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mggslover · 4 months ago

Note

Hey I loveddddd the legging pervert!spencer fic, I’d love another one, maybe a part 2, or maybe just another with the same reader and perv!spencer. I love your fics!

SWEAT FOR ME ´-

In which Spencer has a different kind of workout in mind.

pairing perv!spence x leggings!reader genre smut (18+) cw reader is part of the bau + certified gym rat, gym semi public sex, male masturbation, fingering and oral (f receiving), p in v, fwb relationship wc 3,8k a/n we have an official reader! yippie! this is not a pt. 2 but another story in this universe. tysm for this request! feel free to send in more for them :)

Being a loyal gym member came with its set of advantages.

The tenth anniversary of your membership at Quantico’s “Fit4FBI” was coming up. When you joined the BAU, you had signed yourself up for the FBI’s designated training center. Though it was essential for your job to be in good condition, this gym also had the natural pattern of people massively joining during the first weeks of January and collectively giving up around the holidays.

You were one of the few customers that visited regularly. To be specific, every day that you weren’t out on a case. The gym felt like a refuge to you, a place to blow off steam and clear your head from the gruesome cases that seemed to always be on your mind.

You were quick to befriend the owner, Mr. Isaac Dalton, a man in his mid-sixties (but don’t be fooled by his age; there is no trainer as encouraging and persistent as him). It all started with your suggestion to introduce a boxing lesson as a break from the usual Wednesday Pilates classes. It seemed like a small thing to you — boxing has been part of your life since childhood. But to him? It meant everything.

From that day on, you were his favorite customer. Hell, his favorite person even. You gained access to the staff dressing rooms, even to the staff showers — which were a huge upgrade from the shared customer spaces that made even a high school gym look good. Yes, it was that bad. You now knew where they were cutting on the budget to be able to afford the tablets and private jet.

But the best benefit that came with being a star customer was getting the title of rightful owner to a spare set of shiny keys.

Going to the gym after closing hours was the best thing that could happen to you. You were sure that the handover of the keys was a moment that not even your future wedding or the birth of your first child could ever beat. No more eyeing the Smith machine while walking the treadmill, waiting for the right opportunity to take a sprint and claim it before someone else did. No more cleaning of seats because the people before you were too lazy to wipe their sweat away. And thank God, no more annoying people complaining in your ear about how exhausting working out is. Well… besides Spencer.

“I- I can’t,” he panted, letting the dumbbells fall to the ground beside him. In moments like this, you couldn’t help but regret offering him personal training when the gym was supposed to be closed.

You placed your hands on your hips, not hiding the look of judgment as he lay on the training bench, chest heaving like he had just climbed Mount Everest. On heels.

“I truly wonder what you did to pass the physical exam.”

“I was in a remedial training program,” he put his hand on his pounding heart, taking a deep breath before continuing. “They needed new agents in the field, so they made me an exception.”

Well, that explains it.

You shook away your thoughts, extending your hand to help him up. With a groan he stood, legs wobbly as he held onto your shoulders. Your skin felt soft and cool, in contrast to his clammy hands.

Naturally, he started massaging your shoulders, causing a small groan to leave your lips. Spencer was about to slide his fingers under the band of your sports bra, but you stopped him.

“We should do a leg exercise next. Maybe your legs are stronger than your arms.”

Now it was his turn to groan. “Have you seen me? I’m not even standing straight right now.”

“I know, Bambi,” you chuckled jokingly. “People usually find leg extensions one of the easier exercises. You’ll be fine.”

“That makes sense. Your legs are part of your body’s largest muscle groups. Studies have shown that your creatine kinase and myoglobin levels increase significantly after an arm exercise compared to a leg exercise.” He explained as you walked to the equipment at the back of the gym.

You raised an eyebrow. “And that means?”

“It means that your arms are easier to get sore than your legs. They’re also easier to get damaged and heal after an extensive workout.”

You hummed, saving the information to the back of your mind. There must be a day when these random facts will come in handy.

Spencer continued his info dumping as you changed the amount of weights on the machine, putting the pin into 80 lb — a standard beginner’s weight.

You clapped your hands when you were finished. “Okay, you’re all set up.”

“What do I do?” He asked cluelessly.

“Take a seat.”

He did as you said, waiting for further instruction.

“And now you place your feet under the lever and lift it up. You can hold onto the handles for support.”

Spencer followed your instructions, holding onto the levers before he lifted his legs. He paused them at the top for a moment before slowly lowering them back down.

“That’s it. Good job.”

Spencer didn’t respond to your compliment. Concentration was etched onto his face. His eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth slightly agape as he repeated the motion. His tongue poked out to the side as he counted the reps in his head, occasionally wetting his lips.

You looked at him. First to make sure he was executing the exercise correctly, but you quickly got distracted. Sweat dripped down his neck, the droplets falling into the white tank top that he wore. At this point it wouldn’t have made a difference if he wore a shirt or not, the fabric being so translucent that you could see the color of his skin.

Your eyes traced him until they landed on his arms. He had a tight grip on the handles, making the veins that decorated his arms and hands look prominent.

Your gaze fell even lower — and it really shouldn’t have — because now you noticed how his shorts have ridden all the way up to his thighs. It wouldn’t surprise you if they dated back to high school. The material clung tightly to him, and every time he tilted his legs, the shorts bulged around his crotch.

To put it simply, he looked hot. Extremely hot.

Get your head out of the gutter. He’s here to train, to gain more confidence in the field. Not to be your personal eye candy.

You were supposed to stay with him the entire time, as a personal trainer does. But you don’t think you can stand here for a second longer trying to fight the urge to jump him.

“I’m going to do some sets on the Smith machine,” you pointed toward the device that stood a couple of feet away, still in clear sight.

Again, no response from the still focused Spencer.

You made your way over to the machine, picking out the weights that you wanted to add to the bar. In routine, you positioned yourself under the bar, placing your feet at shoulder-width, before bending your knees.

In the meantime, Spencer had completed his set of reps. He grabbed his water bottle from the ground next to him, feeling like a real gym jock as he gulped the contents down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his fist.

He looked up to find you. And he was so grateful that he had swallowed, or there’d be a fountain of water bursting from his lips right now.

He didn’t know what a Smith machine entailed, but he definitely didn’t expect to find you in a squatting position yet again. His eyes went to your ass first, obviously. Seeing how perfectly you filled out your leggings, the fabric clinging to every curve, giving the illusion that it could rip at any given moment.

But then his eyes snapped to your upper back. How the muscles in your shoulders flexed as you lifted the bar of weights. There was something so enticing about how strong you were. He thought back on all the times he had pinned you down underneath him, not having realized that you could easily spin him around. Dominate him.

A shiver soared through his body, straight to his pulsing cock. He looked down, embarrassed to find himself twitching, the tip of his cock begging to escape from under his shorts. He placed a hand on his bulge — meant to stop himself — but with the way you kept bending down, he had no choice but to rub his hand over his length.

A breathy moan escaped his throat as he watched you. He imagined lying down on the ground beneath you — germs and safety hazards be damned — holding you by your hips as you’d press your bare cunt into his face. He’d make sure to make the most out of every squat, licking your folds and kissing your clit, before you stood back up.

Spencer didn’t know during which set his hand had found its way into his shorts, only that he struggled to keep quiet as he tugged on his length. His eyes rolled back as he circled his tip with his thumb, collecting precum and using it as lube to stroke the rest of his cock.

He fantasized about you walking up to him, holding onto his shoulders as you’d climb on top of his lap. How you would free his cock from the restraints of his boxers. The way your mouth would open in a gasp at the sight of his throbbing length springing free. You would grab him by the shaft, rubbing his tip against your puffy lips before sinking down onto him. His hands would clasp onto your ass, massaging the flesh like his cock would massage your inner walls as he pumped his length into you.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, flicking his wrist faster as his gaze remained burnt on you.

He had his eyes closed shut, nearing the brink of an orgasm, when he heard the loud clang of the bar attaching to the machine. At record speed, he adjusted his length, tugging his tank top over his shorts in an effort to hide how hard he was. He then wiped his hands on his shorts, just in time before you walked up to him.

“Hey,” you said, out of breath. “How did it go?”

“Good! Good. I completed all the sets, actually.”

A beautiful, bright smile tilted at the corner of your lips. It almost distracted him from the way your breasts pushed up in your sports bra, shining in a light coat of sweat. Almost.

“I thought of another exercise we could do,” Spencer suggested.

Curiosity filled your mind. “Okay, gym rat. Let’s hear it.”

Spencer walked you to the hip abductor, a machine that trains the muscles of your inner thighs and glutes by sitting down and spreading your legs against the resistance of the padded weights.

You waited for him to sit down, but he remained standing behind you. Your neck flushed with goosebumps as he leaned in, breath tickling the skin. “I want you to use it.”

“Okay,” you chirped, trying not to show how much his proximity was affecting you.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he tsked as you stepped forward. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. And that’s when you felt it. His erection poking at your lower back.

“You can’t possibly work out in an outfit like this,” he said, fingers playing with the waistband of your leggings.

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”

His hand slid lower into the fabric, fingers grazing your hip bones. “I think you should take these off. Don’t want it to be ruined with sweat, or you know, something else.”

You raised your eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Reid?”

“You never seemed to back down from one before,” he dared.

A glint of mischief flickered in your eyes. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of your leggings, and you swore you could hear him take in a sharp breath.

You bent over. In an agonizing slowness, you pulled your leggings down, revealing the plumpness of your bare skin.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” Spencer praised, eyes scanning the curves of your nude ass and legs.

You slipped away from his grasp, grinning as you took your place at the seat of the machine. As the manual explained, you spread your legs, grateful that you kept the weights at beginner’s level.

You threw your head back laughing as Spencer kneeled in front of you, finally making the connection on what he was about to do. “You are absolutely insane. Do you know that I could crush your head with these weights?”

He hummed, not really caring about the possible consequences as he was face to face with your spread-open pussy. “It’ll be worth it.”

He reached out with his finger, drawing a line up your slick folds. “Also — considering your expertise in exercises like this, and the fact that the weights are way less heavy than the ones you’d usually choose — I estimate that my chances of not dying are pretty high tonight.”

Before you could give a clever response back, he pressed his finger down on your clit. A shudder coursed through your body, accompanied by a flutter of butterflies.

“You’re so wet already,” Spencer mused. “What have you been thinking of?”

“Same thing as you,” you responded, thinking back on how hard his cock was when he pressed it against you.

He continued trailing his fingers up and down your slit, warming you up, before halting them at your entrance. “Ready?”

You nodded hastily, anticipation pulling at your core.

Spencer slipped a finger inside of you with ease, groaning at the sweet sound that escaped your lips. Being fingered never felt special before; that was until you met Spencer. Though it wasn’t fair to compare him to any of the other people you’ve been with. His fingers were heavenly: long, slender, soft. He pumped it in and out of your pussy before leaning in and capturing your clit with his tongue. Surprise washed over you, but you didn’t have time to adjust to the feeling. He clouded your mind by switching between flicking his tongue and sucking on the bundle, while his finger matched the steady rhythm.

“Need more,” you whimpered, rolling your hips into his face. He hummed against your clit, the vibrations sending tingles through every part of your body.

When he pulled back, his lips were glistening with your juices. “Can you handle another finger?” He asked as he swiped his tongue over his lips.

You quickly nodded, not even needing him to ask for permission. He stretched you out by inserting another finger, not stopping until he was knuckle-deep inside of you.

“I like this machine,” he stated, curling his digits up to your g-spot. “I don’t need to hold your thighs open to keep you from squirming.”

You softly cried as the tips of his fingers hit your pleasure point, increasing his pace in a way that made you see stars.

“You look so pretty. All spread out for me, letting me use you how I want.” He muttered, more to himself than to you, before he attached his lips back onto your pussy.

The pleasure felt overwhelming. Spencer stimulated you with his hands and mouth in all the spots that he could. He was good at this. Too good at this. You felt almost sad when you felt the familiar heat building up, not wanting it to be over yet.

