your swollen, needy clit, occasionally dipping down to spread your wetness over yourself.

He keeps watching the way your fingers move, eyes dark and hungry. "Just like that, baby," he murmurs, low and hot against your ear. "Doin' so good."

You whimper at the praise; the way his voice only adds to the pleasure.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he praises again, seeing the effect it has on you. His eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing in the universe. "God, I wanna taste you so bad…" he admits, jaw tight. "But seein' you like this? All needy, touchin' yourself while I jerk off to the thought of bein' inside you?"

You moan softly as your body reacts to every word from his mouth, clinging to every filthy word like oxygen.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice rough next to your ear, his hand sliding over his cock in long, steady strokes, each one timed to match the rhythm of your fingers. "You'd like that, huh, baby? My mouth on you, makin' you come on my tongue? Or my dick stretchin' you open, fillin' you up 'til you're cryin' for it?"

Your breath hitches, heat pooling between your legs at the thought. The vivid imagery of him doing exactly that has you trembling, your fingers faltering for a moment, your body aching, needing him in a way you can't explain. Your lips part with a quiet gasp as your chest rises and falls.

His lips brush your temple, his voice low and gravelly, as if he can't quite control the words spilling from his mouth. "Thought about it so much," he admits. "Bet you'd be so fuckin' sweet on my tongue," he growls, his voice thick with desire, his breath catching at the thought of it. "Bet I could get you screamin' for me, couldn't I, baby? Fuckin' squirmin' under my mouth while I eat that pretty little pussy like it's the last thing I'll ever taste. Bet I'd have to hold you down. Put an arm across your hips to keep you still, huh?"

You can't help the way your hips jerk forward, desperate for the attention he's teasing you with. "Dean," you whimper.

"Bet you'd make the prettiest fuckin' sounds," he continues, watching the way your body trembles for him. "Soakin' my sheets while I fuck you slow... Bet you'd beg for me to fuck you harder, deeper—until you can't walk, and the only thing you feel is me. Inside and out."

Your back arches, an involuntary gasp spilling from your lips at the thought. You can feel your wetness spreading between your legs, your fingers working faster now, chasing more pleasure, wanting to feel every little thing he's describing. 

You feel yourself slipping, but you're too captivated by the way his hand works over himself, so slow and deliberate—each stroke pulls a soft groan from his lips, the muscles in his forearm flexing with every movement.

"You're gonna come for me, baby," he tells you. "Right fuckin' now. Wanna see what that pretty face looks like when you do."

Your heart pounds in your chest, your body shaking from the pressure, and you nod, unable to form words, your mouth hanging open in desperate anticipation. Each circle your fingers make brings you closer and closer to the edge, your body pleading with you to reach it.

Your thighs clench as the first wave of pleasure washes over you, hot and dizzying, and you let out a faint little moan. Your body tenses, arching into his, your breath coming in shallow gasps as your fingers work you through the intense orgasm. Your legs tremble from the sheer force of the release as your fingers push you closer to the line between pleasure and overstimulation.

"Fuck—baby—that's it, that's fuckin' it—" His voice breaks as he follows, head tipping back with a deep, raw groan that rips from his chest, echoing off the walls—his body shuddering, muscles tensing as his release takes over. His body locks up, muscles straining, veins standing out in his arms as his fist tightens around his cock. You watch, captivated, as his hips jerk, stuttering into his hand, thick ropes of cum spilling hot across his knuckles and stomach, each spasm pulling another helpless sound from his throat.

The way his cock throbs in his grip—uncontrolled, demanding—sends another pulse of heat straight through you. Your body, still humming from your own release, trembles all over again at the sight of him falling apart like that, just for you.

His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and he catches you watching him with wide, breathless awe. You're still panting, trying to collect yourself, your skin flushed and tingling.

"Yeah," he breathes, chest still heaving, his body still trembling from the force of his release. "Next time? Just watchin'? Ain't gonna fuckin' cut it."

if you enjoyed, a reblog would be much appreciated!

feedback is always welcome, as are asks/requests!

[spookyysinsanity]

the couch creaked under dean’s weight as he flopped back, beer bottle sweating between his fingers, some shitty movie playing low in the background. you were half on his jeans clad lap and half sprawled sideways across the cushions, legs bare and warm, skin all sticky from the hot summer air.

he took a long pull from the bottle, neck of it glinting in the dim light, then let it dangle loose in his hand, cold condensation dripping onto your thigh. you squirmed, giggling, brushing at it without thinking.

"aw, c'mon, sweetheart," dean drawled, smirking lazy around the rim of the bottle. "don’t go gettin’ shy on me now."

you barely had a second to process it before he was nudging the beer bottle between your legs, the cool glass kissing up the soft inside of your thigh, making you gasp and twitch.