Still, you gasped, “Just like that!” Your hands were gripping the handles of the machine for dear life as the tip of his tongue drew figure eights against your clit.

Everything cut to white noise, your abdomen tightened, and your hips started spasming until you finally cried out his name.

Your body trembled in aftershocks as Spencer made sure to lap up your juices, not wanting a single drop to go to waste.

He stood up, taking his time as he lovingly grazed your cheek with his clean hand. “Felt good?”

You hummed in response. Your eyes fluttered to the obvious tent in his shorts, not able to ignore it. “That looks painful,” you observed.

“I really want to be inside of you.” He confessed.

His words made you chuckle. Spencer always made sure to satisfy you first, before thinking of his own needs. Even when his achingly red tip had been leaking precum ever since he saw you in that gym outfit earlier today.

“Where do you want me?” You purred, making a groan escape his throat. He loved the way you let him take direction, how you made it seem like he was the one in charge — when you were both completely aware of the fact that you could have him on his knees at any given time and at any place that you’d like.

His eyes scanned the gym, landing on an empty bench.

“That one.” He decided, like he chose some Sour Patch Kids in a candy shop.

You got up — used to having shaky legs due to working out every day — and took Spencer’s hand in yours, guiding him to the sole bench next to the colored kettlebells.

Spencer was glad you were holding his hand, or otherwise he’d have stumbled against every surrounding object, too entranced by the way your hips moved from side to side with every step that you took. If he wasn’t so hypnotized by the sight, he would’ve given your ass a slap — more like a tap — not enough to cause you pain, but enough for you to squeal. Enough for you to move to your tiptoes in reflex. Enough to see your ass shake.

As if born ready, you laid down on the bench, spreading your legs that bent perfectly due to the position you’d just held for minutes.

Spencer didn’t waste any time, pulling his shorts and boxers down in a single, swift movement, his cock jumping free from its confinements. You grinned when he also got rid of his tank top. You bit your lip as you looked at him, wet curls of hair sticking to his forehead and his chest glistening in a light layer of sweat.

His large hands wrapped around your ankles, holding you in place. He then tilted his hips until his length lined up with your needy pussy. A drip of precum spilled from his tip, cock aching as he took in how perfect you looked: your clit still swollen from his tongue, and your soft thighs glittering from the wetness that was still leaking out of you.

In a single motion, he pushed himself in. His cock disappearing all the way in between your folds.

Your brows furrowed and your mouth hung open as he started moving his hips, not giving you the time to recover.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled. “You just feel too good. So warm. Couldn’t wait.”

Your hands gripped around the air, needing something to hold onto as he fucked you deeply.

You settled on your tits. Cupping them through your sports bra, pinching your nipples that were so hard they poked right through the layer of fabric.

“Oh fuck, baby, you look so hot like that.” Spencer moaned. “I’m so lucky,” he said in awe.

He opened your legs further — surprising you with your flexibility — as he hovered above you. His cock slipped in even deeper, your pussy swallowing him to the hilt. You could feel every vein as he massaged your inner walls, relieving you of your aching. He was close enough for you to dig your nails into his shoulder blades. He didn’t attempt to muffle his whimpers when you pressed little half-moon indents into his back. Your in-sync moans and the colliding of bare skin were the only sounds that echoed off the bare gym walls.

Spencer anchored you in place with his length while his hand reached out to pull the cup of your bra down, freeing your breast. In a second his mouth was latched onto your nipple, sucking on it like he was a man starving.

“Kiss me,” you whimpered, hands tugging at his hair. You needed to feel those soft, pink lips on yours.

As much as he loved your tits, he obeyed in an instant. Hungrily locking his mouth with yours. He placed his bent arms on either side of your head, large hands cupping your face as he kissed you intensely. His tongue swiped against yours in the same exquisite way as the tip of his cock swiped the place inside of you where you needed him most.

“Legs hurt,” he whined against your mouth.

“Count it- fuck,” you moaned as he thrust deep into you. “Count it as an exercise.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “This might be the hardest one yet.”

Literally, you thought. But the word couldn’t make it past your lips, transforming into a high-pitched moan as he upped his speed.

“Just like that, please, Spencer,” you cried out.

There was no bigger motivation than your sweet pleas filling his ears. With all his might, he slammed into you, your pussy pulsing around him, making his vision hazy. All that was on his mind was you. How you felt. How you tasted. How he needed to spill inside of you.

A string of yes’s repeatedly left your lips, signaling to him that you were close.

“I’m going to come inside of you,” he announced, swallowing your moans by pressing his lips back to yours.

You clawed at his back, bucking your hips up into him until a jolt of electricity shot through your body. Your back arched off the bench as you gave yourself over to the all-consuming feeling. It was not even a second later when Spencer’s legs gave out. His cock twitching as spurts of white filled your insides.

He collapsed on top of you, feeling your racing heartbeat against him. For a moment you lay down like that, on the way too narrow bench. Enjoying each other’s presence as a comfortable silence filled the air.

Once his breathing had calmed down, Spencer seemed to notice a small, red flickering light that was attached to the ceiling. A security camera.

“Hey,” he started, asking for your attention.

You made a small sound, too exhausted to speak.

“You have the keys to the office, right?”

“No, just to the entrance. Why?”

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mariasont · 6 months ago

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hi!!!!

I'm soooo in love your work. bimbo!assistantreader wil always have a special place in my heart!!!

Now i have this of idea that i think can work for either aaron or spencer, but basically bau!reader who kind of always wears the same type of outfit in the field that's always really modest. Buttttt when they kind of like "know" it's just going to be a paperwork day she likes to were skirts... short skirts and Aaron/Spencer are just feral for them...

Can either be fluff of smut... I trust you indefinitely xxx

Short Skirt, Long Day - A.H

a/n: hi hi hi hiiiiiii!!! ugh thank u sm i kinda took this an interesting route so let me know what you think!!!! im also heavily thinking about writing a smutty pt 2 for this but id love to hear everyone’s opinions

masterlist

pairings: perv!aaronhotchner x bau!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, aaron being a straight PERV!!! (im into idk man), aaron imagining scenarios he didn’t shouldn’t at work, idk this is quite different from my usual postings but i kinda fuck with it

wc: 1.4k

Aaron Hotchner loved paperwork day.

Days like these meant the ringing of phones and panicked conversations were replaced by the only the sound of air conditioning (when it worked) and the occasional sneeze or cough. It’s the kind of morning he appreciated — time to breathe, to recalibrate without the air of an active case breathing down his neck.

But that's not why his pulse is thrumming more than heavily beneath his skin.

Hotch glances at the clock on his desk. It's early, too early for most of the team to be here yet, save for a couple agents whose faces barely register in his peripheral vision. His focus is elsewhere, fixed on a singular thought. Or, rather, on a singular person.

You.

Hotch leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as a shameful type of heat rises to his face. It's a little pathetic, he thinks, how predictable he's become, it's not the work that makes these mornings bearable anymore. It's the anticipation.

The knowledge that, any minute now, the elevator doors will part, and you'll step out, wearing something that will completely dismantle his carefully constructed composure.

Hotch had noticed a pattern (of course he did, that was his instinct honed to a razor's edge). In the field, your outfits are a study in practicality: slacks, fitted jackets, muted tones, professional to a T. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw undue attention. He’d even go as far to say you dressed more modestly than most.

But in the office, when the cases are shelved, and the team is left to wade through stacks of paperwork... it's different.

And it drives him insane.

The image takes root before he can stop it: the curve of your thighs, tantalizingly framed by a skirt that seemed designed to test his limits. The way the fabric molds to you when you move, clinging in places that his eyes are all too quick to follow.

Hotch exhales sharply, clearing his throat as if that could somehow clear his mind. It's unprofessional, he knows this, knows better than to let his thoughts stray so far from where they belong but yet…

The ding of the elevator pulls his attention like a magnet, and there you are. His grip on the pen tightens instinctively, the knuckles blanching as his gaze locks on you.

You're wearing that skirt today — black, fitted, and infuriatingly short, hugging your hips in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.

He tells himself to look away, and for a second, he manages it — his eyes dropping back to his desk, his breath coming out slow and measured. But that reprieve is fleeting. His gaze flicks back before he can stop it, drawn helplessly to the curve of your waist as you laugh at something one of the other agents say.

You're too good. Too sweet. Too damn oblivious to realize what you're doing to him.

And he knows it's wrong, knows he's toeing a line he has no business approaching. But the way his body reacts to you, the pull you have on him, is beyond reason. It's instinctual, raw, and completely out of his control.

He calls out your name. "Could you come in here for a moment?"

You turn, blinking at him with wide, curious eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to grab something for me," he replies, his voice level, though every syllable felt like a tightly coiled spring. He motions towards the cabinet near the corner of the room. "The Marcus file. Bottom shelf."

He was a terrible terrible man.

Without hesitation, you step toward the cabinet, crouching slightly as you begin to sift through the lower shelf. The moment your body lowers, his eyes start trailing down where the hem of your skirt lifts, just barely revealing the soft curve of where your thighs meet your ass.

Then, as you bend further, shifting your weight slightly to reach deeper on the shelf, the fabric stretches taut, clinging to your ass in a way that sends a jolt straight through him.

Hotch's throat feels tight, his breathing shallow as he drinks in the sight before him. You're so close, just feet away, and the angle offers him an unobstructed view. The shape of you, the smooth expanse of skin that's always just out of reach in the field, is right there, so achingly close he feels like his chest might explode.

He knows if you dipped any further, your panties would be on display and he couldn’t help but wonder what color you had on.

You’ve always had a meticulous attention to detail, choices leaning towards deliberate but understated at the same time. In the field, you favored muted tones — greys, blacks, navies. But here in the relative safety of the office you allow a little more personality, more femininity.

His mind turns to your preferences, pink, maybe.

Hotch swallows hard, pulse roaring in his ears. The thought gnaws at him, insistent and unrelenting, he needs to know.

“Careful,” he says, feigning concern. “You might need to check further back on the shelf. Sometimes the files get pushed out of sight.”

You glance over your shoulder at him and he swears he could combust. “Further back?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair to appear casual, though his grip on the armrests were anything but. “Yes.”

You turn back to the cabinet, shifting your weight again as you crouch lower, leaning further to search the back of the shelf. The motion sends the bottom of your skirt riding higher, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, the lace of your panties is on full display.

It was a pink barely there strip of fabric.

His mind betrays him, conjuring images he knows he shouldn't entertain. He imagines his hands on you, running over the curve of his hips, gripping your thighs, sliding that damn skirt higher until there's nothing left to hide. The thought of you like this, pliant and completely unaware of the effect you're having on him, makes his pulse pound in his ears. He wonders what you would do if he were to push those panties to the side and slide a finger in you.

You shift again, leaning deeper into the cabinet as your voice drifts back to him, murmuring something about not seeing it. His jaw locks, teeth pressing together as he fights to maintain control. His fingers dig into the armrests of his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath the strain. It's a futile effort, though. The pressure building in his chest, his body, is relentless.

The heat pools low in his abdomen, simmering and insistent, a sharp pulse of arousal tightening every muscle in his body. He's painfully hard now, the evidence uncomfortably against his slacks, but he doesn't dare move. His mind a blur of want, what he wants to do to you, what he knows he shouldn't do, and the precarious line he's treading just watching you like this.

The tension in his body seems unbearable, and for a fleeting second, he considers how easy it would be to walk over, to let his hand graze your hip, to tilt your chin up so you'd look at him and see the wreckage you've left in your wake.

But he doesn't. He can't.

Instead, he forces himself to remain still, staying rooted, the self-restraint biting and bitter.

"Are you sure it's under here? I still don't see it."

Hotch's lips twitch, the smallest shadow of a smirk threatening to break free on his face. He leans forward, feigning surprise as he picks up the file from the corner of his desk.

"Ah," he says, waving the file. "Looks like it's been right here the whole time."

You straighten abruptly, brushing your hands down your skirt and turning towards him with a soft laugh. "Hotch! So I was practically upside down in that cabinet for nothing!"

He shakes his head, giving a small chuckle to match yours. Not for nothing. The satisfaction still simmers low in his chest, a private indulgence he knows you'll never suspect, the movement was far from wasted.

"My mistake."

"Well, I guess we all have our moments. Let me know if there's anything else you need, okay?"

When the door finally closes behind you, he exhales shakily, the breath spilling out like a confession. Leaning back in his chair, he presses his fingers to his temples, his entire body tense with the effort of restraint. He feels unmoored, like a man balancing on the edge of a precipice, one misstep away from losing everything he’s worked so hard to keep under control.

But for now, he’ll settle for watching, for imagining, for wishing, knowing full well that nothing could ever come of it. And yet, as he glances at the door where you’d just been, a part of him wonders how much longer he can hold out.

It’s going to be an impossibly long day, but the most troubling part of all is how much he’s starting to enjoy the torment.

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#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #perv!aaronhotchner #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x fem reader #hotch #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader

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latenightreadingpdf · 7 months ago

Text

Knock on the Door - Spencer Reid

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Masterlist ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Summary: In the midst of an intense investigation, Spencer and Derek bring you into protective custody after a disturbing discovery links you to their case. As you navigate the unexpected situation, Spencer’s calm presence offers reassurance, sparking an unexpected connection amid the chaos.

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The quiet street was a far cry from the usual high-stakes BAU scene, but the tension in the air made Spencer’s skin prickle with unease. He glanced at Derek, who was already preparing to knock on another door, exuding his usual calm confidence.

"This one could be a lead," Derek muttered, showing a slight glint of hope in his eyes as he raised his hand to knock. The case had been dragging on, and frustration was growing with each unanswered question.

When the door opened, Spencer noted the faint hint of confusion in your expression. Derek immediately flashed his badge, his tone respectful but firm. "Ma’am, I'm Agent Derek Morgan. This is my colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid. We’re with the FBI."

Your eyes darted between the two of them, registering the serious expressions they wore. "The FBI? What's going on?"

"Have you had any strangers come to your door recently trying to sell you something?"

A flicker of recognition passed over your face, and Spencer leaned in, catching the shift. "Actually, yes,” you said, brows furrowing. “A guy came by yesterday… He gave me his card.”

Spencer and Derek shared a look. "Do you still have that card?" Spencer asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

"Yeah, I think so. Let me grab it." You turned back into the house, leaving the door partially open, and returned a moment later with a card in hand. As Derek took it from you, he confirmed with a nod that it matched the cards left at the other crime scenes.

You looked between them, anxiety creeping into your voice. "What is going on? Who is this guy?"

Spencer’s voice softened, his gaze meeting yours directly. "We believe he's a dangerous criminal who may be responsible for several recent homicides. His method involves gaining entry to homes under false pretenses."

Your face paled as the weight of his words sank in. Derek placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "We need to take you back to the station to make sure you’re safe. There are some steps we’d like to take to ensure you’re protected while we gather more information."

"Safe? Is he going to try and kill me?"

Derek’s expression turned serious. "We have reason to believe he might try to come back, and it’s important we get ahead of him."

A sense of dread settled over you as you let their words sink in. You followed them to the car, feeling your stomach twist with a mix of fear and disbelief. As you settled into the backseat, Spencer turned to give you a reassuring nod.

“Just so you know,” he began, his tone gentle, “we’ll have officers posted near your home to ensure he doesn’t have the chance to get in. We’re taking every precaution.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… a lot.”

“Understandable,” Spencer said, glancing at you with a sympathetic look. “We’ll also have you meet with a sketch artist and undergo a cognitive interview. It’s standard procedure, and it might help us learn more about him.”

You looked out the window, processing the reality of the situation. The quiet chatter between Derek and Spencer drifted over you as they discussed possible motives, patterns, and theories. But for now, you were too lost in your own thoughts to make out their words.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

When you arrived at the station, Spencer took a moment to walk you through the cognitive interview process. "It’s designed to help you remember specific details," he explained, his voice calm and assuring. "It might feel intense, but I’ll be with you the whole time."

You nodded, glancing around the bustling police station, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and adrenaline. "Okay, so… I just answer questions, and you’ll be able to get a clearer picture of this guy?"

Spencer gave you a small smile. "Pretty much. Think of it as helping us paint a portrait. Every detail, no matter how small, could be useful."

The interview went smoothly; Spencer’s presence was patient and encouraging, never making you feel pressured to remember something you couldn’t. Afterward, he led you to a small break room, offering you a seat at a worn table with a coffee machine humming nearby.

A few minutes later, Spencer returned with two steaming cups, handing one to you. "Here," he said, "it's not gourmet, but it’ll keep us awake."

You took it gratefully, feeling a sense of normalcy settle in. "Thanks, Spencer." You sipped the coffee, savoring the warmth. "I didn’t expect to spend my afternoon in an FBI station, but… it’s definitely more interesting than my usual routine."

Spencer chuckled, seeming surprised by your laid-back attitude. "Most people aren’t as calm in situations like this."

You shrugged, feeling the weight of the situation but refusing to let it get the best of you. "I don’t know. I figure, if I’m in good hands, there’s no point in freaking out."

As you chatted, Spencer filled you in on some of the behavioral profiling techniques they used, giving you a peek into the mind of the BAU. His eyes lit up as he explained the ways they’d been analyzing the unsub’s behavior to find any possible patterns, and you found yourself genuinely interested, asking questions and absorbing his answers.

"Do you ever wonder why people do these things?" you asked thoughtfully, watching him as he considered your question.

"All the time," Spencer replied, his voice softening as he looked down at his coffee. "But there’s rarely a straightforward answer. The best we can do is study the behaviors and try to make sense of them. Hopefully, it helps us stop them."

A sense of respect grew in you as he spoke, and you found yourself admiring the dedication he had for his work. "That sounds exhausting. Important, but exhausting."

"It can be," he admitted, his gaze meeting yours. "But it’s worth it, especially when it means keeping someone safe. Like now."

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you at his sincerity. "Well, I guess I’m lucky you guys were around."

The door to the break room opened, and Derek poked his head in, giving Spencer a grin. "You two doing all right in here?"

Spencer nodded, standing up to update Derek on the details you’d given during the interview. As they talked, you finished your coffee, feeling a strange sense of calm despite the unusual circumstances.

When Derek turned his attention to you, his gaze softened. "We’re going to have a team set up around your house tonight, keeping a close eye on things. We’ll catch this guy if he shows up."

You nodded, feeling reassured. "Thanks, Agent Morgan. I know you guys are handling it, so I’ll let you do your thing."

Spencer glanced back at you with a small smile. "If you need anything, or have more questions, just let me know."

As they walked you to the main desk, Spencer looked back, his gaze soft. "We'll keep you safe," he assured you once more, his sincerity unmistakable. "Until then, try not to worry. We’re on it."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you nodded. "I trust you," you replied, giving them one last grateful look before they escorted you to a waiting area. And as you waited, you felt a sense of calm, knowing you weren’t facing this alone.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

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bluewxrld07 · 29 days ago

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Glamourous (Jack Hughes)

Summary: Jack surprises his girlfriend whom is walking the VS Fashion show for the first time ever

Jack Hughes X Victoriassecretmodel!reader

Warning(s): None just a cutesie one :)

To say that this week was a big week in Y/N's career would be an understatement. It was the one that would jumpstart her entire career..

She wanted to be the voice for every girl whoever felt as if they felt like they couldn't follow their dreams because someone said it was silly.

Fuck that. That's always been a joke in her eyes.

The day she was asked if she wanted to earn her pair of wings was the day she knew it was a door opening for opportunity. The blood, sweat and tears she had put into making her way up would finally come to be worth the next step she was leveling into.

Now she wasn't supermodel skinny, in which she had always felt nervous with her body type when modeling. Yet she had pushed herself out of that mindset, and fell more in love with herself as time went on.

There was only one other person she could thank for that. That was Jack.

Ever since Y/N and Jack had met at a Fashion Week Gala event in New York, sparks flew and Jack was mesmerized by the girl in front of him.

He had to know her. He had to talk to her. Anything he could do to breathe in the same room as her.

When they finally started seeing each other, things accelerated pretty smoothly. He fell first and she fell harder type of deal. Jack fell harder too.

The pair became so infatuated with one another, it felt as if you wouldn't be able to separate them with the strongest force possible.

When things got harder, Jack would see her softer side. The way she treated her body when she would get denied to certain shows after working so hard to impress or tryout for them.

It was after the first time Jack had seen her in tears, he vowed to himself that she would never look at herself in a negative way ever again. Not as long as he existed.

The more and more Jack showed Y/N, the more she began to accept and love herself.

The way her curves became more prominent in certain dresses, or how her breasts looked like heaven in a bikini. Jack loved every second of it, and it made Y/N love him and herself more.

It was the way that after she began to feel herself more, people around her noticed. They saw how she held herself.

Fashion designers and their workers could see the confidence and power that radiated off of her when she came to tryout and give it her all. It began to increase the amount of callbacks she had.

When she got the phone call from her agent about them dying to have her come walk for Victoria's Secret, she was ecstatic. It had been something she dreamt of since she was just a seven year-old girl watching Adrianna Lima, Heidi Klum, or Tyra Banks walk that glittery runway.

So now here she stood, finalizing her look as she would be the one opening the show.

Unfortunately Jack wouldn't be there, as he had a Hockey charity event to host with Nico but would have it going on his phone as he didn't want to miss a single thing.

The two always understood when their jobs came first some moments, and she would never hold it against him as he has always been there for every single event she walked. She also knew how stressful this event made Jack, and did not want him to stress about adding this to the night as well.

Before she had gotten dressed she had shown him the outfit hanging up, not letting him see it on her just yet, as she wanted to hear about his reaction when she walk out on the runway afterward.

She wore a black-laced bra that had rhinestones all along the top going into the valley of her breasts, a strap wrapping around just underneath the wireline with rhinestones all along it. The shoulder straps had delicate lacework on them, the pattern matching the pair of black Brazilian lace panties she wore below with a little bow in the front.

She had a see-through cape that faded from black to a pretty dark blue with little stars on it, her angel wings all black and sparkly. They had rhinestones all over, some star rhinestones to match the cape.

Her shoes were her favorite part. They were thigh-high, all black in a velvet material with jewels all over them, some were encrusted to look like stars, and while some hung and jingled around the boots.

"I'm so nervous!" she giggles, watching her stylist smile.

"Don't be. You're going to do so great, I cannot wait to see you rock that damn stage." she says, making Y/N smile wider. Her stylist was finishing up her makeup, touching up her curls as well as they counted down to the start of the fun night.

The lights grew dark, the audience cheering as things began.

Y/N rushed over towards her spot on the rising platform, making sure she didn't hit her head. She took deep breaths as she waited for the queue, getting into her stance.

Soon enough she began to rise up, smoke being seen around the spot she would rise onto. Hands on her hips as she kept her head looking over to the side and zoned in.

The audience grew louder as she felt the spotlight on her skin, a small smile growing onto her face.

Once she was fully risen onto the runway she turns her head and throws on a big and excited smile. Just when the beat drops she begins walking to the beat perfectly, confidence radiating off of her every step.

She sang along to the song while making seductive faces, doing small little dances and pointing to some familiar faces in the crowd.

When she turns her head towards the left side of the crowd halfway down the runway, she does a double-take after seeing an all too familiar face and hearing a familiar scream out towards her.

There Jack was, stood up in his seat clapping and rooting for her. His eyes not being to stop looking at any part of her he could see.

Y/N's smile goes ear to ear as she walks, her eyes never leaving his before blowing a kiss and a wink his way. Jack bites his lip and runs his hands through his hair. She sees him turn over to one of his buddies and point at her yelling 'that's my girl!', Y/N laughs as she turns her gaze back to the camera that's in front of her.