"dean—" you started, half laughing, half scolding, but he just shushed you with a cocked eyebrow and that damn grin.

"relax," he said, voice thick and teasing, "just coolin’ you off."

you were still giggling, breathless and squirmy, when he dragged the cold lip of the bottle right over your panties, slow enough to make you choke on a gasp, then popped it right under the elastic.

he watched you the whole time, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, beer bottle tilting just enough to press the lip right against your cunt, cold and wet and so cold enough to make you squeal and kick at him.

he laughed, deep and warm and full of amusement, gripping your thigh to hold you still. "shit, you’re sensitive," he teased, tapping the bottle against you like he was testing the temperature.

then, with no real warning—just that cocky little flick of his wrist—he slid the top of the beer bottle against your folds, pushing just the rounded lip barely inside, not even enough to hurt you; just enough to make you whine and clutch at his shirt.

"fuckin’ sweet," he muttered under his breath, pulling the bottle back, now glistening. he took a swig, casual as anything, his tongue darting out to lick the rim when he pulled it away from his lips.

"shit," he said again, voice going hoarse, "even tastes better now."

you couldn’t stop laughing or squirming, heart hammering so fast while dean just kept playing with you, pressing the cold bottle back between your thighs, teasing slow circles around your clit through your soaked panties.

"dean, you're such a dick," you giggled breathlessly, but your hips kept rolling up into the touch anyway, greedy for more, even if the glass was making you shiver.

he just chuckled, teasing you. "yeah, but you love it."

another slow drag of the bottle up and down, your body twitching helplessly with every pass, giggling turning into moaning without you even meaning to.

and dean just tipped the bottle up for another drink, eyes never leaving your face, his free hand creeping up your thigh, lazily toying with the edge of your panties like he had all night to play you.

tags below ❤︎

@soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @bruisedfig @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel @zepskies @liiiilsss @that-stanford-girlie @lanasgirlfr @angelicjackles

[spookyysinsanity]

mean logan notices her casually chewing gum while having sex & he sternly grabs the back of her neck and demands she spit it out onto his hand. Grumbling smthing abt choking (even though he totally doesn’t care & is so mean

😣😉)

anon this was CRAZY. this post is 18+, minors dni.

You hadn't thought about the piece of mint gum still being mashed between your teeth, the motion of chewing second nature at this point as the flavor is half-gone. Your rhythmic chewing becomes staccato and choppy as Logan makes short work of your desperate cunt, but a particularly loud smack of the gum in your mouth makes his eyes narrow, snapping to your face.

You're on his lap which gives him the perfect opportunity to clamp a hand around the back of your neck and bend your head down. His hips barely slow, still pumping with superhuman strength, but his hands are occupied now and no longer lift your hips. It means your cunt is being battered by his cock that barely unsheathes, your weight falling with his every time he lowers his hips. It's a squirmy sensation, one of pressure and tightness as you try lifting your own hips to fend off his rough treatment. You whine at the sudden jerk of your head as you're shoved downwards, nearly smacking your face into Logan's other hand that's now hovering beneath your chin.

"Spit it out." He drawls gruffly, palm open in waiting.

"What?"

"Your gum. What is this, a fuckin' baseball game? Spit that shit out when I'm fucking you."

You consider protesting, my gum! but decide against it, unable to offer anything more than a weak whimper as you push the gum out of your mouth with your tongue and let it fall into his waiting palm. It looks obscene there, not sultry just gross, but he discards it on a stray tissue on your bedside table.

"Do you go stupid the second you see me naked? You were gonna choke on that," Logan lectures you, tone unimpressed as he clamps his hands over your hips again, letting up on your now-sore neck.

"I wasn't gonna choke!" You whine uselessly, and Logan's brow raises in skepticism.

"Really?"

"Really. It's- it's just gum." You mumble feebly, "I'm not a baby. I won't choke on it."

He lifts your hips so that you're pulled briefly off of his cock, and you're somewhat surprised he hasn't risen to your bait and began bickering with you. He often has the last word, and you feel delightfully victorious.

Then he slams you back down onto his cock, pulling instead of letting gravity help you, and a gasp rips through your throat so viciously that you're sure you've choked on the mere emptiness of your throat.

"Really? You're not gonna choke, it's just gum." Logan snarls, a now-merciless pace set as he reminds you that the last word will never be yours, "I know you. I've watched you gag on my dick a thousand times over. I've watched you gasp for breath after two minutes. If I say you're gonna choke, baby, you're gonna choke."

[spookyysinsanity]

Supernatural is so fucking wild. Charlie can’t flirt with a guy because she’s gay, fair. So the obvious solution is to have Dean flirt with the guy??? Genuinely what the fuck is this show

[spookyysinsanity]

Supernatural never failed at its parallels