She stops at the front of the runway, kissing both of her hands before drawing a heart in the air and smiling at the camera before turning back around and strutting back.

Jack's eyes never left her figure as she walked back down the runway. He couldn't have felt more proud in that moment than he already did. The way the outfit accented her entire body, he knew was so smitten.

Or whipped as the boys called him.

He knew she was so excited to see he was there, it was something he would never miss. No matter what was at stake, he would be there for her biggest career debut.

He didn't want to tell her that he pulled a few strings and moved the event to the day before just so he and his buddies could come support her, as he wanted it to be a big surprise for her.

He loved seeing how confident and fierce she held herself as she opened the biggest fashion show in history, watching how much she loved doing what she was doing.

He thought that she would only be opening, and was not aware that she would be walking not only once, but three different times during that show. He was astonished as he saw her come out later in the show wearing a different set this time.

This one he might have to ask her to bring back home, because his pants felt tighter as he watched her move in the bright red lingerie set.

The heals she wore this time were strapped stilettos with red ribbon as the straps. The lingerie set matching the heels; her panties were a silk fabric that sat in a lower Brazilian cut with a silk red ribbon garter on her torso with two ribbon straps that were clipped to her skin-colored tights, her bra silky red with a see-through lace padding and a pair of red laced gloves that went up to her elbows.

Her hair was done in a blowout style, a bright red lip supporting her lips as she smiled and held hands with the artist singing while they walked together.

Jack jumps up and cheers for her like his favorite team just scored a goal. "Bro if you don't put a ring on that!" Nico jokes, his girlfriend agreeing as she whistles out for Y/N.

Jack just holds his hand to his chest and stands as she walks. Y/N's eyes meet his and she decides to throw her hands under her boobs and push them up a little in a playful manner before looking back towards the front of her, Jack biting his lip as he knows what's she's doing.

Her finally outfit had been a more intimate wear. It was the iconic Victoria's Secret pink color lace bodysuit, a giant pair of pink and gold wings adorning her shoulders with a pair of sparkly thigh-high pink boots.

Once the show was finished, Jack and his crew were escorted towards backstage to go see and meet up with Y/N.

When Jack had found her, he smiled as he saw his girl in her normal state.

Her hair was up in a messy pony, a pair of loose fitted jeans and his sweatshirt on her body. She was talking with a couple of the other models before her eyes saw them, soon hugging the girls before padding her bare feet over towards Jack.

Y/N lets out an excited squeak as she jumps into Jack's arms, the boy immediately hugging her tight and spinning her around before setting her onto her feet and grabbing her face.

"You came!" she squeals, and he chuckles.

"Of course I did, I would never miss your biggest show."

"Well I just knew you had your event, I didn't want to pressure you-"

"Y/N he had been planning to pull strings to make it to this since you had gotten the phone call." Nico laughs, making her look at Jack.

"I hadn't even been fully accepted by that point." she says.

Jack shrugs with a smug smirk. "Call it a gut feeling." he says, earning a smack to his chest.

She laughs and finally pushes her lips to his. "You did so amazing, my love. I am so proud of you." Jack says against her lips.

Her lips pull into a grin and she looks back at his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You look liked you owned that stage. That you belonged up there. You were shining, pretty girl." Jack says.

"Jack could barely keep it in his pants." Dawson jokes, earning both a groan and look from Jack.

Y/N laughs as she goes and hugs everyone. "No need to out me, damn."

"It's alright J, glad I still make you feel that way." she jokes, earning a playful snort.

"Baby, all you have to do is look at me and I'm ready to go."

Y/N rolls her eyes and wraps her arms around him. "You not going to the after party?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "I truly just want to go home and get out of here. My social battery is good for the evening." she says, and he hums before pressing a kiss to her nose.

"Oh and I think you'll be happy to know that I get to take each outfit home."

Jack's eyes widened. "Well we better not waste any time getting home, shall we?" With that, the group was off and out of there.

Jack clutching the velvet box that sat in his suit pocket with a small smile.

#hockey boys #y/n #jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fic #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes imagine

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1-800-local-slut · 4 months ago

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The Gift That Keeps Giving

Spencer gives you a gift, that almost seems a little bit more like a gift for himself. You're not complaining though.

Spencer Reid x Black! Bombshell! Reader!

Warnings: lingerie, Spencer is not a pervert (he swears!), mentions of sex, fluff, playful teasing but that's really it

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Spencer Reid is not a pervert. He's not some freak who watches you shower or breaks into your apartment or smells your clothes. He's your boyfriend of six months. You two have a normal, happy and healthy relationship.

You understand him, he understands you. And he tries to understand the insatiable urge you often have to climb him like a tree or ride him until he breaks. You can't really help yourself. And who is Spencer to say no to you? When you two come home from a long day of work and immediately tell him how long you've been waiting all day for him. You slide off your heels, then your stockings and your skirt and your roaming your hands all over him.

So why is he standing there in the Victoria Secret checkout line with six different sets of lingerie in his arms while he tried to avoid eye contact with everyone close by to him. His ears burned and his head throbbed from the smell of perfume in the store. Along with the seductive smell of the perfume he picked out for you.

It was just supposed to be a simple run for Valentine's Day. He picked up chocolates that he got you for your first date, a teddy bear with the same brown hair color as him, and an order for a massive bunch of roses.

No one even expected you two to get together. You are definitely (and no FBI agent should ever say this about a coworker) the most attractive woman in the American government. You knew it, pushing the boundaries against the dress codes at work. Slightly short skirts that hugged your hips, button up shirts that accentuated your curves, pant suits that elongated your legs. Different shapes of glasses to match your various outfits, square glasses for purple pantsuits, and a seductive personality to match that captured Spencer by the heart and never let go.

Spencer, who you loved so deeply that you showed him your vulnerable and sweet center. Your heart that loved reading, that loved sweets and cooking. Your passion for fashion, how much you adore architecture. Loving all parts of life, people from all walks of life. Even accepting Spencer and all his oddities because he accepted you.

How could Spencer not spoil you every now and again? The next stop was supposed to be the bookstore, to get you both a rare edition of a book on the history of Victorian fashion. A book that peaked your special interest. That Spencer has been in an intense bidding war for.

Yet on his way out, he saw that beautiful lingerie. He imagined how you would look, your butterfly locs styled elegantly on your head. Your dark skin would contrast so beautifully against the purely white lingerie. He imagined coming home one day, imagined sharing a home with you one day. Imagined seeing you in the fluffy robe he found that he grabbed without a second thought. Before he knew it, he was wandering through the store. Deals delivered delicious tingles to his debit card.

Who knew Victoria's Secret was so expensive? Spencer didn't. Not until he saw the total. He also didn't feel shame until he was on the checkout line holding massive amounts of what can barely be called clothing considering how little it was going to cover on your body. Eight items, minus six hundred dollars later, he was scampering to his car praying no one who knew him saw him buy all that lingerie.

It's one of those things Spencer really had no need to be embarrassed about. Spencer was buying lingerie for his girlfriend. Partially because he knew you'd fall over yourself in delight from the fabrics and patterns. Also, he just wanted to see you half naked. Or mostly naked with very little fabrics with elaborate designs covering yourself. It didn't matter. You were HIS girlfriend. HIS. He can buy you whatever he desires because guess what? You're HIS girlfriend.

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Spencer has been shot, a lot, but the feeling he felt right now had nothing on blood rushing out of a hole in his neck. His heart was about to pop out of his chest, his hairs stood up on his arms and his stomach churned. What if you hated it?

What if you took offense? How dare he assume that you would just wear lingerie because he asked you too? What if you assumed he was calling you easy?

The shower turned off, saving Spencer from drowning in his thoughts. The bag seemed to glare at spencer from the chair in your bedroom, under his jacket that he threw down once he came over. Burning a hole in his brain, chastising him for being a horndog.

He watched you step out of the bathroom, steam floating out and watching you intently.

"So, I was thinking, tomorrow night we can go see that ballet. I know you think Sleeping Beauty is a little lame, but I really love it, and I would be nice for us to get out. I can get us tickets tonight." You yapped immediately, admiring how beautiful you looked in your natural state. You found your way to your vanity, covered in a plain robe that substituted your regular silk robe that was in the wash. You picked up a vial that contained something creamy that you rubbed over your glowing skin. Still, his gaze was pulled back to the chair.

"Sounds great baby." His eyes still trained on the bag hidden under the brown coat.

"And then, this weekend if we're both off work, there's a place in Clifton Forge that has the most darling market this weekend. It's like a pop-up thing; they sell books and little trinkets. They also have knitted cats. I want a knitted cat by the way." You finished, rubbing cream under your eyes. In the mirror, he missed your sharp eyes catching his eyes locked on something that wasn't you.

His elbows rested on his knees, his voice hitched, and he stared with intent to burn a hole through your nice chair. He kept his eyes on it, like it was going to jump up and expose him. His brows furrowed; would he even be able to hide it from you? Okay, if he just lured you right into his arms, you wouldn't even pay attention to the chair.

And Spencer, so caught up in his thoughts didn't even notice what you were doing. He missed the look of concern, and before he knew it, you were making your way to the container of his sins. Well, the chair.

Your bottom hit the seat, then you felt it. Also heard the sound of the bag crinkle under your back. He was caught. His mouth was dry, his fingers sweaty. Immediately, he looked down at his socks in shame while you reached under your back. Squirming around, you reached for the foreign object stabbing you in the back.

Time slowed, while you pulled the bag out from behind you. The big bag with pink wrapping paper was pulled out and he was ousted. Where was a defense attorney when you needed one?

You held the bag, blinking slowly. First at the bag, then Spencer, back to the bag then to Spencer. Then, after a moment of cold and humiliating silence you spoke.

"Are you cheating on me?" Your voice slid out cold, like you were preparing to assault him with the bag.

"No!" He shot up from the bed defensively, immediately ready to confess. His legs automatically brought him to you, to assuage the fears clouding your mind. His entire body felt like he was being pricked with tiny needles, anxiety flooded his stomach like he needed to urgently go to the bathroom. He would say anything to make sure you knew that wasn't the case. Hell, he'd even say it was his. He would rather you believe that, than have you think he committed the unthinkable. What fool would ever cheat on you? Not Spencer.

"It's for you. I..." Taking a deep breath, he sighed and continued while you looked up at him with searching eyes.

"I was at the mall, and I walked past Victoria's Secret. I saw this one piece; I started thinking about you. One thing led to another and I... spent 600 dollars buying lingerie I wanted to see you wear." The last part, a shamed whisper. He lowered his head and shivered. A blank look stayed on your face, then was replaced by a wicked smile.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you drew closer to him, still holding the evil bag.

"What was that?" You asked, pushing your chest into him. His ears felt so hot. He took a step back and you followed until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and you were leaning over him.

"I wanted to see you in them." He swallowed thickly, while you lightly poked a finger into his cheek and messed around with him in your own little way of playing with him.

Your eyes softened and you gave him this smile that radiated pure flattery.

"You thought about me?" You asked, your voiced filled with joy at the idea of your boyfriend thinking of you. He nodded, his brown hair slipping a bit and you pushed the loose strand back into place.

"Well...I guess I can't stay mad." Playfully, you shrugged as if you were letting him go this time. You gave Spencer back his personal space, much to his relief. Until he noticed you heading back to the bathroom off your bedroom. Bag still in hand.

"Where are you going?" He asked while his heartbeat slowly returned to normal, and he could no longer hear the blood rushing through his ears.

"To try these on. I can't let you just waste 600 dollars." Then you slipped behind the door and along with you so did Spencer's fears of rejection. What was he even afraid of?

#black reader #x black reader #x reader #fem reader #multifandom account #requests open #spencer reid x black reader #spencer reid x reader #live laugh love spencer reid #spencer reid #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x black reader fluff

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american-horror-whore · 6 months ago

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money, money, money. — evan peters ᥫ᭡.

paring. sugar daddy boyfriend!evan peters x fem!reader

a/n. slight (obviously legal) age gap, merry late christmas.

warnings. nsfw, smut w/ little-to-no plot, minors not recommended to interact, oral (m!receiving), blowjobs, ball fondling, dom!evan, sub!reader. wc. 1,081

“Oh it’s beautiful,” You murmur softly, a smile evident in your tone as you pulled the Agent Provocateur lingerie set out of the obviously high-quality bag. The set was exactly how you, and Evan, liked it: black, lacy, and skintight.

This was a common occurrence nowadays, receiving gifts from Evan. You were younger, almost controversially, and it seemed like it mattered to everyone except you two. The lace patterns between your fingers created a familiar feeling of arousal. But that was just the start. It only heightened upon hearing Evan’s deep-voiced command.

“I wanna see you in it..Put it on, baby,” He said, a smile in his voice. He ran his hands through his hair with a small sigh, his leg bouncing rapidly in anticipation as he sat on the couch. You almost took pity on him, seeing his cock twitching beneath his jeans. After all, it was..interesting..to look at: A man, older than you, so desperate for you that he couldn’t sit still. how pathetic, you thought.

You giggle faintly, figuring you’d tease him. You shake your hips a little bit, the flow-y material of your short skirt swinging from side to side. Your fingers hook the waistband of your skirt, sliding it smoothly down your legs as you stood in front of him. His eyes sweep continually across the length of your body, taking in everything from the curve of your ass to the perkiness of your tits.

Your fingers slide to your top, dragging it teasingly upward to slowly expose your bra before discarding the shirt as a whole, off to the side, on the floor. You stood before him adorned in only your Victoria’s Secret bra and panties set that he had bought you a few days before Christmas. You had paid him back with sex, like how you normally did.

After a bit of pulling and positioning, you had finally got the lingerie on properly. It took a few tries, but you finally got there. His eyes greedily washed over you, even more so over your lower body. Evan’s favorite part was how the panties of the lingerie were crotchless, meaning it would be easier for him to tease you. How you knew that was because that was the part he was staring at the most. Whether it was the fact that the panties were crotchless, or he just wanted your pussy, you couldn’t tell.

You knew what he wanted. It was your end of the deal. He bought you designer, luxury items you could only dream of before you met him, only expecting one thing in return: pleasure. You knelt down on the wood flooring of your apartment, fingers immediately scrambling for the buttons on his jeans.

“That’s my girl,” Evan chuckles, his large hands on either side of your head.

You let out a breathy, excited laugh, pulling the small zipper down. You dragged his jeans down to his ankles, and next his boxers. The excitement between the both of you during these moments was always evident, especially with you.

You exhale quietly, your fingers wrapping eagerly around his hardened member. You drag your hands gently over his cock, up and down in a gentle wringing motion. To be quite honest, you didn’t know what you were doing. You didn’t know what was too fast, too slow, if you were squeezing too hard or what hurt him, which was the last thing you wanted to do. Evan’s hands pushed your head down gently, being careful to not hurt your neck.

“C’mon…You can do it, be a good girl,” He said in a soft murmur. His large fingers tangled in your hair pressed against your scalp, your head being gently pressed down. You flicked your tongue out, licking a slow, wet stripe from the base of his cock, up to the now excited, reddish-purple tip. Your tongue moved in small circles around the slit, greedily lapping up the steadily flowing pre cum.

You a hear sigh escape from Evan’s lips, which almost immediately turned into a full on moan as your lips selfishly engulf his length, soft gags coming from the back of your throat. ‘In through your nose, out through your mouth’ you repeat to yourself internally. It’s not that you didn’t enjoy it, you truly did, it was just difficult to take with how big he was.

“Yeah, baby..Atta’ girl..” Evan mumbled, almost incoherently as his hands guided the motions of your head. Up, down, up, down, your throat bulging in the slightest with the girth. Your fingers reach for his balls, squeezing gently. That was definitely a new sensation to him, clearly shown by the way his hips jerked, causing him to thrust further into your throat.

“Suck, baby, don’t just sit there,” Evan reminded gently, a small reminder that you weren’t to idle. When you didn’t listen to the first reminder, a gentle tug at your hair was administered to you to pull you back to what you were doing. You let out a soft, wet sound, vulgar as it was, to show you were listening as you got back to your task.

You could always tell when he was about to finish, especially by the way his hips would buck up roughly, causing his tip to hit the back of your throat roughly. You tightened your throat, your eyes shutting firmly. His fingers tightened in your hair, driving your head down firmly at the base of his cock.

“Hngh— Fuck- Oh, b-baby-“ Evan grunts out, ramming his hips up roughly in staggering motions. Your eyes shoot open, feeling a warm, slimy liquid squirt against the back of your throat, sliding down softly. You pull back,

his length taking its time to stickily slide its way from between your lips, strings of his deliverance being the only thing connecting your lips and his cock.

Evan hums softly, his fingers massaging your scalp. He lets out a soft chuckle, his large hands drifting to cup your face. His eyes looked over your face, your half lidded eyes, lips sopping with cum and spit which was dripping down your chin. How pitiful.

“Who’s my good girl?” Evan questioned huskily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He ran his thumb across your lips, making a half-assed attempt to wipe away the liquids.

“Me,” You whimper, letting out a tearless sob.

“Mm..You did so good for me, baby..” He chuckled, brushing some hair out of your face. “How about we get you cleaned up, huh?”

tags @fear-is-truth @newwavesylviaplath @lacucarachapisser @evansonlylove @dearlizzies @oceanblvd111 @foreverviolets @xrag-dollx @taintandviolent @colinzabelswife @marchsfreakshow @evanpeterspeter @redroses07 @lostreverb @partypoisxn @evanpetersbf @jdnymos @starsturni

#evan peters #Evan Peters #evan peters smut #evan peters x reader #evan peters x you #evan peters x me #evan peters x y/n #evan peters x female reader #evan peters x fem!reader #evan peters loml #evan peters fandom #evan peters is my love #evan thomas peters #x fem reader #evan is my crush #fuck me evan #faye’s fics

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januaryembrs · 1 year ago

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Bugsy and Spencer tea!!

the one with the card counting | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader

description: Bugsy and Spence quarrel while playing Old Maid

length: 700 wds

set in the trouble almost all my life universe

“Spence, I love you, but if you try card counting in Old Maid one more time, I’m not speaking to you for the rest of the flight,” Bugsy snipped, staring down at the man over their deck of cards, his hazel eyes narrowed and concentrated as he flicked through his hand. The joker card glared down at him from the dead centre, where he’d strategically placed it so she’d be more likely to take it when her turn came, though he’d been unsuccessful so far.

She didn’t need to see his lips to know he was chewing them in frustration, eyes darting between the pile on the table of already used hands, the rest of the deck they were picking up from, and how many cards she had in her hand.

“I’m not, and even if I was, it’s just math,” He replied in a defensive tone, knowing she’d already caught him out as he looked up at her, the red back designs fanning over her mouth and nose, though her annoyed expression was still clear as day to him. For a guy who rarely understood what people meant until they spelled it out verbally for him, Bugsy had always just seemed to make sense in his head, “I’m not cheating,”

He said it like someone who was trying to convince himself it was true, his eyes as innocent and none threatening as they would go, though he got that little notch between his brows that said he knew exactly what he was doing and felt bad for lying to her.

Huffing, she drew her cards to her chest and setting her elbows on the table, Hotch to her left with an amused smile drawing at his lips as he tried to catch some sleep on the way home from a case, though the sound of the two agents bickering gave him some inflight entertainment at least.

“Oh, really?” She asked, daring him to repeat himself even though saying it the first time had been hard enough, and Spencer simply nodded with a small ‘Mhm’, “Alright, smart guy, if we’re playing it like that then I’m taking this card,” Bugsy said, pulling the ace of spades he had sitting beside the joker with a pointed look on her face, “And the reason I want this one and not the one next to it is because I know that's where you put the old maid,”

Spencer swallowed, the tip of his nose turning a blush, as he grit his teeth together in annoyance, ��I guess the joke is on you, Miss Prentiss. I don’t even have the old maid,” He said, forcing his voice not to quake, and he sounded somewhat believable, at least that’s what he thought until he saw her brow raise, and he knew he was fucked.

“Yeah? Government names is it?” She asked again, giving him chance to fix his error, only he doubled down with a second nod, his lips pursed. Her finger shot out to point to the joker card, where she could only see the intricate pattern that matched every other in his hand, “So this isn’t the Old Maid?”

Spencer blinked once, the two of them exchanging a heated look like they were waiting for the smallest of breaks in character, and his breathing even despite the fact it was under duress, his expression abnormally calm as the jet went entirely silent, “Yes,”

“Bullshit,” He quickly collected his cards to his lap and scrambled to shuffle them well enough that she wouldn’t guess which one was the dead card, his scowl spreading over his face.

“You cheater, you must have seen my cards, there’s no way to count where I put the joker, that is entirely by chance-” Spencer snapped back, flipping them between his long, lithe fingers as Bugsy giggled into her hand.

“Play nicely, boys and girls,” Rossi chided where he had his nose buried in the newspaper, only glancing up to see Spencer glaring at the girl who sat opposite him with a victorious smirk.

“Face it, Spencer Reid. You might be good, but I’m better.” Derek bit his lip to stop himself from laughing where he was eavesdropping on their game on the seats behind them, and he thought he might have to take it to his deathbed that he and the younger girl had swapped Spencer's cards out the second he went to the bathroom. Or maybe save it for a rainy day, when he really needed leverage against the stubborn girl and let them squabble in peace.

Bugsy didn't tell him until a year later, the week before she left for London.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #bugspence #matthew gray gubler x reader

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justanothersquidblog · 8 months ago

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Special lil design quirk with my Agent 3's I've been wanting to draw for a while! I've always had them have these sort of horn patterns from their tentacles and well-

#my art #splatoon #splatoon oc #splatoon 3 #agent 3 #neo agent 3

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elizabethsnuts · 8 months ago

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I love your stories!!!! Can I request Hotch's toddler daughter absolutely being his mini me in looks but her personality is basically Penelope's lol? And Hotch's daughter always insists in wanting to dress and twin with Aunty Penelope? <3

Aunty Penelope

Aaron Hotcher x Daughter!Reader

Summary: You took a visit to your Aunty Penelope in her office, making sure to twin with her in outfits.

———

You were no doubt your father's daughter, from your looks to the way you talked and even the way you stood. You were his absolute mini-me, but also his polar opposite in the personality department. You were the brightest little cheerful girl, you loved bright colours and fun quirky things. You loved dressing up like your Aunty Penelope, You loved her.

You were sitting in your nursery, watching Aaron rummage around in your closet to try and find some clothes for you to wear for the day. You shook your head for the hundredth time. “Dada… want Aunty ‘nelope clothes!”

Aaron groaned quietly, staring into your closet. “Y/N… sweetheart, your wardrobe is nothing but colour. I’m sure anything in there is considered ‘Aunty Penelope clothes’. She’ll love whatever you have on, baby.”

You copied Aaron’s groan, flopping onto your back and hitting the floor. These were the rare times you were annoyed with everything. You didn’t want to wear a basic purple shirt with a boring flower pattern on it, you wanted something fun like Penelope always did. “Want silly socks!”

Aaron gave a slow, tired nod, putting the shirt back in the wardrobe. “I know you want silly socks, baby. But you also need clothes, alright? We can’t just wear silly socks.”

You sat back up and rubbed your eyes, looking into your wardrobe to finally make a choice. “Pink butterflies…”

Aaron let out a small sigh of relief, taking out the pink dress that was covered in bright-coloured butterflies. “We can do the butterfly dress. Good choice, Aunty Penelope will love it.”

Aaron got you changed into the dress, helping you put on your socks which had a swirly circle design on them, as well as putting cute pink bows in your hair with red Mary Jane’s on your feet. He even added your colourful, fun, matching bracelet and necklace, they really made you feel like your Aunty Penelope.

———

Aaron had to hold onto your hand tightly as they exited the elevator, knowing full well that you’d try and run to Penelope’s office, despite not having the best coordination which often meant you ran into things… or people. Aaron was not about to have a repeat of that in a building filled with FBI agents. “Alright, Y/N, slow down. We have to be respectful okay? People are working.”

You let out a little giggle, cuddling your pink blankie to your chest in excitement as the two of you made your way into the bullpen. “We see Aunty ‘nelope.”

Aaron nodded in confirmation for what felt like the millionth time. He kept his grip gentle but firm, making sure you were about to bolt away to find Penelope. “Yes, sweetheart, we are. We are seeing Aunty Penelope, she’s just in her office.”

Once you reached Penelope’s office, your dad let go of your hand so you could greet her. You ran up to her desk excitedly, your tiny arms open for a hug. “Aunty ‘nelope!! I here!”

Penelope out an exaggerated gasp, leaning down to give you a big hug. “Well if it isn’t my little tech assistant! Lady Y/N!”

You giggled loudly, breaking the hug to give her a little twirl of your outfit. “Looook! I ready!”

Penelope laughed, taking a good look at your outfit. “Oh, I love it! Look at all this colour and the swirly socks! Don’t you look absolutely stunning?”

You nodded looking over Penelope’s outfit. “We matching. We stunning.”

Penelope nodded in agreement, picking you up to sit on her lap. “We absolutely are, we are the only people in this building with good style.”

You gave a firm hum of agreement, playing with Penelope’s little animal rubbers she had on her desk. “Daddy only wear suits. He boring.”

Penelope tried to hold in a snicker, knowing Aaron was right behind her. You could practically feel your dad’s frown from behind you, knowing it all too well. Well of course since you had the same one.

“It ‘kay, Daddy. You be workman.” You smiled reassuringly. You had learned after many attempts at getting your dad to wear some colour on his suits that he needed to be a professional unit chief.

Aaron nodded with a small smile, crossing his arms. “Yes, Daddy needs to work which means you get to stay with Aunty Penelope.” He looked over to Penelope, raising an eyebrow seriously. “Don’t let her see case files.”

Penelope gave Aaron a little salute in response, watching him say goodbye to you and leave her office. “Alright tech assistant, what should we do?”

You grinned and took out your sparkly pen, drawing scribbles on a piece of paper you found on Penelope’s desk. “Drawww. Sparkle. We draw BAU… fine furry friends.”

Penelope laughed, joining in with the colouring. The two of you spent the rest of the day together, making pictures, playing with random things at her desk and so on. You always had a blast with your Aunty Penelope. You may have looked exactly like your dad but you definitely expressed yourself like Penelope.

#daughter!reader #aaron hotchner x daughter!reader #toddler!reader #aaron hotchner x toddler!reader #penelope garcia x toddler!reader #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner criminal minds #penelope garcia criminal minds #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff

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chimerafiles · 2 months ago

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"One of the interesting things about this movie is that Dr. Robotnik, also known as Dr. Eggman, played by Jim Carrey, was a treasure trove of material. In fact, the scene featuring his assistant, Agent Stone, played by Lee Majdoub, is a big part of his material. As he is choosing an outfit suitable for Robotnik, we see him in a costume that is plump on the upper half and slim on the lower half, which is the style of "Eggman" that fans are familiar with. Fans may want him to choose this, but it seems that Stone, who worships Robotnik, would not choose an outfit like this.

The Eggman mecha, the biggest attraction of this film, was designed based on the "Death Egg Robot" from "Sonic 2". While retaining a comical egg-shaped impression, it had a powerful form that stood out on the big movie scree. Stone, who was in the co-pilot's seat, was trying to understand how to operate it with the manual in one hand, but if you look closely at the cover, you'll see that it has a white base with a checkered pattern of thin black lines. I thought it looked very similar to the manual for the "Sega Master System", but according to Sega's Iizuka, it was actually based on the manual for the "Genesis".

#stobotnik #agent stone #dr ivo robotnik #dr robotnik #jimbotnik #From the Japanese promo for Sonic 2 #Translated with google glass #Every Robotnik mention is a Stone mention #Stone wouldn't choose the classic eggman look you say?#Wow I Wonder what he would choose (The maid outfit)

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stellaspectral · 1 month ago

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Hi! I love your writing, could I maybe request the boys (maybe 03, 2012, 07 or bayverse?) x vampire!reader?

A/N: Hello! I seem to have went overboard again with the plot set-up of this story. Oh, and for the setting, I went with the 2003 universe.

I hope you enjoy it! 💖

Centuries in Shadow (paranormal/action)

💚 2003 Turtles/Gender Neutral Reader 💚

CWs: Vampire Reader, violence, themes of being hunted, some injury details, depictions of torture (UV light exposure, etc.), found family with romantic undertones. All characters are aged-up.

You crouch low on the rooftop of a New York residence and scan your surroundings for trouble, your senses honed by centuries of survival.

You’ve lived discreetly here for a long time, using your resources to live a relatively quiet life. Blood bank deliveries, a secure income from decades of wise investments, and an almost pathological avoidance of attention have served you well. You’ve curated this mostly peaceful existence with painstaking care.

But now, someone is determined to destroy everything you’ve built.

Suddenly, the alley below erupts with activity. Figures in black tactical gear marked with the eagle-and-globe insignia of the Earth Protection Force rappel from the opposite rooftop.

“Target is designated Omega-Six. Subdue, do not terminate,” a harsh voice crackles over the comms, “at least not yet.”

“Roger, Bishop,” one man replies.

Of course, you recognize the name. He and the EPF seem to have gotten a credible lead on your existence. You surmise Bishop sees you as either a valuable biological weapon to be studied and controlled, or a significant threat to be neutralized. But you don’t intend to find out his true goal the hard way.

Because you won’t allow them to capture you—not without a fight.

You don’t wait for them to fully deploy and launch yourself towards the nearest agents. They expect you to flee, to scramble up a fire escape, seeking the shadows. They don’t expect a direct, silent assault. And the element of surprise is nearly always on your side.

One agent, his face obscured by a dark visor, raises a weapon. You pivot, the air where your head was moments before crackling with a discharged stun bolt. Balling your hand, you slam it into his chest. Not hard enough to shatter bone. You’re not trying to kill, merely incapacitate; you’re not a monster, after all. Though it’s enough to drop him to his knees, gasping, the wind knocked from his lungs.

“Omega-Six is engaging! Defensive pattern beta! Use the shock batons!” an unknown voice, probably the field leader, shouts.

More organized now, they try to encircle you.

High above, unseen by the EPF, four figures watch from the lip of an adjacent building. They’ve been tracking Bishop for weeks, and this sudden, violent confrontation has their full attention.

“Whoa, dudes, Bishop’s goons are trying to bag someone,” Mikey says.

“Quiet, Mikey,” Leo murmurs, eyes narrowed. “Donnie, what’s your take on the target?”

Donnie is peering through high-tech binoculars. “Strange. Definitely not human. They have enhanced speed, strength … and they don’t seem to be affected much by the agents’ retaliatory efforts.”

“Looks like they can defend themselves,” Raph remarks, his hands instinctively going to his weapons at his belt. “But Bishop’s playing rough.”

Meanwhile, you feel the sting as yet another baton glances off your arm. It’s an unpleasant jolt, but your ancient physiology shrugs off the worst of it, leaving only a dull ache—and a surge of cold fury. You lash out with a kick, sending another agent tumbling. They are persistent, these EPF soldiers, like well-trained hounds.

Then Bishop’s voice cuts through the comms again. “Omega-Six is proving more resilient than expected. Authorize the use of the nets and UV projectors. We need this specimen intact, but damage is acceptable if it ensures capture.”

Even a brief exposure to the UV could be agonizing and debilitating. Bishop’s casual disregard for your well-being—for your personhood—stokes the embers of your fury into a roaring inferno. You are not some thing to be cataloged and dissected!

You see the change in their tactics immediately. Two agents break formation, producing bulky, shoulder-mounted devices. Others unclip net-launchers from their thighs, aiming with precision.

Up on the rooftop, Leo watches the agents adjust their aim. “What are those?” he asks, his voice tight.

Donnie zooms in the optical sensors of the binoculars. “Those larger units—they’re high-intensity ultraviolet emitters. And those are pneumatic net launchers. They’re not playing around.”

“UV? Like, for vampires?” Mikey asks.

Raph shoves him lightly. “He said ‘specimen,’ Leo,” he growls, his gaze fixed on the scene below. “And ‘damage is acceptable.’ Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? They’re treating them, whatever they are, like an animal.” His grip tightens on his sai.

The first UV beam slices through the night, a searing white-violet ray that makes your skin crawl even from a near miss. You twist, the beam scorching the brickwork where you stood a microsecond before. Another agent fires a net; you drop, spin, and feel the weighted mesh whip over your head, snagging on a ventilation pipe. Too close.

You can’t afford to be hit by those beams. Your movements become sharper, more desperate, focused on evasion above all else. You leap back up the building and move from rooftop to rooftop, a blur of motion. The EPF agents scramble to keep up, their beams cutting erratic patterns in the darkness.

They are herding you, you realize too late, trying to force you into a kill box.

“Subject is agile,” Bishop’s voice crackles. “Flank them. Pin them between sectors three and four. Prioritize UV containment. I want it unable to fight back.”

You vault over an air conditioning unit, the hum of a charging UV projector dangerously close. You spin in mid-air, lashing out with a foot that connects with the agent’s device. It sparks, fizzles, and the agent stumbles back with a curse, momentarily blinded by his own malfunctioning weapon. A minor victory, but more are closing in.

A net catches your ankle, and you hit the roof hard, a grunt escaping your lips. The rough surface scrapes at your clothes, your skin.

“Got a partial hit!” one agent shouts.

Another beam cuts towards your downed form. You throw yourself sideways into a roll, the beam charring the spot where your torso was, the acrid smell of something burning filling your nostrils.

“They’re gonna fry ‘em!” Mikey exclaims, his earlier levity gone.

“Bishop’s not trying to subdue anymore. That was a kill shot, or close to it,” Donnie observes, his voice grim. “If they’re photosensitive, those beams are torture.”

Leo watches, his jaw set. The figure below, though clearly not human, is fighting with a desperate ferocity. They aren’t launching unprovoked attacks; they’re defending themselves against a heavily armed force that clearly wants them captured. Or worse. And Bishop’s cold, clinical orders remind him too much of the enemies who saw him and his brothers as mere obstacles or tools.

“Sector three, saturate the area with UV. Force it into the open!” Bishop commands.

Multiple beams converge, creating an inescapable cage of agonizing light. You hiss, shielding your face as the edges of the beams sear at your exposed hands. The pain is intense, a deep, burning ache that feels like your very cells are igniting. You can feel your strength beginning to wane under the assault; the primal urge to flee into the darkness is overwhelming.

“That’s it!” Raph snarls. “I don’t care what they are. Nobody deserves that. Bishop’s crossed the line!”

“Raph, wait!” Leo orders, but his voice lacks its usual conviction. He sees it too. The target is cornered and visibly in pain. Bishop’s tactics are brutal, excessive. This isn’t about protection; it’s about acquisition, at any cost.

“We can’t just watch this,” Donnie adds, lowering his binoculars.

As you struggle against the light, a flicker of movement from above catches your attention. Four distinct silhouettes detach themselves from the skyline, leaping with agile grace. They land between you and the advancing EPF line.

“Alright, Bishop!” a voice rings out—the one in blue. “Playtime’s over! Why don’t you try picking on someone your own size?”

The agents hesitate, surprised by the sudden appearance of these new, unknown combatants. You stare, momentarily stunned. Human-sized turtles? With ninja weapons? Your long existence has shown you many strange things, but this is … novel.

Are they here for you? Or are they merely another complication in this already disastrous night? Their stance, however, seems defensive, facing away from you, towards Bishop’s men. A flicker of something you haven’t felt in a long time—hope?—ignites in your chest.

“Who the shell are you?” the red one growls, shoulder-checking an EPF trooper away from you. “And what’s Bishop’s beef with ya?”

“Later, Raph!” the blue one orders, deflecting a dart aimed at your head, before he glances at you. “Come with us if you want to get out of this!”

There’s no time for formal introductions or lengthy explanations. With a final, coordinated push, you and the turtles break through the EPF cordon before melting into the labyrinthine network of back alleys, leaving Bishop’s forces to regroup.

“No one escapes the EPF, Omega-Six! No one!” his voice over the comms a promise of retribution.

You maintain a carefully neutral posture as a wise-looking rat in a kimono regards you with disconcertingly perceptive eyes.

“My sons,” he says, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable authority, “you have brought a most … unique guest into our home.”

Leo steps forward. “Master Splinter, this is … well, we don’t actually know who they are. Bishop and the EPF were trying to capture or kill them. We intervened.” He looks at you, his expression cautious. “We need to know what you are, and if you’re a threat to us.”

Raph scoffs, arms crossed tightly over his plastron. “Threat? Look at them, Leo. Pale skin, moves too fast, and I swear I saw fangs back there.”

Donnie, on the other hand, seems fascinated rather than suspicious. “Their physiology is astounding, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Thermoregulation seems minimal, and cellular regeneration appears highly advanced. Are you nocturnal by nature? What are your dietary requirements?”

“Whoa, are you like … an actual vampire or something?” Mikey asks. “Can you turn into a bat? Or mist? Do you vant to suck our bloooood?” He mimes a classic Dracula pose, complete with hooked fingers, then shrinks back when Raph shoots him a withering glare.

You take a slow breath, meeting each of their gazes, before you tell them your name. “And yes, to answer your most pressing question—I am what you would call a vampire.”

There are a few beats of silence. Mikey’s eyes widen to the size of manhole covers. Donnie tilts his head, as if trying to analyze you. Raph tenses, his posture screaming ‘threat.’ Leo’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes narrow slightly. Only Splinter remains impassive, his gaze thoughtful.

“A vampire?” Mikey finally breathes, a strange mix of awe and terror in his voice. He looks from you to his brothers and back again. “So, like the garlic, the stakes, the not being able to cross running water—is all that stuff true? Dude, this is so much cooler than the movies!”

Raph snorts. “Cooler? Mikey, they could drain us dry before we even blink! If they are what they say they are.” His glare fixes on you, sharp and accusing. “How do we know you’re not just waiting for us to drop our guard?”

“Raphael,” Splinter scolds. He then turns his gaze to you, his whiskers twitching. “The legends surrounding your kind are many, and often contradictory. They speak of darkness, of predation, but also of ancient power and profound loneliness.” His eyes hold a surprising depth of understanding, or perhaps just a willingness to understand in general. “You sought to avoid Bishop. You fought only to defend yourself. This does not align with the monstrous caricature often painted.”

You incline your head respectfully towards the wise rat. “The tales are exaggerated. Twisted by fear and ignorance over centuries.” You carefully choose your words, aware that every syllable is being scrutinized. “I do not prey on the unwilling. My needs are met through … other means. I have no desire to harm any of you. You offered aid when I was vulnerable. I am in your debt.”

Donnie is practically vibrating with scientific curiosity. He has procured a PDA and taps away at the screen with a stylus. “Incredible! Are you truly immortal, or just exceptionally long-lived? Are there different blood types that are more palatable?”

His barrage of questions is almost overwhelming. You manage a faint smile. “Perhaps one question at a time?”

“Yeah, brainiac, let them breathe,” Mikey chimes in, though his own curiosity is palpable. He cautiously inches closer. “So, no bat-transforming then?”

You focus on Leo, who has remained silent and observant. “I understand your caution,” you say, meeting his gaze directly. “I am … different. My existence is a secret I have guarded for centuries. I suspect Bishop wishes to exploit that difference, to turn me into a weapon or a lab rat.” You wince as a sharp throb of pain emanates from your arm where the shock baton connected and the UV light grazed.

Leo notices the flicker of pain. His expression softens marginally. “You’re injured.” It’s a statement, not a question. “Donnie, can you …?”

Before Donnie can offer medical assistance, which you know would involve far too many invasive questions right now, you shake your head. “I heal quickly. The light—it’s the worst. But I will recover.” You pause, then decide a measure of honesty is warranted. “Sunlight, or concentrated UV like Bishop uses, is indeed a significant vulnerability. It doesn’t kill instantly, as some myths suggest, but it is excruciatingly painful and debilitating.”

Raph still looks unconvinced. “So you’re saying you’re a ‘good’ vampire? Like, you only drink … I dunno, tomato juice with iron supplements?” he sneers.

You resist the urge to bristle at his tone. “I told you, I do not prey on the unwilling. I have lived among humans for a very long time.”

Splinter strokes his chin. “It seems Agent Bishop has made an enemy of you, and now, by extension, he may consider my sons his enemies as well for their interference.” He looks at Leo. “Leonardo, what is your assessment?”

Leo finally looks away from you and to his father. “They were being hunted, Master. And Bishop’s methods were extreme. They didn’t attack until they cornered them. And they’re right; if they wanted to hurt us, they had ample opportunity when we brought them here.” He glances back at you. “But we still don’t know much. Why you? Why does Bishop want you specifically?”

“I don’t know another reason other than what I’ve said before,” you say. “But I know he has been hunting down rumors of my existence for years. And, obviously, he’d finally found a credible one.”

“So, you’re like super old?” Mikey asks, eyes wide. “How old? Older than Master Splinter? Uh, no offense, sensei!”

Splinter chuckles. “I suspect, Michelangelo, our guest may measure their years in centuries, not decades.”

You offer a small, almost sad smile. “Your Master is correct. My memory stretches back further than I sometimes care to recall.” You look around the lair. At these strange, honorable creatures who have offered you a lifeline. “I have always sought to live quietly, to remain unseen. Bishop threatens to shatter that peace, not just for me, but for anyone he deems abnormal.” You look pointedly at the turtles. “A sentiment I suspect you can understand.”

This strikes a chord. You see it in the shift in Raph’s posture, the flicker in Leo’s eyes, the thoughtful frown on Donnie’s face. They understand being hunted for being different.

“So, what now?” Raph asks, his tone still gruff but a fraction less hostile. “We just let Dracula’s cousin crash on our couch?”

Your gaze drifts towards him. “I have no intention of ‘crashing on your couch’ indefinitely. I have my own resources, a secure place. But returning there tonight would be unwise. Bishop will expect it.”

Leo nods in agreement. “He’ll have eyes on your known locations, if he has them. Staying off-grid for a bit is smart.” He looks around the lair. “We don’t exactly have a guest room, but we can make you comfortable.”

“You’ve already done more than I could have expected from strangers,” you reply, your voice sincere.

“Hospitality to those in need is a virtue, no matter how unconventional the guest is.” Splinter smiles gently. “Now, I believe some rest is in order for all of us. We’ll discuss strategies and Bishop after everyone rests.”

“I’ll set up a cot in my lab,” Donnie says. “It’s relatively quiet there, and I can monitor … well, ensure you’re undisturbed.”

You appreciate the offer, though the idea of being ‘monitored’ gives you a slight pause. Still, it’s better than the alternative. “Your lab will do fine. Thank you.”

As the turtles disperse, Raph lingers for a moment. He doesn’t approach, but his gaze is intense. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You hurt my family, fangs or no fangs, and you’ll deal with me.”

You meet his stare unflinchingly. “I have no intention of harming anyone here. You have my word.”

He gives a curt nod, then turns and joins his brothers in retreating to their rooms. You follow Donnie towards his lab, where he clears a space and sets up a simple cot.

“The light controls are here,” he says, pointing to a panel. “I can ensure it remains completely dark, if you prefer.”

“I would appreciate that,” you say. The thought of any stray light, even artificial, makes your skin prickle after the UV assault.

“Right.” He adjusts the settings. “Emergency comm if you need anything.” He gestures to a small device on a nearby table. “Otherwise sleep well. Or, you know, rest. Whatever vampires do.” He gives an awkward smile.

You return it with a weary one of your own. “Rest will suffice. Thank you again. For everything.”

He nods, then quietly exits the lab, leaving you in the cool, encompassing darkness. You sink into the cot, the events of the night replaying in your mind. It’s a lot to process.

You are a creature of solitude, of carefully maintained secrecy. To be exposed, hunted, and then rescued by such improbable saviors is a paradigm shift you are still struggling to comprehend.

Eventually, you fall asleep, the faint hum of Donnie’s tech a strangely soothing lullaby in this hidden sanctuary beneath the city.

An uneasy truce settles over the lair.

Donnie, with your cautious permission, conducts a series of non-invasive scans and bombards you with a relentless barrage of questions. You answer patiently, detailing the science and history of your kind as you understand it.

Leo observes you constantly. He sees your restraint during training spars, your controlled movements, the way you never seem to lose your composure. He notices how you track conversations, picking up nuances others miss.

Raph remains the most openly suspicious. He makes pointed comments about your nocturnal habits (“Sun bothering ya, Fangs?”) and your diet (“So, what’s on the menu tonight? Bag O’ Positive?). Yet even he can’t entirely deny your unnerving effectiveness in a fight. He also, grudgingly, notes that you don’t flinch from danger.

Mikey, once he’s assured you won’t suddenly sprout wings and drain him, treats you with a weird mix of awe and friendliness. He grills you about traits of vampires from various media.

“So, can you, like, hypnotize people with your eyes? Is it true you can’t see your reflection? Oh! Oh! Do you sleep in a coffin? Because Donnie could totally build you a super-cool, souped-up one!” he says.

You smile. His genuine curiosity, free of the malice or fear you’ve encountered so often in your early life, feels refreshing. “Some of those are pure fiction. Others have a grain of truth.” You decide to indulge him, seeing the eager anticipation in his eyes. “I don’t want a coffin, but I prefer a dark, quiet space. And reflections—we cast them just like anyone else. It’s one of the more persistent, and frankly, annoying myths.”

Mikey’s face falls slightly at the coffin debunking, but brightens again. “Aww, man! But still, super cool!” He then looks at you, a softer, more earnest expression replacing his usual boisterousness. “It must be kinda lonely, though, huh? Being around for so long, seeing everything change.”

His unexpected insight catches you off guard, and you find yourself nodding slowly. “It has its moments.”

His gaze is gentle, and he offers you a hesitant, lopsided grin.

Later, Leo proposes a sparring session with everyone. And you agree.

Of course, you face Leo first. His movements are precise, disciplined. He attacks with focused intensity, testing your defenses. You meet him with fluid grace, parrying, deflecting, your own style a blend of ancient techniques and instinct. His eyes, usually so focused and serious, widen almost imperceptibly when you evade a complex maneuver with ease before you flow into a disarming counter.

He steps back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’re fast. Very fast.” There’s a new note in his voice, a hint of respect mixing with his usual caution. He looks at you, really looks at you. Not just as a potential threat or an unknown quantity, but as a warrior. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment longer than necessary, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before he schools his features back into a neutral mask.

Raph is next, coming at you with raw power and aggression. “Alright, Fangs, let’s see if you’re more than just fancy moves!” he grunts, aiming to overwhelm you.

You meet his ferocity with calm, unyielding defense, redirecting his force, using his momentum against him. He’s strong, undeniably, but you’ve faced stronger, and certainly angrier. At one point, his sai skitters from his grasp after a clever wrist lock. He stares at it, then at you, a surprised, almost grudging admiration dawning on his face.

Raph says nothing, just grunts and picks up his weapon. But his usual taunts are notably absent for the rest of the spar. And when you finally pin him, he just lies there for a second, breathing hard, looking up at you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. It’s not anger. It’s … something else.

Something that makes your own pulse quicken.

He pushes himself up, still silent, and retreats to the side as Donnie takes his place. “I’m hoping to gather more data,” he says, readying his staff.

You meet his intellectual curiosity with a smile. “By all means, gather away.”

His fighting differs from Leo’s precision or Raph’s power. It’s analytical, probing, each strike and block a question. He’s testing your reaction times, your strength thresholds, and the limits of your agility. You find yourself enjoying it.

He lunges, a feint designed to draw you out. But you anticipate it, your hand brushing his arm as you evade. The contact is brief, almost accidental, but you see a faint flush rise on his green cheeks, his eyes widening a bit before he quickly refocuses.

“Remarkable,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, after you disarm him. He retrieves his staff, his gaze thoughtful and, you notice, lingering on your eyes for a moment longer than strictly necessary for combat assessment before he moves away.

Lastly, Mikey comes forward. “My turn, super-V! Let’s see if you can handle the whirlwind!”

His style is all wild exuberance, unpredictable and surprisingly effective because of it. He’s less about winning and more about the joy of the movement, the thrill of the exchange. You don’t go all out; there’s no need. Instead, you match his energy, turning the spar into something closer to a dance, albeit a fast one.

He whoops with delight when you catch his nunchaku mid-swing, your fingers brushing his. Unlike Donnie’s slight flush, Mikey just grins wider, his eyes sparkling. And he doesn’t seem to mind when you take advantage of an opening and come out on top. He just laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders in a casual, friendly hug.

But he pulls back a little after a few moments, suddenly shy. “Uh, sorry. Got carried away. You’re just … really cool, you know?” His gaze is earnest, and you feel a warmth spread through you. His eyes flick down to your lips for a fleeting second before darting back up to meet your gaze, a boyish blush on his cheeks.

Leo nods, still studying you. “Your style is unique. Who taught you?”

“Time,” you reply simply. “And necessity.”

Your eyes meet his, and that unreadable flicker is there again, stronger this time. He seems to hold your gaze for a long moment, the noise of the lair fading into the background. You feel a strange pull—before he tears his gaze away as Raph addresses the group.

“Good to know Bishop’s lackeys won’t be the only ones getting a surprise if they try something.”

In the following weeks, you become a fixture in the lair.

Leo seeks you out for late-night conversations. Ostensibly, he wants to discuss potential EPF tactics or patrol routes. But you notice how his questions often stray to your long existence.

“It must give you a unique perspective,” he says one evening, his voice softer than usual, his gaze fixed on you.

His eyes, you note, don’t just skim over you anymore; they seem to search, to understand the centuries etched into your being. When you share a rare, wistful memory, a ghost of a smile touches his lips, and you feel a shared understanding of duty and the weight of carrying secrets. He often finds reasons to be near, a reassuring presence by your side when you’re all gathered, his hand sometimes brushing yours when passing an object, a touch that sends a jolt through you.

Raph’s taunts lessen, replaced by respect that manifests in odd ways. He still tries to provoke you into sparring matches. But now there’s a distinct energy to them. He pushes you, and when you push back, a fiery glint appears in his eyes that’s not entirely anger. He also starts using your name more often, the sound of it rough but no longer accusatory. It makes your stomach flutter.

Donnie shows you his latest inventions, his voice eager as he explains the complex mechanics, his eyes bright when you grasp a tough concept. He stammers a bit when you compliment his ingenuity. You notice him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking, a soft, almost tender expression on his face that makes your ancient heart beat a little faster.

Mikey wears his heart on his sleeve. His awe solidifies into a puppyish affection. He pesters you with endless questions about your ‘super vampire powers.’ Shares his comic books and watches movies with you. He saves you the best slice of pizza and dedicates his video game victories to you. Adoration beams from him, warming you from the inside out.

A sense of belonging washes over you, a feeling you haven’t allowed yourself to experience in centuries. You find yourself smiling more at these four remarkable brothers, so different, who chip away at your guard. You care about them, more than you thought possible. More than is perhaps wise.

Unfortunately, one evening, the fragile peace shatters without warning.

You are in the main living area, listening to Donnie explain a new security algorithm he’s designed for the lair’s perimeter, Leo nodding thoughtfully beside him, when a deafening explosion rips through the lair from the direction of one of the main tunnel access points. The ground heaves, lights flicker and die, plunging you into emergency backup power.

“What was that?!” Mikey yells, tumbling off the couch.

“Intruder alert! Multiple breaches!” Donnie shouts, already at his console, fingers flying across the keyboard. His voice is tight with alarm. “They’re coming in from the old subway access! And the storm drain junction! Heavy weapon signatures!”

“EPF!” Leo barks, katanas already in his hands, his eyes immediately finding yours. “They found us!”

Raph is already moving, sai drawn, a furious snarl twisting his features. “Let ‘em come! They want a fight, they’ll get one!”

Before anyone can formulate a more detailed plan, the first wave of EPF commandos, clad in reinforced black armor and new, heavier-grade UV projectors, smash through a weakened section of the wall, sending debris and dust flying.

“Targets acquired!” a voice shouts from the advancing line. “Prioritize Omega-Six and the terrapin subjects! Bishop wants them alive!”

The air crackles with energy blasts and the distinct hum of UV emitters powering up. You react instantly, a blur of motion. You shove Donnie away from his console just as a concentrated beam scorches the spot where he stood. The heat washes over your arm, a searing pain. But you grit your teeth against it.

You see Mikey, momentarily frozen as an agent wielding an electrified net advances on him. Without a second thought, you launch yourself across the room. You intercept the net with your forearm, the electricity coursing through you, agonizing but bearable for a moment. You snarl, and with your free hand, you disarm the agent with a single, brutal blow to his wrist, then hurl him into two of his comrades, clearing a path for Mikey.

A fervent gratitude fills his eyes when they meet yours for a fleeting second, making your chest ache. “Thanks!” he says, shaking off his fear and joining the fray.

Raph is a whirlwind of fury, taking down agents left and right, but he’s outnumbered. You see an agent take aim at his exposed back with a sonic cannon. And you move faster than you’ve allowed them to see before, smashing the cannon with a powerful kick before it can fire. Raph glances back at you, shocked, before something akin to awe flashes across his face.

“Impressive, Omega-Six!” Bishop’s voice echoes from a comm unit on one of the downed agents. “But you can’t protect them all. Your sentimentality is a weakness.”

More agents pour in. They’re using flashbangs, disorienting sonics, and those cursed UV lights, trying to box you all in. Leo is fighting valiantly. But he’s being forced back, a pained grunt escaping him as a beam grazes his shoulder. You feel an icy rage building, an ancient fury you’ve suppressed for centuries.

These are your turtles he’s threatening. These are the beings who showed you kindness, who have become so important to you.

“Fall back to the dojo!” Leo yells, clutching his injured shoulder, his voice strained.

You help cover their retreat. You’re not just incapacitating now; you’re disabling the agents with ruthless efficiency, breaking weapons, shattering visors, ensuring they stay down. The pain from your own burns and bruises is nothing compared to the adrenaline coursing through you, your protective instincts overriding everything else.

In the dojo, the fighting is close-quarters, brutal. Splinter joins the fray, a surprisingly formidable warrior despite his age, his movements economical and devastating. But Bishop’s forces are relentless.

Suddenly, a section of the ceiling explodes. Rappel lines drop, and more EPF troopers descend—among them Bishop himself, his cold eyes fixing on you. He’s holding a newly designed, high-powered UV rifle, its muzzle glowing ominously.

“Omega-Six,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your association with these aberrations has made this far more complicated than it needed to be. But ultimately, more rewarding. Six prizes instead of one.”

He aims the rifle, not at you, but at a stunned Mikey, who’s trying to help a winded Donnie to his feet after a nasty blow.

Time seems to slow. You see the barrel glow with deadly violet light. You see Mikey’s wide, terrified eyes turn towards the threat, too late to react. There’s no choice. Not really.

Not anymore.

You throw yourself in front of Mikey, your back to Bishop—

—and the UV beam hits you squarely in the spine.

Pain rips through you; it’s like being set on fire from the inside. Your vision whites out, a scream tearing from your throat. You collapse, twitching, the smell of your own scorched flesh filling your nostrils. You hear all four brothers scream your name.

Through the searing agony, you hear Raph roar, a sound of pure, murderous rage as he charges Bishop. Leo is there too, moving with a speed born of desperation, despite his injury, his katanas aimed at Bishop’s throat. Donnie fires an EMP pulse from a downed agent’s weapon, momentarily disabling some of the EPF tech.

Including Bishop’s weapon, which sputters and dies.

Mikey attacks the agents nearest you with a ferocity you’ve never seen from him. Bishop, momentarily distracted by Raph’s furious assault and his malfunctioning weapon, stumbles back. He fires wildly with a sidearm, but Leo deflects the shots.

“Fall back! Withdraw!” Bishop snarls into his comm, realizing the tide has turned too sharply, his element of surprise lost.

You’re on the ground, vision swimming, every nerve ending screaming. You can barely move. But you see Bishop, through a haze of pain, trying to make his escape as his remaining troopers cover his retreat. He’s getting away. The one who orchestrated this, the one who wants to dissect you, to weaponize you, the one who just tortured you.

Revenge. It burns even through the agony. You could try to push through the pain, but your eyes snag on Mikey who is scrambling towards you, his voice choked as he calls your name.

“You saved me! Oh, dudes, they’re … they’re really hurt!” he yells, skidding to a halt beside you, his hands hovering, afraid to touch.

Raph, having driven Bishop back, turns from the retreating EPF, his chest heaving. He sees you, and the murderous rage in his eyes momentarily flickers, replaced by a horrified concern. He deflects a stray blast meant for Mikey, roaring as he shoves an agent away from your vicinity, his gaze constantly returning to your fallen form.

Leo creates a defensive perimeter, his voice sharp with command but laced with an undercurrent of fear when he shouts your name, his eyes locking with yours for a heart-stopping second. He’s fighting to get to you, to shield you.

Donnie, having dispatched the agent near him, is already by your side, opposite Mikey. His usual calm is gone, replaced by a frantic urgency. “The burn … it’s … extensive,” he says, his hands gentle as he tries to assess the damage to your back without causing more pain.

You see them. Their fear. Their fight.

The desire for revenge on Bishop, potent as it is, dims. It cannot compare to the overwhelming, fierce need to ensure they are safe. He can wait. They are here, fighting for you.

“Don’t move,” Donnie orders, his voice trembling slightly. “Leo, we need to clear them out! Now!”

“Raph! Mikey! Push them back to the breach!” Leo commands.

Once the last of Bishop’s men are finally driven out or incapacitated, the turtles are all around you.

“You … you saved Mikey,” Leo says, his voice rough with emotion as he kneels beside you. He gently brushes a stray lock of hair from your forehead. His gaze holds yours, and in that moment, the tactical leader is gone, replaced by someone whose fear for you is heart-wrenchingly clear.

Donnie is still trying to assess the full extent of the damage. “Your healing factor—it’s working, but this is … bad.” He looks at you, his gaze filled with anguish as he smiles at you sadly. “Why did you do that?”

Raph stands over you, his usual scowl replaced by an expression of fury and guilt. “You didn’t have to do that,” he admonishes. He avoids looking directly at your injury. But the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, when they meet yours, catches your breath.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” Mikey says, carefully taking your hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix you up.”

You try to offer a reassuring smile, but it’s likely more of a grimace. “Bishop …”

“Forget Bishop,” Leo says, his voice firm, his gaze unwavering on yours. “He’s gone. You’re here. That’s all that matters right now.” His hand gently settles on your uninjured arm. “We’ve got you.”

Looking at their faces, seeing the raw emotion in their eyes, you realize the truth of Leo’s words. For now, Bishop doesn’t matter. Revenge can wait.

The four brothers, who are fast becoming your everything, cannot.

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